Fiction | Short Story

Orange Is the New President

I can just be the king, right?

Orange Is the New President

A one-act play by Jay Kettering


Dr. Block:Donald’s psychiatrist


Trumpsichore:Donald’s muse

Tesa:voice of receptionist

Setting: A psychiatrist’s office

Time:Present day

A psychiatrist’s office. DR. BLOCK sits at his desk writing when suddenly his office door flies open and in stomps DONALD carrying a gift bag.

DR. BLOCK (startled): Donald . . . ?

DONALD stops in front of the doctor’s desk and sets the gift bag down on the desk.

DONALD: What’s up doc?

DR. BLOCK: I . . . I didn’t realize we had an appointment today . . . .

DONALD: We don’t. But it’s an emergency. I need a session.

DR. BLOCK: Oh . . . well . . . uh . . . .

DONALD: Fifteen minutes, tops, that’s all I need.

DR. BLOCK: Jeez, Donald, I’m really very sorry, but I am completely booked today . . . .

DONALD: Look in the bag.

DR. BLOCK: What?

DONALD (pointing): The bag. Look in the bag.

DR. BLOCK: What is it?

DONALD: A gift.

DR. BLOCK: A gift? You’re giving me a gift?

DONALD: That’s right. Well, go on . . . .

DR. BLOCK pulls a bottle of scotch from the bag along with two glasses.

DR. BLOCK (nodding in approval): Ah, Scotch. You know my weakness.

DR. BLOCK presses a button on his intercom.

TESA (O.S.): Yes, Doctor Block?

DR. BLOCK: Tesa, be a dear, and push back my next appointment, fifteen minutes.

TESA (O.S.): Certainly, doctor.

DR. BLOCK opens the bottle and begins pouring.

DR. BLOCK: Single malt, nice.

DONALD: It’s not just nice, doc. It’s Macallan. Vintage, nineteen-twenty-six. This bottle sold at auction for fifty-four thousand dollars.

DR. BLOCK takes a closer look at the bottle and then presses a button on his intercom.

TESA (O.S.): Yes, Doctor Block?

DR. BLOCK: On second thought, Tesa, cancel all my appointments for the day.

TESA (O.S.): But doctor, you’ve got patients lined up . . . .

DR. BLOCK: Just do it.

TESA (O.S.): Of course. Consider it done, doctor.

DR. BLOCK hands DONALD his glass of scotch and then raises his own, but before he can take a drink, DONALD stops him.

DONALD: Hold on, doc. Don’t you think we should make a toast first?

DR. BLOCK: Sure. To what or whom shall we toast?

DONALD: Perhaps you’ve heard? I won the election.

DR. BLOCK: Yes. I heard.

DONALD: That’s it? No congratulations?

DR. BLOCK (wincing): Congratulations, Donald.

DONALD: That’s better.

DR. BLOCK raises his glass.

DR. BLOCK: To president-elect Trump.

They drink. DR. BLOCK frowns, then grimaces, and stares at his glass.

DONALD: What’s the matter, doc?

DR. BLOCK: Uh, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Donald, but that scotch tastes oddly like root beer flavored Kool-Aid.

DONALD (smiling): You have a very refined palate, doc, that’s exactly what it is. I got all the non-believers drinking it now. Ha!

DR. BLOCK: Goddammit! If anyone should know better than to trust you, it’s me!

DONALD (laughing): You really think I’d drop fifty-four thou on a quack like you?

DR. BLOCK: Look, if you’re just here to gloat, Tesa can assist you to the elevator.

DONALD: Oh, I’m not leaving. I got fifteen minutes!

DR. BLOCK: For Chris’sake, Donald, don’t make me call security.

DONALD: You remember what you said to me when I told you I was going to run for president?

DR. BLOCK (sighs): Yes, I do.

DONALD: You told me not to run.

DR. BLOCK: Yes. I remember.

DONALD: You were concerned about my multiple personality disorder?

DR. BLOCK: I remember it all too well.

DONALD: But then Donald One said all Mexicans were murderers and rapists. And Donald Two said he loved Mexican food. That worked like a charm! And remember when Donald Seven said he was pro-choice, but Donald Eight said he was pro-life? Man, we had ‘em coming and going. And you said all my Donalds were a sign of mental illness, but now all my Donalds are going to be running the country. You were wrong about every single one of my Donalds!

DR. BLOCK: No. The voters validated your psychosis, but that doesn’t change my analysis. And that’s because you haven’t changed. Your bizarre behavior continues, as does your excessive sensitivity to criticism and your tendency to bear grudges and your complete lack of empathy and your exaggerated feelings of self-importance and your . . . .

DONALD: What are you talking about? I ignored your advice and I ran for president and I won. And I won huge!

DR. BLOCK: I don’t know if I’d say huge, you did lose the popular vote.

