Donald Trump woke up from his deep slumber. He had a terrible dream. A dream where everyone had found out his secret. A dream that Martin Luther King couldn't even comprehend. A bad dream. A terrible one, in fact. A dream.

He looked around his room. Nothing was gone nor moved. Everything was the same as before; walls and floors coated in gold and countless precious gems. Furniture was made completely out of Egyptian cotton, even the mirrors. Donald grinned from ear to ear thinking about the countless servants who come to his room, polishing the pure Egyptian cotton so it would reflect as if they were a looking glass. "Cotton can not become reflective, no matter how much you polish it," the scientists said. Donald knew better than them. He could do anything, unlike those pesky scientists. Cotton could not stand in his way. Scientists could not stand in his way. Not even Egyptian cotton. Not even Egyptian scientists.

The Trump rolled off of his California king sized bed onto the floor. Even though the floor was fashioned out of pure gold, it did not harm him. Donald is indestructible, much akin to Egyptian cotton, which his mirrors were made out of. He giggled and rolled about his room. He loved being rich. He loved Egyptian cotton. He loved gold.

Donald suddenly felt uncomfortable. He knew something was wrong. Donald knew everything, unlike scientists. "OH GOD, IT'S HAPPENING!" he screeched. He stumbled towards bathroom, slashing and clawing at anything in his way.

Donald Trump had to pee and he had no idea if he could reach the golden throne in time.

Donald stumbled once again, however this time, he fell. His bladder had already begun to fill rapidly, and the fall made the burning sensation even worse. He had to pee. He had to make it.

"HELP," he screamed, "SOMEONE HELP ME!" Footsteps could be heard outside of his room and down the hall. He begun to black out. He did not know how long he could stay conscious. It was only a matter of time before his golden liquid would spill over his golden floors, and onto the Egyptian cotton. Oh no, he thought, not the Egyptian cotton! His eyes began to tear up. He began to wail and cry.

This would not happen again. Not like last time. He was not willing to spend that much money on Egyptian cotton restoration again.

Suddenly the heavy golden doors at the end of his room flew open, accompanied by a large gust of wind and a mighty yell. It was Raul, Trump's finest cleaning lady and his best friend. She was a strong, red haired woman of Scottish descent. The renowned skill Egyptian cotton polishing had been in her family for generations. She was an avid scientist hunter. They insulted her family. "The skill of Egyptian cotton polishing can not be renowned in any way because the ability to polish cotton does not exist," they said. "Egyptian cotton did not exist in Scotland until recently," they said. "Please don't kill us," they said. Raul knew better. She knew almost everything. She almost had a Trump-level of understanding all things.

"I am here to save ye," she bellowed as she sprinted over towards the almost unconscious Trump. She picked him up and cradled him like a baby. "You'll never have to pee alone," she whispered. She then entered the bathroom.

Then she tossed Trump onto the toilet. "There ya go," she chuckled, "Make sure you wash your hands when you're done."

She left the room. Trump had finally made it. He began to urinate in the priceless gem of a toilet. "HA HA! Golden, just like my WALLS." he laughed. He loved the color of gold. He loved pee.

Donald dried his hands on the soft, fluffy Egyptian cotton hand towels in his bathroom. He gazed into the Egyptian cotton mirror. It was polished perfectly. He gazed at his toupee like locks. It had always been in that shape, even when he was a small child. It was a curse cast upon the Trump family. Every Trump before and after Donald would have the same hair.

The curse effected Donald differently, though. There was one bit that he had kept secret his entire life. No one knew save for Raul and one special scientist. Now, Donald and Raul hated scientists. They hunted scientists often. They publicly outed scientists often on their beliefs about Egyptian Cotton and mirrors. But this one scientist, however, has the trust of both Trump and Raul.

This scientist is Dr. Indiana Jones.

Indiana Jones believes he knows the cure for Donald's curse and secret. He believes that he could harness the power of this curse to help the world overcome hunger, disease, and even death. He believes in Trump. And Trump believes in him.

Trump left the bathroom and began to frolic around his bedroom once again. He felt alive now that his bladder had been fully emptied. He noticed that Raul had made his bed and polished the Egyptian cotton mirrors. They shined in the sunlight that had been filtering through the room through beautiful stained glass windows.

He approached one of the windows, opened it, and leaned out. "Hello, New York city!" he called out to the bustling cityscape below. He wasn't completely sure if this is even New York city or not. He felt like it didn't matter, as all cities are the same to him. Donald was glad that he had chosen to keep his bedroom at the top of Trump tower. It had the most beautiful views.

He then heard a voice beside him, but there was no one else in his room. Who could that possibly be, he thought. "I believe you dropped this," the gruff voice said. Donald leaned out of the window more, then looked to the right. It was the window cleaning man!

