Many observers of President Donald J. Trump believe he is crazy. That he has some bats in the belfry. How did Trump become so narcissistic? So delusional? When did reality begin to slip from his grasp? How in the balls did he not change that absurd hairdo over the years?
All valid questions. Journalists and biographers have noted that Trump was born rich and raised privileged, never receiving an understanding of how common life operates. That he has surrounded himself with sycophantic yes-men his whole professional career that have only told him what he wants to hear, therefore tilting reality. That he is the greatest living example of the Dunning-Kruger effect; a psychological disorder where one assesses their abilities and intelligence much higher than what is accurate. All that is true, but there’s another, more influential factor that hardly anyone outside of Trump’s inner circle knows about.
National Lampoon has spent the last seven months confirming the details of this new bombshell revelation. For the following shocking information, we have traded to various sources, three million dollars cash, a rare Les Paul guitar that I stole from Slash at the Whiskey a Go Go in 2002, a box of John Belushi memorabilia, a Honus Wagner T206 baseball card, and two intern’s lives. They are missed. By their families.
What our exhaustive investigation has confirmed is that since 1987 Donald Trump has been a habitual user of the exotic psychoactive drug ibogaine. Every month an unmarked private airplane flies in an ibogaine supply from the Republic of Congo or Burundi.
Thirty years of regular ibogaine use has scrambled Donald Trump’s already-addled mind. This has begun to explain his erratic and strange behavior. As well as his bizarre speech patterns. Trump believes he is smart and informed. He believes he’s still handsome and in shape, not a tubby sack of goo. He thinks his hair is acceptable for a human being. All because of the longterm effects of ibogaine abuse.
With this startling revelation made public, National Lampoon presents to you, faithful reader, our next report from Washington D.C.
Meanwhile, in Donald Trump’s White House…Episode 7
The hallucinogenic drug is sandwiched between two Chicken McNuggets. A sort of fast-food/narcotics Oreo. This is how President Donald Trump has been self-administering ibogaine for thirty years.
The bark from the iboga root smuggled to the White House from Burundi has been scraped into a mortar and ground with a pestle into a greenish mush. The President then begins layering: chicken nugget, highly potent ibogaine paste, chicken nugget. Within an hour, a 20 piece McNugget is devoured with the entire bowl of ibogaine. All washed down with a Diet Coke.
An hour later, at 1:45 am in the Treaty Room, after six hours of watching television, President Trump has begun to hallucinate. The first image he sees is his father. A hatrack in a corner of the room has a bowler hat on top, forgotten and left behind by trusted longtime advisor Roger Stone. As the President fades into higher consciousness, as if it were a character in Beauty and the Beast, the hatrack smoothly transforms into Fred Trump, bowler hat on top of his head. His three piece suit’s lapel is accompanied by a red and white “Blood Drop” button from the Ku Klux Klan.
“Dad? Is that you? It’s me, Donny.”
“Hello son. How’s everything going?”
“Dad, I’m doing great. Tremendous. You’d love it. Love me. You’d love me. Do you love me?”
Fred Trump furrows his brow and says, “You’re doing okay, son, but I don’t like how uppity the darkies are getting. Those town hall meetings are a problem. Why are women allowed to speak in those? Those marches are a problem.”
The President of the United States starts peeling off his baggy suit as he says, “Dad, don’t worry, we have all kinds of people, great people, the best, working on voter suppression all across America. It’s going great. You’ll love me. Uh, dammit … you’ll love the voter suppression thing. And me. I think. Please.”
As he finishes that sentence, President Trump has stripped down to his white Fruit of the Loom briefs and navy blue socks.
Fred Trump says, “Son, I’ve been thinking. I think you should reach out to some of your peers for feedback on how the presidency is coming along.”
“Where should I go to do that, dad?” the President asks.
“There’s only one place that has all your equals gathered in one spot. I think you know where. Now shag ass and get out of here. Remember, blood and soil, son.”
Fred Trump dematerializes into smoke and is gone.
