I don’t believe Stormy Daniels and you shouldn’t either 

Bedtime Story

While 20 million Americans were tuning in to 60 Minutes on Sunday night to see Stormy Daniels talk about her alleged sexual encounter with Donald Trump, I was at a circus watching a man in a poop emoji hat follow after a lumbering elephant.

The man held a bucket in his hands, a container which he repeatedly thrust underneath the pachyderm's tail, waiting for the inevitable.

And when the inevitable finally happened, the children laughed, the adults cheered, and the man with the bucket caught nearly every single center-ring deposit.

It was the highlight of the circus, if not my entire day. And certainly better than anything "60 Minutes" had to offer viewers.

Even though I lust for political scandals like Iggy Pop lusts for lotion in the middle of an itchy, cold-turkey fit, I would rather spend my Sunday evening with the wife and kids. I'm a family man first and a snarky columnist second.

None of this is meant to imply that I didn't want to know what Daniels said about her greasy roll in french fry-covered sheets with the president. I did.

And so when intermission at the big top arrived, I checked Twitter to read the details of Stormy's hashtag confessional.

I couldn't believe what I was reading. And it wasn't because I thought Stormy Daniels was lying. It was because I knew she was holding back.

How do I know this, you ask? It's simple enough really: I was there.

Yes, my friends, I was with Stormy Daniels and Donald Trump on that fateful day in 2006, and I know what I saw.

More importantly, I know what we did.

And let me tell you, the strange twists and turns of that evening go well beyond a game of swat the bum with a signed copy of Hustler's annual International Executive Issue, a speciality publication featuring the one and only Trump baring his C Suite-sized tatas in a Dolce & Gabbana banana hammock made solely out of corn silk and colored to look like candy corn.

Truth be told, it tasted nothing like candy corn.

It tasted like sweat and rancid fat-fold fermenting pools of half-chewed beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun. I know because he wore it that dark and stormy night.

But back to the blow-by-blow details of that evening.

Once we were all completely undressed and adorned in our finest furry finery, I was thrust into a heated game of Twister with the Donald and Stormy. We howled, we scratched, we barked at the moonlight as it reflected off Trump's pale white butt.

The debauchery didn't stop there.

An assortment of deviant devices of dastardly design and intent were laid out on the floor of the posh hotel suite, frightening things with even more frightening names: Chutes and Ladders, Balderdash, Apples and Oranges, and, worst of all, Tiddlywinks.

Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, you do not want to get your tiddly winked. No, you do not.

But all of that was just a warm-up to the perversity to come.

Cans were kicked. Simon's were said. And the Quiet Game quickly turned into the crying game.

But before you say there's no crying in the bedroom, let me tell you there is nothing more frightening than seeing Geena Davis sliding into home with nothing but white chalk and red clay to guide her way.

Tears were shed, and tears were made in the sheets during a lusty round of Behind the Woodshed. Trump was dressed as Tom Joad watching it all and telling stories about that time he ghosted on Bruce Springsteen following an impromptu parade by the members of Rage Against the Machine wearing only red leather chaps and Soviet chapstick.

None of it made sense, but none of that matters. It was the dawning of the Age of Aquanet.

We huffed. We puffed. And we discovered Trump had not one, but two comb-overs.

Not all of that night was as depraved. Some of it was, dare I say it, tender.

I taught Trump how to tie a shoe, he taught me how to tie a necktie, and Stormy Daniels taught us both how to tie ourselves up like David Carradine in the hotel room closet.

It was a true bonding experience in which we were bound together by the wrists, the ankles, and non-disclosure agreements that we all vowed to never break lest the truth about this night — this wonderful night — be made public.

But Stormy had to run her mouth to the tabloids, and Trump's team confirmed there was an agreement.

Why I haven't been mentioned by either party I simply do not know. Perhaps it's because they remember that special night when we all shared one heart and one body. It was a magical moment, one which I will always cherish.

So it is with some degree of sadness that I write all of this. My little love story is now a part of American history and I dare say, our country may never be the same.

Fortunately, I took video.



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