The Devil and Donny Dipshit
With vague apologies to Stephen Vincent Benét.
Now some will tell you Hell is a place of fire and brimstone, but that’s just the front porch. The real punishment is eternal WiFi buffering and unsolicited dick pics from Steve Bannon.
But somewhere beyond the River Styx and the Mar-a-Lardo Lagoon of boiling bile sits a special courtroom—a dark tribunal for the truly damned. And one day, they called to order the soul-collection trial of a certain Donny Dipshit Dump, the 45th and 47th President of the United States and one of the worst human beings a tipsy, uncaring, white-racist fake God ever carelessly created.
Donny, to be clear, had sold his soul long ago. Not for power. Not even for money. No, Donny just wanted a life rich in hedge fund blowjobs, golden toilets, tax write-offs shaped like porn stars, and the thrill of grabbing whatever female anatomy wandered too close to his stubby fingers. For him, life was just a series of shameful hobbies, really, like cheating at golf.
“I mean, you could cheat with that lady waiting for us outside there,” he once explained to Billy Bush while popping Tic-Tacs on a bus, as the gates of Hell creaked open and yet another bridge collapsed somewhere in New Jersey.
On this momentous day, Donny was summoned by the Devil, known in the Underworld as Lucifer the Litigious, but on Earth simply as Mr. Scratch, or in court documents, as "The Other Party." The summoning wasn’t a surprise to Donny. He’d been expecting it ever since his hush money checks started bouncing and he noticed his Depends were leaking more “truth” than his press secretaries ever pumped out to the mainstream media.
Now most men, when called before the High Hellish Court presided over by Justice Beelzebub himself, feel a little anxious. Not Donny. He arrived with his legal dream team that looked like it was assembled by a People Magazine editor suffering from lead poisoning.
First, there was Pam Bondi, a human vape pen in heels, whom Donny had appointed to high office mostly because she reminded him of a Fox News anchor bitch he once tried to grope in an elevator.
Then came Alina Habba, a walking, talking, case-losing machine, a one-time parking garage lawyer who'd never won a single argument in her life, except for that one time she convinced Donny she wasn't triple billing him. “She’s hot,” Donny muttered audibly to himself as she entered. “So so fucking hot…” he continued babbling out loud, for he was growing seriously senile. “Should I grab her pussy, or promote her? Maybe both. Probably both…” he rambled on.
The courtroom was packed with an audience of the damned. Stephen Miller, encased in ice, sat next to Elon Musk, who was melting slowly like a forgotten wax figure. Rudy Giuliani was somewhere in the back, his hair dye dripping into a pool of weeping snakes. Ivanka sat quietly, applying bronzer to the coked-out corpse of her brother, Donny Jr., just in case the family managed to hoodwink shit-for-brains MAGA Americans into popping for yet another would-be Dick-Tater Dump as president.
The jury included a rotating cast of traitors: Jeffrey Epstein, Robert E. Lee, Benedict Arnold, and Justice Clarence Thomas, who recused himself, then un-recused himself, then just started drawing pictures of luxury motor coaches shaped like long dongs.
Lawyer Scratch rose, looking snazzy in his Armani suit, flame-proof and stitched with the plucked eyelashes and regrets of crooked congressmen. “Your Honor,” he said, turning to the fearsomely majestic Justice Beelzebub, who was presiding from a luxurious bench covered with the skins of those same corrupt GOP congressmen, “we are here to claim the soul of Donald Dipshit Dump, as per the ancient and most unholy contract signed on a Studio 54 cocktail napkin back in the 1980s.”
Donny waved to the bench. “Great party that night. I fucked three high-class sluts and got a busboy fired for not laughing at my joke about Jewish accountants.”
Mr. Scratch continued. “The defendant agreed to forfeit his soul in exchange for… let’s see here… a lifetime of sexual assaults, 73 fraudulent business deals, seven or eight massive bankruptcies, and an all-you-can-eat buffet of white grievance. He even got a discount for referring five other souls, including his sons.”
Donny beamed. “My boys are the dumbest kids. It’s like watching a ham hock try to run a Ponzi scheme.”
Pam Bondi stood and addressed Justice Beelzebub. “Objection, Your Unholiness. My client was misled. He didn’t understand the terms of the deal because the napkin was in cursive.”
“Alina?” Donny asked, turning to Habba. “What do you think? Wanna hop up here and defend me with those legs of yours? Just cross ‘em slow. That distracts ‘em.”
She stood and said, “Your Horror, Sir, I would like to submit a brief.” She handed over a Post-It note with the word “Unfair!!!” written in glitter pen.
Lawyer Scratch looked annoyed. “This is beneath me,” he muttered.
“YOU made the deal!” Bondi snapped.
“Yes, but I assumed the soul in question had some intrinsic value. A whisper of remorse. A crumb of decency. Something I could toast over a demonic fire and serve with a nice chianti.”
Scratch sighed and dropped the contract on the Plaintiff’s table before him. “Let’s get down to business and examine the soul, shall we?”
With an arcane gesture, he summoned forth Donny’s soul, which slithered out the top of his hair-sprayed helmut head and manifested in the form of an undulating orange Cheeto, or a dayglo stream of runny babyshit. It was whining nonsensically about the unflattering lighting and some nonsense about settling the case for golf privileges and millions in pro bono work from corrupt Zionist law firms…blah, blah, blah.
“I can’t even use this,” Mr. Scratch said of Donny’s soul, poking it with a pitchfork. “It’s like trying to grill a fart.”
Donny crossed his arms. “Hey, I kept my end of the bargain. I even hosted a white-guys-only masturbatory Fake Jesus prayer breakfast with Jerry Falwell Jr. and his pool boy! Will the circle jerk be unbroken…fun times…” he continued mumbling.
“You bankrupted a casino,” Mr. Scratch shouted at him, the disgust oozing from his voice. “A casino! That’s statistically impossible.”
Justice Beelzebub majestically banged his gavel, which sounded like a screaming mortgage broker. “Enough! Is there anyone willing to attest to the value of this soul?”
There was silence.
Then a small voice from the back muttered, “He once gave Kanye West a hug.”
Beelzebub scowled. “You’re disbarred, Mr. Giuliani. Go devour your own liver like the damned loser you are.”
Finally, with the room relentlessly filling with the scent of Axe body spray, rotting McNuggets, and Donny’s own runny-shit diapers, Scratch disgustedly ripped up his contract.
“I move for dismissal, your Satanic Excellency, Sir” he barked. “No damages. No collection. I’ll even pay the court costs. Just get this disgusting fuck-tard out of my afterlife.”
Justice Beelzebub banged his gavel, “So ordered!” he thundered, lightning flashing all around.
Donny stood up proudly, thinking he had just won, boasting, “That’s what I do, baby. Win. All I do is win.”
He strutted out the courtroom doors… straight into a personal hell crafted just for him: a padded room with nothing but low-energy porn, cold Big Macs, and a 24/7 MSNBC stream narrated by Rachel Maddow. Every mirror showed Rosie O'Donnell in a bikini, and every night he was visited by the ghost of Stormy Daniels reading depositions aloud.
And so you see, dear reader, even the Devil has standards. Because some souls? Well, they’re not worth the fucking paperwork.