President Trump, in his tighty-whities, passionately hugs the hatrack in the corner of of the Treaty Room. “Thank you, dad.”
At 3:07 am, President Trump has donned the outfit he always wears as he trips on ibogaine. His white Fruit of the Loom briefs, leather Birkenstock sandals with socks, and a lion’s head cape. The full hide of a male African lion is draped over the shoulders of the President. The front paws of the beast are around Trump’s neck and tied together like how a preppy douchebag would wear a teal Izod sweater to the country club in 1984. The jaws of the lion cover his, uh … distinctive hairstyle.
A couple floors below the Treaty Room a Secret Service agent finishes a phone call with President Trump and tells his coworkers, “Bird’s Nest is hopped up on that weird iguana-root-whatever-the-hell-
The President of the United States stumbles down the hallway of the second floor of the White House, past the Lincoln Bedroom, in his underpants and lion’s head cape. The ibogaine has fully kicked in now. From above, the crystal chandelier morphs into a silver octopus, its tentacles reach down and caress Trump’s orange-tinted cheek.
“Thissss wayyyy to your carrrr, sirrrr,” the octopus hisses, and points a tentacle towards the elevator.
Two Secret Service agents emerge from that elevator to grab the President by the elbows and lead him to the driveway outside the North Portico. Once it is made sure nobody is around to witness the President in his current state, Trump is hustled into the backseat of an unmarked black Cadillac CTS-V.
In the dead of night, it only takes seven minutes to travel from the White House to the National Portrait Gallery. Along the short journey, Trump stares out the window of the Cadillac and remarks to the Secret Service agents in the car that “Those green trees outside are fuckin good dancers.”
Once at the Gallery, the Secret Service usher President Trump inside, bring him up to the second floor, close the doors, and post two armed agents at every possible entrance or exit.
The National Gallery’s floors are covered in crimson carpet. Ivory-colored walls. President Trump walks down one of the corridors, studying his left hand, waving it in front of his face. His fingers have become a crude but colorful hand turkey. Like what a kindergartner would trace and draw just before Thanksgiving. As Trump waggles his feather-fingers and giggles, the portrait of George Washington turns his head, watching Trump shuffle by.
The painting of Washington turns his head the other way, towards Thomas Jefferson’s portrait. Washington says aloud, “Tom. Tom! Wake up. We have a visitor.”
The portrait of Thomas Jefferson rolls his eyes and says, “Oh for heaven’s sake. What the blazes is he doing here? Attention, gentleman! All Presidents! Everybody up and pay attention! Like it or not—” Jefferson’s voice dips a few octaves, “Trump is here.”
The paintings in the gallery come to life, stretching their arms, cracking their necks. John Adams slaps himself in the face a few times trying to come to.
Lyndon Johnson spits a green loogie onto the crimson carpet and farts loudly.
Ronald Reagan is the only President that stays asleep. He never wakes the rest of the evening, snoring softly, dreaming of horsies.
The crest of the ibogaine high has hit President Trump. To his eyes, his hands now look like campfires, orange and yellow flickering flames, and his feet are steelhead salmon. Trump stands in front of George Washington and says, “Which one are you?”
“I’m George Washington, Donald. I started all this.”
“Right. Right. I knew that. I predicted you’d be the first I talked to. Back to last week I said it. Ask anyone. Everyone knows that.”
Washington sighs. “Uh huh. I have a question for you.”
“Yes. Yes. I answer all questions,” Trump says.
“We don’t understand your hair. Would you like to borrow my wig?”
The Presidents on the second floor of the National Portrait Gallery burst into laughter. Calvin Coolidge snorts twice as he laughs.
Even tripping balls, even off his tits, Trump is as thin-skinned and overly sensitive as a spoiled 15-year-old girl forced to wear a secondhand gown to a debutante ball. “How dare you, you motherfu—“
“Whoa nelly! Easy, son!” cries out Teddy Roosevelt’s painting. “Come over here, boy.”