DONALD gets in DR. BLOCK’s face.

DONALD: Huge! I’m going to be the leader of the free world! How dare you tell me not to run?What were you thinking?

DR. BLOCK: I was thinking you had been my patient for more than two decades and you were and are still in need of serious therapy. I was thinkingthat you are a pathological liar.I was thinking . . . .

DONALD’s muse, TRUMPSICHORE (pronounced trump-sick-or-ee), who has been sitting somewhere in the audience, now stands up and tries to get DONALD’s attention. She talks over the doctor and begins a little dance. Upon hearing her, DONALD ignores his doctor and turns his attention to her. DR. BLOCK is unaware of her presence.

TRUMPSICHORE (OVER DR. BLOCK): Donald! Hey Donald! Look who’s here! It’s your favorite muse, Trumpsichore! Who-hoo, Donald!

DR. BLOCK (UNDER TRUMPSICHORE): . . . that you are a text book case for borderline personality disorder, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, intermittent explosive disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, dissociative identity disorder, paranoid personality disorder, and you’re a sociopath!

TRUMPSICHORE dances her way on stage and positions herself behind the doctor, making mocking gestures and laughing at him.

DR. BLOCK (cont.): You consistently refused to follow my prescribed regimen of medications and you never took my therapeutic methods seriously. And yes, I believe none of these things are good traits for a president!

TRUMPSICHORE: You should fire this blockhead.

DONALD (pointing): You’re fired!

DR. BLOCK (sighs): You’ve already fired me, Donald, many times.

DONALD: Ha! Well, you’re fired again!

TRUMPSICHORE: That’s tellin’ ‘em!

DONALD: And I going to sue you too!

DR. BLOCK: Sue me? For what?

DONALD: For being a blockhead.

TRUMPSICHORE: He’s going to sue you so hard.

DONALD: Yeah, I’m going sue you so hard you’ll think you were sodomized by a hundred lawyers hopped up on Viagra.

TRUMPSICHORE: Yeah, your asshole is gonna be ripped so wide open Evel Knievel couldn’t jump it!

DR. BLOCK: Okay, you do that, in the meantime I have patients to attend to, so if you don’t mind, there’s the door.

DONALD: Jeez, doc, I’ve never known you to be so rude. My fifteen minutes aren’t even up.

DR. BLOCK (exasperated): What do you want from me?

DONALD: Well, since you’re asking, and as long as I’m here, mind if I run a few things by you? I gotta admit, I do have a little anxiety about this whole presidency thing.

DR. BLOCK: No, absolutely not!

DONALD reaches into his jacket pocket, removes a huge wad of cash and places it on the doctor’s desk.

DR. BLOCK: I guess I got a few minutes, have a seat.

TRUMPSICHORE jumps onto DONALD piggy-back style as he moves to his chair and she grabs his hair like the reins of a horse.

TRUMPSICHORE: Wheee! Look at me, look at me! I’m riding the most powerful man in the world!

DONALD: Hey, don’t touch the hair! Don’t ever touch the hair!

DR. BLOCK seats himself and gives DONALD a curious look.

DR. BLOCK: Uh, I have no intention of touching your hair, Donald. Now what is it you want to talk about?

TRUMPSICHORE (interrupting): Donald, we have to talk.

TRUMPSICHORE repositions herself on DONALD’s lap.

TRUMPSICHORE (cont.): I’m preggers.

DONALD: What? How?

DR. BLOCK: Donald?

TRUMPSICHORE: Well, let’s just say, you did a lot more than grab my pussy.

DONALD: Ah crap, Melania is not going to like this.

TRUMPSICHORE jumps off of DONALD’s lap.

TRUMPSICHORE: Well, tough titties for her!

DONALD: Come on, don’t be like that.

TRUMPSICHORE: I never knew what you saw in her. She can’t even dance, at least, not like me.

TRUMPSICHORE begins dancing again. DONALD watches her and smiles.

DR. BLOCK: What the hell, Donald? Are you hallucinating again?

DONALD reluctantly turns his attention back to the doctor.


DR. BLOCK: Donald . . . .

DONALD bows his head in embarrassment.

DONALD (shyly): Okay, yes, a little bit.

DR. BLOCK: Is it one of your muses?

DONALD: Hey, good guess, doc. It’s Trumpsichore.

DR. BLOCK: Oh, yes. The “twin sister” of Terpsichore, your historically inaccurate Greek muse.

DONALD: Hey, I can’t help it if the stupid historians don’t know about her.

TRUMPSICHORE: I am the protector of crazy.

DONALD: And she’s the one who invented beauty pageants.

DR. BLOCK: Yes. I remember you telling me about that . . . .

TRUMPSICHORE: And don’t forget, I also invented the Dizzy Dance.

DONALD: Who could forget?

