The following is an act of fiction. All characters are figments of imagination.
(Ronald K. Pump lies in bed, atop the covers. He wears a puffy white bathrobe and has Cocks News blaring in the background. Ronald is in dim spirits. He is sipping a Diet Croak, half-heartedly scrolling his phone, and lamenting his current life.)
Ronald: This job sucks. I used to have the most tremendous, most incredible life.
I had helicopters and shit. I was banging underwear models, beauty pageant contestants, IG floozies ... I did whatever I wanted. ANYTHING I wanted. Anywhere! I could fuck any broad! Any broad I wanted!
Now I can’t do shit. I can’t fuck anyone. Ronald K. Pump can’t get pussy? What the fuck? Like I’m a loser, like I’m an incel?
I actually have a job now! A job! Like a putz! A working stiff! This is bullshit! Bullshit! Believe me, big league bullshit!
Not even Stelania will fuck me anymore. Gold-digger tramp won’t share the same bedroom. Used to be I could close my eyes and think of prettier younger women while I gave her the hot beef injection.
Not anymore. The bitch. Washed up, has been, good for nothing whore!
Not that I really wanna fuck that old bag anyway. She’s certainly reached her expiration date, believe me. She sure hasn’t aged well at all.
She could take some lessons from that MILF French first lady. Hell, I’d bang the shit out of that Frenchie fuckbag right now.
What the fuck? What is this shit? I’m a billionaire. I am a fucking billionaire. I have A LOT OF MONEY. TED TRILLION ZILLION DOLLARS.
These pansies, cryin’ snowflakes on Shitter, PNN, making me out to be an animal.
Ronald K. Pump is no animal. I have standards. I don’t just go and grab any pussy. Only the finest, first class, classiest, premium pussy does Ronald K. Pump grab.
Fucking glibtards. Washed up Haxine Maters, Cryin’ Fuck and Crazy Nanny, making out Ronald K. Pump to be a baboon running around, pinning down and mounting anything with a twat.
What do they think I am, Horny Bill? Big Bitch Banging Clitting? Not that I blame the goofball. Crooked Shillary and those cankles? Nasty woman! Get the hell outta here! I’d rather fuck Plus Size Blue Dress Veronica too...
Under normal circumstances, however, no, zero chance, no way, hombre. Ronald K. Pump only fucks the top-notch snatch. Only the hottest, finest, sweetest, hard body heinie.
Only the pure ass. The roundest, softest and firmest and shapeliest ass. The most stupendous tail that ever filled out a dress. That’s the sorta tail Ronald K. Pump gets.
But not now, no!
Goddammit, I hate this job. Every day, another stupid thing to deal with when I’m trying to watch TV, play golf. There’s always some stupid bullshit, some twinkle toed flunky knocking on my door, “Mr. Proctologist, we need you...” BORING!
Always some loser wanting my time. Some cuck. Always another schedule. Another thing I have to do. It sucks!
I wish they would impair me. I’d ditch that old bag Stelania and find a new piece of hot young ass.
I’d go on Instablam and find the hottest, tightest paddle target, eat a mouthful of BlowChew, and beast-fuck that choice pussy.
I’m a billionaire. A BILLIONAIRE. I can snap my fingers and pussy will appear. Rub my cock and magic genie Dream of Jeannie pussy appears. Magic carpet pussy.
I’M A FUCKING TRILLIONAIRE. I can order PUSSY ON DEMAND. ONE CLICK PUSSY. Delivery pussy. Pizza pussy. Drone pussy. I could push a button and pussy flies in from a drone through my window.
Pussy crawling out the fireplace, Santa Pussy, pussy under the Christmas tree, jingle bell pussy, dammit!
ANY PUSSY I WANT.
But not now, not now, for fuck’s sake ... This stupid being Proctologist bullshit!
Truth is, I haven’t even seen a living, breathing, live ham wallet since the champagne. Sure, I tried to fuck a few of my champagne maids, but no luck.
Stupid snowflake millennials. They’re the worst. Buncha wacky man buns and SJW poser losers and stuck-up phone addict data cunts.
Used to be all my secretaries would give me meat curtains on demand.
Push a button under my desk and a big buhzumba secretary would rush into the room, yank up her skirt and down with the panties. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am. Send her home to her husband.
But not these millennial, whiny crybabies. Stingy with the pussy, believe me.
Like Smoking Hot Dope Dicks. Couldn’t even get her to jerk me off. The hell is this world coming to!?
Sure, the old hag, horny horseface Smellyanne offered to blow me. Yeah, right, like I’m Crazy Bertie Kanders with an old shriveled up turtle dick. For Crazy Bertie that old dog is a piece of ass.
But not for me. I only fuck quality. I fuck porn stars, for crying out loud. I’m a fucking Gazillionaire!
Yeesh, had this nightmare the other night that that fatty Tara Flanders walked into the Oval Orifice in an S&M suit and said I could give her a quick one, only in the ass.
Said I couldn’t have her pussy and anal wouldn’t be sodomy or cheating on her husband and that Jeebus would want me to be happy.
