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Donnie’s dog-whistle wizardry got the pack’s attention. The fawning media machine in orbit around him waved a juicy conspiracy steak over their noses and promised they would have it soon, and it would taste like medium-rare Clinton and liberal tears. The manipulators didn’t worry about the excess saliva. They would just release squirrels as needed, and the dogs would run, baying, in another direction.
But some dogs are dogged. When the first squirrel was released, they remained locked on the scent of that steak. “Bad dogs!” said Donnie, who never really cared for dogs anyway. “Weakling dogs! Won’t even chase the squirrel,” he complained. “Why are you still thinking about steak? Steak is a nothing burger. Steak is Fake News,” he said. “It’s a thing made up by Democrats.”
Still, they persisted, so Donnie yelled, “Look! It’s a Russia-Russia-Russia squirrel. Get it, you mongrels.”
But Russia, Russia, Russia, which theretofore had reliably whipped the pack into a frenzy, fell, it seemed, onto deaf ears. Donnie’s dogs clung to the idea of steak like a bulldog clamped to a rope for a game of tug o’ war. Donnie needed more. Joe Biden, he thought, that should get their attention. Then he reconsidered. Hillary Clinton! They LOVE to snarl at women. The only thing they like more is . . .
“BARACK HUSSEIN OBAMA,” he yelled. “That’s who made the fake Russia, Russia, Russia hoax—the guy with the fake birth certificate: the Black President. Sic ‘em!”
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Tulsi Gabbard, who had learned how to behave after she was relegated to the kids’ table while the men planned the glorious and 100% successful attack on Iran, backed Donnie up. “It’s treason!” she yelled. “Obama belongs in jail. Sic ‘em!”
But the dogged determination continued. The pack continued drooling for that juicy filet of Democrat. It was right there, on Pam Bondi’s desk. They could smell it.
Donnie couldn’t believe the pack hung on after invocation of the Black President. “Brown people!” he screamed. “They’re rapists. They’re murderers. They’re drug-dealing vectors of disease. Absolute vermin. We’ve put them in cages. We’ve posed them with Kristi Noem. Sic ‘em.”
The drool continues to pool in the same spot. “Bad, Bad open-border dogs,” Donnie scolded. “There is no Epstein steak. Forget Epstein steak. Look at our military. It was failing until I took the oath of office, and now it’s the greatest ever.” Donnie knew he needed more. “Beautiful,” he blurted. “Like no one has ever seen before.” It still wasn’t enough. “And we fired that DEI-hire black guy who was the top general. And women at prestigious posts are being replaced. There’s no more woke anything anywhere. Sic ‘em.”
How could that have failed to work? Donnie had no idea. Why wouldn’t they just howl on command and run where he pointed? “Redskins!” he yelled. “We’re making team names racist again. Indians! You can call them ‘Injuns.’ We are making Redskins and Injuns great again! Pow-wowee! Sic ‘em.”
The pack just stood there, salivating. Donnie threw a bottle of ketchup at the wall. “Look what you made me do,” he shouted. “You’re the reason I don’t like dogs. No steak or squirrels for you. You don’t listen. You don’t behave. You’re not like my good dogs in Congress,” he said. “They pee on the floor and show me their bellies when I walk in the room. They beg and roll over and speak on command. You could learn a lot from them, you ugly curs.”
It was enough to make Donnie crave carbohydrates and a Diet Coke. Let them eat cake, he thought, or at least my crumbs.
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