It Was Theme Karaoke Night at the WH. . .
But Homeland Chiefess Nielsen went to Ironic Taco Night, 2/$.99
Everyone was invited to Mexican-themed Karaoke Night in the WH basement, but Kirsten Nielsen already had celebratory reservations for Ironic Taco Night at a restaurant down the block.
So El Presidente and his Sidekicks Miller and Sessions (and wife) repaired to the basement to relax.
“Sing Me A Song, Steven,” El Presidente said, as he reached for a Taco Bowl.
“You got it, boss,” Miller said. “I worked all day on this.” He punched PLAY. The music of Christina Aguilera’s “Infatuation” blared through the speakers. Miller advanced toward El Presidente, grinding his hips and belting out a rousing rendition of his own lyrics, “Infestation.”
“When you tell me ‘Stevie, I need you!’ My black heart beats so strong!”
“I get lost in el ritmo!” (“the rhythm,El Jefe,” Steven Miller translated)
“When you whisper Te Quiero!” (“I love you! El Jefe,” he translated again)
“I give in! No hesitation! We must purge this greatest nation
Of this terrible Infestation! Infestation! Infestation!”
El Presidente roared and clapped.
Sidekick Sessions wiped his eyes but not from laughing. It was Old-Age Eye Rheum running down his pale pink cheeks. “Gol Dang It,” he said. “Now my nose is running, too.” He sniffled. “I do believe I’m allergic to taco bowls, Gosh Durn It.”
His wife slapped his thigh with the little barbed whip she carried in her blue purse. “God’s listening,” she said. “Don’t swear.” Their eyes met. Fever burned. They excused themselves but didn’t make it home; staff reported yelps coming from the Bowling Alley Pin Closet.
It was El Jefe’s turn. He pulled out a set of maracas that he’d pinched from an immigrant on his border trip in 2016.
“Hit it, boys!” he said. It took both Sidekicks Kelly and Miller to punch El Jefe’s personal giant red karaoke button, it was so big.
“La Cucaracha, La Cucaracha,” El Presidente belted, thinking that he oughta take his act on the road.
As his voice soared through the rafters and into the small crawl spaces and damp corners of the ancient White House, millions of small brown guys who had moved in with him (and loved him no matter what) (mostly because of the trail of crumbs he left) began to stomp along, producing a small earthquake that could be felt upstairs, in El Jefe’s wife’s bedroom.
She noticed the shaking. She shrugged. Yawned. “Another day, another bed-jumper. Thank God,” she thought, turning off the light. “I dodged another bullet tonight.”