TRUMPSICHORE (to the doctor): I inspire people like Donald, and plastic surgeons.

DONALD: That’s true, doc.

DR. BLOCK: What’s true?

DONALD: Ah, you’re making me all grabby . . . .

DR. BLOCK: Donald . . . . ?

DONALD (to his muse): Come here.

TRUMPSICHORE dances closer to DONALD but stays just out of grabbing distance.

DR. BLOCK (shouting): Donald!

DONALD: Yeah, doc?

DR. BLOCK: Can you ask her to give us a minute?

TRUMPSICHORE: Donald, what about the baby?

DONALD: Don’t worry, sweet cheeks. I’ll take care of it. You just keep dancing.

TRUMPSICHORE frowns and dances back to her chair in the audience.

DONALD (cont.): Sorry about that, she’s gone.

DR. BLOCK: Thank you. So, you wanted to ask me . . . ?

DONALD: Doc, maybe I don’t have to be the president, right?

DR. BLOCK: Uh, that’s right. Now you’re talking sense. It’s not too late to back out . . . .

DONALD: I can just be the king, right?

DR. BLOCK: What!?

DONALD: It would be so much easier to be the king.

DR. BLOCK: Jesus, Donald, it probably would be easier, but that’s not how it works here. We got a little thing called the Constitution that’s . . . .

DONALD: The Constitution is old. Old and stupid. The people are tired of it. They want something new. That’s why they voted for me!

DR. BLOCK: Slow down, Donald. Take a breath. You’ve proven to me and the world that you can do a lot of things, but trust me on this one, you’re not going to be able to abolish the Constitution.

DONALD: Well, if I can’t get rid of it, I’ll just change the rules, you know, like the chicks did with the ‘suffer jet’ thing. I just need one of those amendments that’s all.

DR. BLOCK: So . . . you’re thinking like a “King Trump” amendment?

DONALD: Yeah, I like the sound of that!

DR. BLOCK (sighs): Let’s just focus on the president thing for now.

TRUMPSICHORE: (from her seat in the audience) Donald! Donald! Stop ignoring me! Tell me what to do!

TRUMPSICHORE dances back on stage.

DONALD: Not right now!

DR. BLOCK: If not now, when?

TRUMPSICHORE dances up close to DONALD.

TRUMPSICHORE: You don’t have to tell me. I know you. I know what you want. You want me to get an abortion, while it’s still legal.

DONALD stares at her in silence.

TRUMPSICHORE (cont.): I can tell by your silence that’s what you want. But, Donald, I want this baby. I want it.

DONALD: Shut up! Just shut up!

TRUMPSICHORE frowns and dances back into the audience.

DR. BLOCK: Hey! If you don’t like what I have to say, you’re free to leave anytime.

DONALD turns his attention from his muse to his doctor.

DONALD: Look Doc, I’m going to need a lot more drugs.

DR. BLOCK: Okay. That’s not a problem, Donald. I can get you bucket loads of Thorazine, Abilify, Mellaril . . .

DONALD: No, no, no, I want the good stuff.

DR. BLOCK: The good stuff?

DONALD: Yeah, you know, the Keith Richards diet . . .

DR. BLOCK: Oh, yeah, hell yeah, I can get you heroin, LSD, rat poison, you name it . . . .

DONALD: Good, that’s good. All that will come in handy when me and Pooty nuke Iran.

DR. BLOCK: Uh, did you say, “when”?

DONALD: Yeah, I did.

DR. BLOCK stands and stares at DONALD.

DONALD (cont.): Hey, don’t look at me like that. It’s no big secret. I’ve been telling everyone I was going to blow things up.

DR. BLOCK: No. You said, you were going to “shake” things up.

DONALD: Same difference. Oh, hey, you got anything for claustrophobia?

DR. BLOCK: Yeah, why?

DONALD: Isn’t it obvious? After we take out Iran, we’ll probably have to bomb North Korea or someplace like that. And then someone will try to bomb us, like China, and so we’ll have to bomb them too. It’s gonna be, ah . . . .

DR. BLOCK: World War Three?

DONALD: Yeah, that. And because of all the explosions and nasty, nasty radiation, they’re going to put me inside that mountain in Colorado. You know, where they built that underground city during the Cold War.

DR. BLOCK: Yeah, I know. It’s the Combat Operations Center.

DONALD: Yeah, that’s it. It’s got a stupid name . . . .



DR. BLOCK: They call it NORAD.

DONALD: Yeah, like I said, stupid name, but I like how you know things, doc.

DR. BLOCK: All useless knowledge now.

DONALD (ignoring the doctor): Man, I’m going to hate being underground. I mean, I want to live in Trump Tower, not Trump Tunnel. The things I do for my country.

DR. BLOCK: I need a drink. A real drink.

DR. BLOCK pulls a bottle from his desk drawer and begins pouring the liquor into his glass.