The man proceeded to hand Donald a candy bar. "Twix, my favorite," Donald called out to the man. The window cleaner nodded and proceeded to clean the windows once more. Trump let the candy bar fall out of his hand onto the city below. It was a gift to the city, also, payment for the water and electricity bills. He was then completely debt free.

He closed the window and then laid down on his freshly made bed, fashioned entirely out of Egyptian cotton. He could not get enough of Egyptian cotton. It was a godsend. The smell of freshly baked pies began to waft into his room. Pies were his favorite breakfast meal, next to gold and Egyptian cotton. He loved pies. He loved gold. He loved cotton. He hoped his meal would be a combination of the three. He sat up, got dressed, and then exited the bedroom. He headed down the hallway towards the dining room.

Donald walked down the hallway leading to the dining room. The smells of pies grew stronger and stronger. He gazed at the countless portraits of himself lining the hallways. He approached his favorite one. It was the largest of all, taking up nearly a quarter of the hallway. He stroked his large, painted face softly. "I'm beautiful," he murmured to himself. Then he felt a memory burning in the back of his thoughts. His secret. His curse. He winced and returned his thoughts of pies instead. Oh yes, gold pies, cotton pies, delicious pies.

He trotted down the rest of the hall and entered the dining room. "DELICIOUS PIES," he screeched. The entire table was covered with pies made of pure Egyptian cotton. Even though Egyptian cotton is indestructible, Trump is still able to consume it as if it were normal food. It is the greatest mystery of science. "Almost as great as the mystery of how scientists are so goddamned stupid," Donald said aloud.

There was a cough from the other side of the room. Dr. Indiana Jones was sitting at the table. "I'm sorry, Indiana," Trump mumbled. He did not mean to hurt his friend. "Das okay, brutha," Indiana laughed, "I hate G's too!" Indiana got up from the table and brofisted Trump. They laughed and sat back down. Indiana proceeded to pull a can of baked beans from the inside of his coat and dumped it over one of the pies. Indiana loved beans. He loved pies. He loved baked bean pies. They were his favorite and Trump had no clue why.

"Word on the street say Gordon Ramsay wants you on his lame ass cookin show. I say, you aint' a cook, you a god danged millionaire," Indiana whispered to Donald. Dr. Jones smiled and his wonderful grill sparkled in the light of the room. It has been said that he forged the grill with the gold from the Holy Grail itself. "I even got a call from the little shit Ramsay himself askin for you. I say, if he called me one more time, I'll sick my goons on him." Donald shuddered. Dr. Jones was the best gangsta in all of New York. Who knows what would happen to Ramsay if Indiana decided to set his goons on him.

"Raul, phone up Gordon Ramsay, please," Trump called out. Indiana looked shocked. "I want to do it. I want to enter Ramsay's kitchen."

Donald sat behind his pure gold office desk in his Egyptian Cotton office chair. A Fall Out Boy album played in the background. Oh, how he loved Fall Out Boy. He almost loved the band as much as Egyptian cotton and gold. He wept for days after they broke up. Donald shook his head. What a shame.

He had been expecting a very special visitor all day. Trump was nervous. Every once in a while he would pat his face with a purple silk cloth. Egyptian cotton was too precious to use as a handkerchief.

Gordon Ramsay was going to walk in through the office doors in roughly thirty minutes. Trump began to blush. The mere thought of the British chef left him hot and flustered. He couldn't help thinking of Ramsay's beautiful blue eyes. His tender touch. His messy hair. He loved Gordon much more than he loved Fall Out Boy. He almost loved him as much as he loved Egyptian cotton and gold. He almost loved him as much as he loved himself. And he couldn't let that slip to Ramsay. Imagine the headlines. Walking Toupee in love with angry British chef.

Trump glanced at the clock. It was almost time.

He heard a car pull up the driveway and Raul's unique footsteps approaching the Trump Tower's doors. Oh god, it's time, Trump thought. Images of Ramsay shirtless filled his mind.

Donald waited nervously in the office. He could hear the loud hear the loud footsteps of Raul and hot and steamy Mr. Ramsay. Hot and steamy like ravioli. Gordy would understand that joke. He's a chef. Chefs love ravioli.

He managed to pat his face dry and slick his hair back before they entered the room. The doors open. There he was, the tall, sexy restauranteur. Donald's lip began to quiver as Ramsay approached the desk. Raul exited the doors and closed the room. She shot a sly wink at Trump. She knew.

"Good evening, Mr. Ramsay," Trump managed to spit out. Ramsay looked around the room, seemingly perplexed by the large amount of Egyptian cotton, gold, and the mounted heads of scientists that both Raul and Trump have slain. "Quite an impressive office, you ahh, have here." mumbled Ramsay. He was visibly nervous. "Ha HA!" laughed Trump aloud. Oh god I've made him uncomfortable, thought Trump. There was only one thing he had to do.