Trumps limps over to Teddy Roosevelt, nearly tripping into the painting of Ulysses S. Grant in the process. “Watch it, you Neanderthal flapdoodle!” Grant yells.
Inside his portrait frame, the great hunter Roosevelt points to President Trump’s lion’s head cape. “What in holy hell is that?” he asks.
Trump proudly says, “Lion cape! Modeled after the great Emperor Commodus’ cape! Great leader. Strong leader. Little crazy, maybe, murdered a lot of people, but you have to say he was a strong leader.”
“Look at that puny lion!” Roosevelt roars, laughing from his belly. “You’re like a little old lady with a house cat!”
In three seconds, Trump goes from strutting peacock to head-burying ostrich.
Teddy continued. “It was nineteen-aught-nine, my boy, and I led the Smithsonian–Roosevelt African Expedition. Mombasa, British East Africa — what you call Kenya — and some other far off African locales. Perhaps some where that intoxicant you are currently receiving the benefits of originated from.” Teddy knew about the ibogaine.
Most of the the of Presidents in the Portrait Gallery are rolling their eyes and yawning, knowing the longwinded former President may not stop talking for a while. Theodore Roosevelt is not known for brevity. This is a man who once delivered a fifty page speech with an assassin’s bullet lodged in his chest.
Teddy continued. “Seventeen lions, my boy! That’s what I bagged personally. And sixteen of the beasts were larger than that bobcat wrapped around your fat turkey neck! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!”
Intently listening to this exchange is Abraham Lincoln, who is waiting patiently in his picture frame, scraping underneath his fingernails with a pocketknife. Lincoln begins softly whistling “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
Drawn to the music, President Trump begins stumbling over to the portrait of our 16th Commander in Chief. He watches his steelhead salmon feet flopping across the crimson carpet that now appears to be flowing lava.
Passing Thomas Jefferson’s painting, Trump pretends not to hear Jefferson say, “You are a cockered, motley-minded, maggot-pie. The vast chasm that is your ignorance is shocking. And your hair is stupid.”
Trump stands in front of Lincoln’s framed portrait. He raises a hand with fingers that now look like purple slugs, their small tentacles twitching, towards Lincoln, wanting to touch who he just found out was a Republican.
“Do not put your hands on my frame, Mr. President, its an antique.”
“You called me Mr. President. President Lincoln, you’re the one in here that respects me. I’m doing a great job as President. A lot of people are saying the best job since you.”
“Who are these people?” Lincoln asks.
“Everyone is saying it.”
For someone who speaks fluent hyperbole, but limited English, Trump struggles to find the answer to Lincoln’s simple question.
“Who says you are doing a great job, Donald?”
Trump finally stammers out, “Some people, great people, loyal people, on, uh … Fox News.”
Lincoln’s craggy face slowly moves into a smile. Then a chuckle. Then a hearty laugh. He is then joined by thirty-eight dead Presidents of the United States in laughter. Reagan still hasn’t stirred.
Lincoln says, “That’s hilarious, Mr. President. That Fox place is bringing hypocrisy to new levels of amazement. Donald, you haven’t achieved anything. Nothing. You are a stain on this hallowed office. And the dumbest individual to ever step foot in the White House.”
This statement is met with various cries of “Hear, hear!” and “Well said!” and “Amen!” from around the gallery.
“President Lincoln, ple—“
“Let me tell you something, Donald,” Lincoln went on, America stands alone on this, our Heavenly Father’s Earth. All the armies of Europe, Asia, and Africa combined, could not by force take a drink from the Ohio River or make a track on the Blue Ridge Mountains in a trial of a thousand years. I said that a long time ago. With you at the helm, Donald, I no longer believe it.”
The ibogaine is beginning to wear off. President Trump’s trip is winding down. He stands, in the National Portrait Gallery in his underpants, weeping.
Lincoln had one more jab left. “Donald! Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old boy — you sockdologizing old truth-trap! It’s a shame, Mr. President, that you have no idea how funny that is.”
Illustration by Mikey B. Martinez III