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A Birther is Born

Trump GOP baby birth

18 March 2016

One fine post-primary morning in the year of our Lord 2016, Reinhold Richard “Reince” Priebus, chairman of the Grand Old Party of the Greatest Nation on Earth, woke up in the downtown Des Moines Doubletree to find himself pregnant.

The chairman’s once trim tummy had popped the buttons of his PJs and his nipples had risen promiscuously like the Tetons. The chairman weighed the possibility that he was retaining water or constipated but – in spite of being severely conservative – he had never suffered renal issues or irregularity.

“This is a dream,” he assured himself, clamping his eyes. Just then he was jolted from bed by a kick to the belly, followed by a voice.

“We’re gonna make America great again, Reince – trust me.”

The GOP chairman reached for his Blackberry.

Momentarily, Speaker of the House, Paul Ryan, materialized in his friend’s suite.

“Jiminy Cricket!” he stammered to himself, taking stock of his colleague’s condition. The former Catholic altar boy wasted no time debating the science of the situation with his associate, a devout Greek Orthodox himself. Besides, both were no-nonsense Wisconsinites: neither believed in protection, much less RU-486.

Ryan laid a hand on Reince’s belly. “Donald, be reasonable. Come out of there now. Let’s discuss this like adults.”

The GOP chairman’s bread in the oven was, indeed, none other than the Dealmaker himself who had just swept the Buckeye primary to become the frontrunner by commanding all patriots to follow their gut.

“Up yours, Ryan. Loser!” belched the chairman.

Reince began gulping the air in Lamaze pants.

Steadying him with a headlock, Ryan took his ear. “No worries, bro. Hysterical pregnancy. Worst case: Ectopic. We’ll have the last laugh in Manchester – he’ll never come to term.”

“Fun’s just getting started,” rejoined the bug in the chairman’s rug. “We’re only in the first trimester.”

*        *        *

By the second, the GOP changeling had bewitched the evangelicals, swept Super Tuesday, savaged all his rivals, and Reince was bigger than Kim Kardashian.

The party’s ProtectUs SuperPac boss, Karl Rove, called an emergency meeting in the RNC office. Under the stony gazes of Abe and the Gipper on the wall, Priebus was sprawled behind his desk in a maternity pantsuit, nursing a Red Bull and whimpering. Surrounding him were the four House ex-gynecologists, fetus champion Mitch, rape expert Todd, prom queen Ms. Lindsey, and the Donald’s disabled rivals (Mike, Marco, Ted, Ben, John & Jeb!) in wheelchairs and prostheses.

“How the hell could this happen?” Karl was raging.

“If it's a legitimate rape,” Todd chimed in. “The female body has ways to shut that whole thing down.”

“It wasn’t rape!” wept Reince.

“It was consensual ?” demanded Karl.

“I was sleeping. Sonuvabitch’s a goddamn incubus!”

“You loved every second of it, you slut!” boomed the voice. “You shoulda heard him, fellas: ‘O Don, you’re sooo big - take me take me! Unfuckingbelievable!”

 “Our own seed,” sobbed Ms. Lindsey. “Incest? ”

“No way, ” said everybody in unison.

“ABORT,” said Jeb.

“I’ll run Independent! I’ll sue!” cried the party’s future, throwing a hyperventilating Priebus from his chair.

Jeb handed his only silent colleague a pair of playtex gloves and a Hoover. “Care to do the honors, doc?”

The pediatric surgeon took a beat as if for a foreign policy question. Finally: “We’re ProLife – the whole fruit salad.”

“Not in the case of rape or incest, or endangering the life of the mother,” corrected Jeb.

The gravid chairman was now levitating off the floor, his head doing Linda Blair 360s while spewing celestial obscenities.

“Exorcise!” cried the Havana Homies. “Call the Pope!”

The low-energy Bush began dancing like a Cherokee. “You called him the anti-Christ, you dingalings. You’re excommunicated!”

Just then the office door swung open and in strode the Jersey governor, Chris Christie himself, with a clutch of blue balloons, Huggies, and pacifiers.

“Sit down and shut up, idiots,” he thundered. “This is the American people’s baby, not yours.” He slapped Priebus like Scarlet O’Hara and sat him back down. “It’s an immaculate conception, you’re the fucking Virgin Mary, and you’re gonna take one for the team and deliver him to term in Cleveland. Capishe?”

“My hips are too small!” wept Reince.

“Man up, tinkerbell,” ordered the governor. “We’re a big tent party: Saddle Block or Caesarian?”

“I’m a unifier, not a splitter, Reince,” the Donald piped. “Trust me, dude - you won’t even need a honeymoon stitch!”

By this time, Ted, brandishing a crucifix, and Marco, a bottle of Flint Evian, had flanked the chairman in a Cuban sandwich.

“Reince,” said Ted, “you’re a good man and always do what’s right. So, for the life of our party, our great nation, and for Jesus Christ himself, we all want you to prayerfully consider killing yourself.”

Suddenly the Outlaw Jersey Whale was airborne deflecting Ted’s crucifix ax-swing and Marco’s water works. When the dust settled, the former prosecutor was sitting on the junior senators.

“And for that stunt,” he told Marco, twisting his elephant ear, “after an unbrokered Cleveland, you’re gonna be nursing my man. And you,” he smacked Ted with a traffic cone, “will be burping and changing him.”

A beady pupil under a wild shock of orangutan hair peeked out from under Reince’s skirts. “I’ve always loved you, Chris. You’re beautiful, even without the lapband!”

*        *        *

After a three day labor in Cleveland, Chairman Reinhold Richard “Reince” Priebus gave birth, by Lamaze, to a 250 pound, 74 inch baby.

Before being rushed to Recovery at Cleveland Clinic – home of the first US uterus transplant – he addressed the delegates under a blizzard of red white and blue confetti. “My fellow Americans, I give you the next president of the Greatest Nation on Earth!”

Dressed only in his birthday suit, a pink Chinese tie, and a Make America Great Again ball cap, the nominee emerged from the wings high-fiving the crowd while skipping rope with his umbilical cord.

“Is this great, or what, folks?” he crowed. “Wow. Unbelievable!”

Then, to the accompaniment of thunderous applause, Ted came out and nursed him, while Marco brought up the rear to change him.

And so it was that the Grand Old Party was reborn and reunited in the immaculate re-conception of Donald J. Trump.


David Comfort’s three popular humor titles are from Simon & Schuster. His recent short fiction and nonfiction appears in The Evergreen Review, Cortland Review, Pleaides, and Stanford Arts Review. He was a finalist for the Faulkner Award, Chicago Tribune Nelson Algren, America's Best, and Narrative.