Trump then got up from his seat and began to usher Gordon out of the room. "Filming starts next week, Mr. Trump," mumbled Ramsay as Trump pushed Gordon through the doors. Raul then escorted Gordon out of the building.

Trump slowly walked back to his seat. "What have I done?" he wailed.

"What have I done?"

What a beautiful kitchen, Trump thought to himself as he entered the Hell's Kitchen set. He was surrounded by beautiful silverware, pots and pans, and knives. Oh, how he loved knives. He almost loved them as much as he loves gold. Unfortunately, these knives were not made of gold nor polished Egyptian cotton. But they're Gordon's knives. And that's all that matters.

Other people began to file into the room, but he could not recognize anyone's faces. He was dissapointed. There were no friends to share his crush upon Ramsay with. But, there was one more person. Her face was shrouded by the various pots and pans hanging from the kitchen centerpiece. Trump quietly walked over to see who it was.

He became excited. He recognized this face. This was a person that he loved and respected much more than Fall Out Boy. Much more than knives. Much more than gold.

It was Oprah.

Oprah excitedly squealed and wrapped her hands around Trump. "Trump, baby, I didn't know you were coming!" She began to tell him about how Ramsay had invited her to the show. "What a story Oprah," Trump laughed. He was glad that he finally found a friend in this kitchen.

Suddenly, screaming and cussing could be heard from behind the set. The other kitchen goers began to huddle around each other. "He's coming," they all murmured to each other. Oprah wrapped herself around Trumps arm. He became perplexed at how she could perform such a physical feat. She did not look that bendy before.

The cameras started to film.

Ramsay entered the room, visibly upset. "ALRIGHT YOU FUCKERS TIME TO GET THE KITCHEN ON," he screeched. Metal started to play. Mist started flowing into the room through fog machines. People began to claw at the walls at an attempt to escape. Gordon picked up a large pot and threw it at one of the guests, screaming "YOU'VE BEEN SAUTEED!"

Trump feared that his time on Earth was over.

He lied about being indestructible like Egyptian Cotton. He wasn't. He had made that up.

Gordon screeched like a wild animal as he tore through the kitchen. He picked up a package of eggs. The words half-dozen were clearly inscribed across the top. "I WANTED TWO DOZEN, FUCKERS" Ramsay boomed. He began launching single eggs at Oprah, who had moved from Trump's arm to the corner. "SCRAMBLED, JUST LIKE A FILTHY DRUG ADDICT'S MIND," he screeched over and over until all the eggs have been thrown.

Oprah lay sprawled out on the floor. Gordon smashed the empty egg carton over her unconscious body. "YOU'VE BEEN FLIPPED. OVER EASY."

Gordon suddenly looked over at trump, who had clearly not been beaten by kitchenware or covered in various dairy products. An evil, twisted grin spread upon Ramsay's face. Trump backed away, exclaiming, "No no no no no! You can't do this! I'm Donald Trump!"

"Well this is Hell's Kitchen motherfucker," Gordon whispered towards Trump. Donald knew this was the end. He farted in defeat as Gordon hit him over the head with a meat mallet. Donald Trump Lay unconscious on the floor.

Donald awoke. He was surrounded by beautiful golden clouds and clear blue sky. He reached down and felt the spongey, yellowed material underneath him. He gasped. It was made from the finest Egyptian Cotton that had been spun from the purest gold. I'm in heaven, he thought. It has ended.

He then noticed that he was alone. There was no toupee-haired family greeted him. There were no angels playing trumpets. There were no cherubs playing harps. He thought he deserved a better welcome than this, he thought. He is Donald Trump. He deserves to be treated like royalty.

Suddenly a shadow appeared next to him. He looked up at the sky to see what could possibly be making it. He saw the silhouette of what seemed to be a man in the sun. Could it be god?

No, it was Jesus on a skateboard.

"Sup brah!" Jesus exclaimed as he floated down to the cloud where Donald was standing. "Am I dead," Trump asked, "Is this the afterlife? Is this what heaven really is?"

"No, it's just a fiction of your imagination of what heaven would look like. I'm totally the real Jesus though." Jesus explained, as he opened a can of grape soda and leaned on a stop sign that suddenly appeared beside him. He picked up his skateboard and chugged the soda with the other. A beautiful backwards baseball cap sat upon his head. A picture of the Virgin Mary on a surfboard graced the bottom of his skateboard. His robes were made of the whitest Egyptian cotton that Donald had ever seen. His sandles were of cured scientist skin. He was truly an elegant being.