DR. BLOCK (cont.): You want one?

DONALD: Sure, doc, if you’re buying.

They drink.

TRUMPSICHORE (from her seat in the audience): Donald! Donald! Aren’t you done talking to this guy? He’s so boring!

TRUMPSICHORE dances her way back on stage.

DR. BLOCK: Goddamm you Donald.


DR. BLOCK: After all these years, I still can’t figure out what makes you tick.

DONALD: How so?

DR. BLOCK: Well, for starters, you seem mighty calm for a man about to extinguish human civilization.

DONALD: Ah, come on, doc. We were never that civilized.

DR. BLOCK (talking to himself): I can’t believe a patient of mine is going to end life as we know it.

DONALD: Cheer up, doc. Think of it as a new beginning. The beginning of a better world . . . oh, that reminds me, can you get me a bunch of Viagra, too. Not that I need it in my regular virile life, but now that I’ll be responsible for re-populating the planet, well, that’s a lot to ask of any man.

DR. BLOCK (grunting): Uhhhh . . . I was afraid of something like this.

TRUMPSICHORE: Oh, Donald! Does this mean . . . of course! You want to keep the baby!


TRUMPSICHORE (cont.): You want to keep the baby, right?

DONALD winks at her and then gently pushes her off him so he can address the doctor. She squeals with delight.

DONALD (to his doctor): Can you see it, doc? Can you just imagine? My beautiful, terrific, sperm creating a whole new race of Trumps.

TRUMPSICHORE: The best, most quality sperm!

DR. BLOCK: I don’t feel good.

DONALD: Jeez, doc, you better take some of your own medicine.

TRUMPSICHORE: Just think, our baby will be the first of the post-apocalypse Trumps!

DONALD stands and whispers in the ear of TRUMPSICHORE.

TRUMPSICHORE: Well, yes, of course I can do that. Anything for my big daddy!

TRUMPSICHORE begins spinning in circles and with each circle she increases the velocity of the spin. She laughs as she spins.

DONALD: Look, doc, I know you’re not thrilled with my plan, so I’m going to give you another gift.

DR. BLOCK: No thanks. I don’t want any more gifts from you.

TRUMPSICHORE: Wheee! I love my Dizzy Dance!

DONALD: Hear me out. You’re going to like this one. And no tricks this time, promise.

DR. BLOCK (sighs): What? What is it?

DONALD: I’m going to give you a chance to stop me.

DR. BLOCK: I’m listening.

DONALD: Okay, here’s the deal. I’m going to let you punch me in the stomach five times. If you can drop me to my knees, I’ll resign the presidency.

DR. BLOCK: That’s ridiculous. It makes no sense. Why would you offer me that deal?

DONALD: Because I’m an outsider. I think it’s something an outsider would do.

DR. BLOCK: It’s something a crazy person would do.

TRUMPSICHORE has spun herself violently dizzy and falls to the floor laughing and groaning.

DONALD: Do we have a deal?

DR. BLOCK: Sure. Why not? I can’t see what I have to lose.

DONALD: Great. Let me get ready and I’ll let you know when you can throw the first punch. Close your eyes.

DR. BLOCK: Oh, come on. You said no tricks.

DONALD: No tricks. I’ll even take off my shirt so you can see I’m not wearing a vest or anything.

DONALD removes his shirt and stands bare chested.

DONALD (cont.): I just need you to close your eyes for a few seconds, so I can concentrate and prepare my abs.

DR. BLOCK (sighs): Anything for the Donald, right?

The doctor closes his eyes. DONALD quickly picks up the now dizzy and helpless TRUMPSICHORE and holds her tightly against himself so she is facing the doctor.

DONALD: Okay, ready. Give me your best shots.

DR. BLOCK opens his eyes and punches what he thinks is DONALD’s stomach. TRUMPSICHORE lets out a loud scream/grunt as she takes the blow, but the doctor does not see her or hear her.

DONALD (cont.): Ha! You call that a punch? What are you, a Girl Scout?

DR. BLOCK growls and rears back and throws another punch. TRUMPSICHORE lets out another loud scream/grunt.

DONALD (cont.): Oooh, that tickles, doc.

DR. BLOCK wipes sweat from his brow and then throws three more hard punches in quick succession. TRUMPSICHORE screams and DONALD releases her and she falls to the floor. She holds her stomach and curls into a ball while groaning and crying. DONALD puts his shirt back on.

DR. BLOCK (stunned): I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it! I hit you with everything I had and I couldn’t even bring you to your knees.

DONALD pats the doctor on his back.

DONALD: Don’t worry about it, doc. No one can believe it, but there it is.

TRUMPSICHORE (starting to catch her breath): You bastard . . . you horrible, horrible bastard . . . .

DR. BLOCK: Yup. There it is.

Lights fade to black.