I spent a few days in the Savoy, but the omnipresent guards got me to thinking this joint ain’t safe.  Why not go to Potomac and hang with Melania and Barron?  She’d feed me well.  Also, why run the risk of staying in Webster Groves when Constance lived here?  She was as much of a target as Lucky, and both Fielding and Bart would think nothing of gutting her if they concluded they could get away with it.  

The challenge of living with Melania was having to deal with Chunky Donald. What a blowhard!  The Sahara has less hot air in it than Donald.  Worse, you ran the risk in Potomac of exposure to fast-food hamburger gases with Donald roaming the house.  Then, again, it could be worse. What if Trump were Ralph Nader?

All my readers know I expect better chow than a bagful of McDonald’s burgers.  The Savoy pumps out my kind of grub; however, Melania at least would have her cook whip me up something almost worthy of me.  

Master Barron, being 11 or so, had no taste, but I feared his father was having undue influence. I shudder thinking about the stench of hamburger gases that often emanated from President Doughboy. It is a mighty deterrent to me visits.   Further, I wearied from listening to the big one carry-on about the countless topics he knew nothing about.  

On the other hand, I got a thrill out of feeling up Melania whilst Donald sat oblivious in front of his telly in revery before Hannity or the matchless windbag Lou Dobbs.  I’d beg God that Don would not turn the volume up.

Lucky, bless her, never listened to the news. Instead, she read diplomatic cables and intelligence reports. The regular news sources she designated bravo sierra. She laughed and laughed when I asked her her opinion of Xinhua.  “Every bit as good as Pravda ever was or,” snickering “Chomsky.”

Better still, for all her touts of the People, I never saw her eat cheap food if she could avoid it.  She wasn’t much for staying where the people stayed either.  

Nevertheless, my safety got the better of my inner gourmet.  I could risk a few days of Trump stink if I would cut my risk of being blown or shot to bits at a Savoy feast. 

I also had run up staggering debts playing Go. Those Chinese guys played too well for me.  I’d leave it to Lucky to settle tabs for me. The go sharks could use what I owed them as bargaining chips when Lucky realised I had got out during their watch.

When I showed up in Potomac, I got a royal welcome.  What else?  If I had been the Pope visiting Manilla I’d not have got better treatment than I got in Potomac.  It was the Adoration of Crockett. Had you come, gentle readers, you would have seen firsthand how I, the Love Machine, fed Melania’s love hunger She adored me.  I was like heroin to her.  She could not get enough of my love.  

Master Barron, corrupted by his fat, vain father, didn’t appreciate me as much as a truly smart kid should if you ask me.  I have to wonder what kind of education Saint Andrew’s Episcopal School was giving him.  Where was the agape in my presence?  Where were my hymns of praise?  He was plainly a lazy, undiscerning lad.  And his manners?  He must have learned his manners at Chuck Schumer’s New York School of Etiquette if you ask me.  Mike had warned me that our country does best when New Yorkers stay put and the rest of us live someplace else.