"So uhh, why am I here?" Donald asked Jesus. "Because you're unconscious, duh." Jesus said.

"Does this happen to everyone who blacks out?" Trump asked.

"Only you!" Jesus replied after taking another large gulp of the grape elixir.

"Then how come I only saw Barbara Streisand when I fell unconscious all these years?" Trump asked once more.
"I work in mysterious ways, man," Jesus replied.
Trump trused Jesus. Jesus knew almost everything. He knew even more than Raul. But not as much as Donald. No one knows as much as Donald. Not even Cool Jesus.

"Okay dude, you're going to wake up soon, and I'm going to give you some important advice right here. Even more important than shredding the streets. Even more important than drinking purple pop. You have to eat kiwi fruit with the skins on. It's the only way you'll ever get through this pickle with Ramsay," Jesus explained. He tossed the empty can of soda into a trash can that appeared next to him, much like the stop sign. Jesus placed the beautifully handcrafted skateboard back on the ground and stood on it. He then floated into the sun.

Blackness once again started to surround Trump. Sounds of screaming and an angered Ramsay filled his ears. He was waking up.

Donald awoke. Still lying on the ground, he quickly glanced around the room, making sure that Gordon did not see him awake. Mostly everyone was unconscious. There was one person awake, however, and they were being beaten with a block of cheese. "AM I TOO FUCKING GOUDA FOR YOU, DIPSHIT," Gordon bellowed at the scared person. They cried out in sheer terror and pain. No one should be beaten by a block of cheese, Trump thought. Not even scientists.

Trump then noticed something on the center island of the room. It was a bowl of kiwis. Unskinned ones, in fact. Trump knew what he had to do. He had to eat Gordon's kiwis and solve his pickle. He was going to do it. He was going to make it happen.

Trump began to crawl silently over the various unconscious kitchen-goers. He glanced over at Oprah one more time. "Good bye old friend," he silently mouthed to the unconscious TV star. She seemingly belched in response.

He was nearing the center island. He could feel the fuzzy skin of Gordon's kiwis on his hands. He began to become hot and flustered once more. Time was ticking down. He needed to make it. He just had to.

He reached the center island.

But there were footsteps behind him.

"So, trying to escape are we?" cackled Ramsay. Donald Trump let out another fart in fear. Gordon picked up a wooden spoon and pointed it at Trump. "I'm going to fuck up your toupee like I fucked your friend Raul last night!"

Trump became enraged. No one speaks of Raul like this. No one. She is more sacred than anything else to him. Not even Cool Jesus could compare.

He stood up. Trump screeched like a wild man and back flipped onto the center island behind them. He began grabbing the kiwis and cramming them into his throat. "HOLY FUCK, HE'S EATING THEM WITH THE SKIN ON," Ramsay squealed in disgust. It was a crime against all chefs. It was disgusting. It was like simultaneously peeing and pooping on the Pope's robes. Ramsay would know. He knew the Pope. The Pope even said it himself. Ramsay backed away from the millionaire and shielded his eyes in disgust.

Trump felt a power taking over him. This power was familiar, yes, he knew it. It was the second part of his curse. "YES!" Donald yelled. His toupee started to grow out into long, flowing golden locks. His hands shrunk in size and his fingers thinned. He felt younger. He felt beautiful.

Trump now had the body of a beautiful woman.

Ramsay fainted. Oprah rose from her unconscious state. The cameras all turned around to face Trump. Spotlights shined on him.

He also had a raging erection.

Trump walked over to the unconscious body of the enraged chef and lifted him up. He gave him a smooch on the lips. How dirty, Donald thought. He had never smooched anyone on the lips before. He threw Ramsay back down on the floor and proceeded to rip an otherworldly fart on Gordon's face. Upon closer examination, you could quietly hear, "This was from Cool Jesus," being whispered in the fart.

Cool Jesus knows what's up.

Trump then climbed back onto the center island, cameras still facing him, spotlights still shining on his sexy hourglass figure. His face remained the same. Under the DD cups he was still the old Donald Trump.

"From now on," Donald exclaimed, "I will be running Hell's kitchen. Yes, me, Donald Trump, millionaire and beautiful woman. Gordon Ramsay has performed crimes against humanity and crimes against my heart. He even insulted my dear friend, Raul, who is even more holy than the Virgin Mary, and yes, Cool Jesus himself."

His boner nodded in agreement.

The metal music stopped and triumphant music started playing. The room filled with light and Cool Jesus appeared next to Trump, still on his skateboard. Raul appeared. Dr. Indiana Jones appeared. Oprah stepped onto the island. They all hugged and cried.

Donald woke up in his bed. His room was no longer golden. There were no Egyptian cotton mirrors. Raul was now a normal cleaning lady from Minnesota.

It had all been a dream...or was it?