Lard-ass slut bent over, spread her cheeks, showed me the chocolate starfish and then I woke up in a cold sweat!
Yikes, what a nightmare!
Think I’d fuck that Weight Watchers reject? Get Sloppy Sleeve Bananas on the phone. He would, believe me. I sure as shit would not!
These days I can barely jerk off to Slami Blahren or the other Cocks News Channel scenery without a flunky knocking on my door, “Mr. Proctologist, this. Mr. Pump, that.” Like I give a fuck. Fuck off!
My agent said the campaign would be great publicity. Big press, Ronnyboy! Keep my name out there. Boost TV ratings for “The Apartment.”
Then all these stupid hicks, white trash, they’re everywhere, wearing “Make Apartments Great Again” hats.
I’m like “what the fuck”, but I go with it ... Gonna rake in the dollars, millions and billions, believe me...
I figure we’ll sell the shit out of the merchandise. Millions and billions. But as it goes on, no matter how many pills I pop, it gets boring. The Raleighs, saying the same dumb shit, again and again...
All I want is to get back to my golf and chasing skirt. But the dumber the shit I say, the higher my licks go up! People actually licked for me. For me! Fucking reektards!
Now I’m the fucking Proctologist! And it sucks. I mean, I guess it’s better than Peter Gazer Prince. That closet runner would turn America into an episode of the “Handmate’s Tale.”
Just come out already, quit the charade, Mickey! We all know you take it in the keister! If he resigns, he and Alfred P. Newman and Dustin from Canada can all hook up for a ménage-a-trois...
This job sucks. It’s the worst job ever. I fucking hate it. I thought at least I could have internments sucking me off under the desk. Damn Gropey Dill Mitten and his carrot stick up the cooter ways! Ruined it for everyone!
The hell could I do to get impaired?
Washed up psychos, broken down dopey TV hacks, nut jobs, Miss Piggly, Crazy Hootenanny, Princess Pocahochas, Sleezy Joke, Sneaky Diana and Slimeball John Blomey, these losers after me every day and the idiots still can’t figure out how to fire me, even with all the moronic things I say and do daily! What the fuck?! SAD!
I thought about actually shooting somebody on 6th Avenue. In the face! With a watergun filled with Pumppiss, Diet Croak and Pump spring water!
Or taking my dong out at a press conference, pissing on Crazy Tim Ahpasta. Or grabbing the bloody spag out of Begyn Melly’s stinky tuna.
Oh, that bitch, Crazy Begyn Melly, what I wouldn’t give to bend her whiny ass over a table ... Give her a nice, consensual hate snuck...
That AOB dumb Bronx broad too. Oh, I’d skullfuck the tonsils out of her throat. Stupid sociallick dancing bitch. Great knockers, though!
Shit, I’m so pussy depraved, I’d even tail that Crazy Dumarosta, the starfucker. Give it to her right up the dirt patch, with my signature, patented Pump brand lube ... Give it to her fast and furious ... That sloppy psycho, sneaky bitch...
This is where I am, for fuck’s sake ... YEESH!!!
Damn loser trailer trash Fred State numskull morons! Fuck them for licking me into this nightmare!
Only thing that keeps me going is all the cash I’m collecting. Millions and billions!
I mean, look at that schmuck, Morocko Cheatin’ Hoebumma. He was born in a shack in shithole Wakanda, probably in an outhouse, now he’s worth 8 figures, all for what?
What a nerd. He never chases tang, only reads books at night. Reads books! What a loser!
Think of how much cash a killer like me will rake in from this. Pump TV, Pump cars, Pump motorcycles! Pump burgers, Pump you name it. Made in America! Millions and billions!
But I’m missing the pussy. Missing the warm place. The pink snapper. Stupid horndog, lowlife, Lyin’ Drill Kitten ruined it for everyone. Stupid chubby chaser. He coulda done so much better.
Look at the cooze JFA was pulling in. Every night. Sugartits Carilyn Manson blowing him in the Oval Office. That lucky bastard.
Now here I am. I can’t get nothing. Can’t even jerk off in peace. This job sucks. I hate it!
I hate having to shake hands, germy, gross hands, and listen to windbags and sniveling brownnoses like Lawn Sannity and stupid, boring meetings with obnoxious Eurotrash leader fellas like Mangela Jerkel.
I fucking hate this job! It stinks! Stupid Prussians. Stupid Pudding. Stupid Shitebart! Stupid ESPNBC, Cake News, Duff Bozos, Failing New York Slimes and Flake News CMM. Stupid Shitter! Losers! All a bunch of losers! Total losers!
(Down the hall, towards the Ronald’s bedroom walks Jarvanka. She’s wearing a skin-tight, form-fitting, black one-piece miniskirt. Her hair is down, and she’s all dolled up, still has her make-up on from a presser- fire red lip stick, blue eye shadow, dark eye liner, long fake lashes, heavy rouge accentuating her high cheekbones... )
Jarvanka: I feel so bad for daddy. He’s so busy these days. And, oh my god, like tons of people hate him. What a chore, this whole thing is. Not that I thought he’d win, but I guess you can never underestimate the stupidity of the American people.
Look at him. He’s gotten so fat. He’s miserable. Up all night, saying restarted things on Shitter.
That bitch Stelania. I always hated her, for obvious reasons. Not that she can speak English and I never had a conversation with her. But at least she’d fuck daddy right, from what I could tell. He did marry her.
Usually whores like her he’d fuck a few times and then move on to the next butt. But he married her, shocking me, and everybody, so she must have fucked or sucked like the pro she is.
Now look at daddy. My virginia sense tells me he’s not fucked in ages. Poor thing!
I know it’s wrong, but I’ve always thought he was hot. I know many girls have “daddy issues” and everything, but not every girl’s father is handsome, 6 foot 8, and a billionaire, superstar celebrity.
My whole life, I’ve had a crush on him. Not the daughterly love sort of crush totally, either. No, a naughty crush, a want him to grab me, tear off my clothes and fuck me and make me scream type of crush...
I must admit that it’s been a while for me too, since I had any sex. Mared was a great fuck when we first met. Not that he was my first. Oh, there’s been loads. Loads of loads. That’s something I got from daddy. The apex predator sex drive.
I’m an alpha bitch...
But, so far, I’ve been faithful to Mared. Heck, I even converted to his religion. Like, if you saw his bank account, you would too. Hell, you’d become a Hairy Krishna, Scientistologist, or a Satan Worshipper for his kind of cash.
Not that I worried too much about money before, but when daddy was having money problems and started doing business with the Prussians, I knew I better find a man who could afford me and keep me in the lifestyle I’m accustomed.
Mared and I used to go at it like rabbits, when we first met. Think I was his first. Although I’m not sure. He is a mute. Mostly he talks to me by handing me his credit cards or sometimes does hand signals.
Recently, however, he’s spending more and more of his time at the Spa, practicing ballet, sitting in on occasional meetings and doing yoga. I hardly ever see him. I can’t remember the last time we fucked.
Maybe it’s because I’m a mommy. But I’ve kept my figure. People still look at my long legs and rock hard, toned, eye-candy ass.
I know daddy looks at it. He’s always patted me on the backside, and given me long, grinding hugs and pecks on the lips that lingered a little too long.
But would he, you know, do more?
Like what if me giving him a handjob or blowing him kept him from attacking a shithole country or got him to let all those pathetic, smelly, dirt-faced Twatemalan kids out of the cages?
What great acts of diplomacy could he accomplish if I let him fuck me?
Mother Clarisa, my pussy! Noble Prize Pussy!
I did just recently get a “vaginal rejuvenation” procedure to tighten it up. When I finger myself in the shower, I can definitely tell the difference. Maybe it’s time to let a man take it for a test drive ... Maybe ... Daddy...
Yuck! It’s gross, right? Isn’t it? But I have to admit that I do think of him, that way, when ex-boyfriends or Mared would fuck me or when I’m in the shower, I think of daddy, inside me...
Not like I’m the first girl thinking of fucking her dad. Or really fucking her dad. A few of my girlfriends did it when their dads were threatening to cut them off financially, scissors pointed at credit cards.
Those scissors got some panties dropped quickly, for sure, tee hee!
Guess that’s a power that us rich girls have, although I’m sure redneck white trash Alabama type girls, living in trailers probably do it too.
Hell, they’ll probably jump in their daddy’s pickup and blow him for a shopping spree at Wammart!
I think my daddy could use a good blowjob ... Poor thing! If Stelania could speak English, maybe I’d tell that whore to get in there and take care of him. That stupid bitch...
But, hmm, maybe I can help him some. Maybe me and daddy can practice bipartisanship...
Let’s see if I can at least cheer daddy up a bit. I’ll waltz in there and pretend to drop something and bend over in front of him to get it. That always cheers him up!
(Jarvanka knocks, enters and stands in the doorway. She is SHOCKED to see her father in far worse disposition than she had anticipated!)
Ronald: Jarvanka, baby, I miss New York Shitty, this job sucks. I hate it. Even after the Mullah Report these idiots still won’t fire me. Should I just resign? Fire myself? No one is better at firing people. No one. I’ll take out a mirror and yell at myself “Ya fired!”, on national TV, during the Toilet Bowl Halftime Show. It’d be the highest rated TV event EVER! EVER!
Jarvanka: Don’t do it, daddy. I know working an hour or two is a lot for you. You’re used to working for 20 or 30 minutes a day, sure, but just think of the cash you’ll rake in from all this. Millions and billions! No one will ever make as much when they leave office. No one!
Ronald: Thanks, sweetie. I’ll keep it in mind. Thinking about money, that’s what makes me happy. Happier than almost anything. And they say money can’t buy happiness. Look at the grin on my face. Ear to fucking ear!
Jarvanka: That’s my daddy!
Ronald: I just can’t believe I’m still doing this shitty job. These dumbasses even have me up for re-erection. It’s tiring. And lonely. And you know the one thing I like more than money, baby.
Jarvanka: I think I know, daddy, tee hee...
Ronald: Stelania, she’s, not, you know...