Donald Trump and Newt Gingrich should start a private gentleman’s club — I humbly suggest The Gobble Gobble — where they trade stories about infidelity and difficult divorces over quaffs of very expensive looking brandy.
I could imagine the script one day as historians try to piece it together in some future nostalgia piece Boardwalk Empire style. They are in a private lounge surrounded by other fat cat industrialists chomping on cigars, beaming pride and trading jokes on their exploits, when one bellows out a punchline, “…all on the Tiffany’s account of course.”
They all guffaw loudly as the camera pans down to show them all receiving blowjobs from a ring of imported white slave prostitutes all dressed like Princess Leia in Star Wars (historians will fuck this part up — but it’s more likely The Gobble Gobble will have theme nights).
“Jolly good this economy is for us elite power brokers” Another yells out and they all take a hearty drink.
Drunk and gesticulating wildly, their drinks slosh freely from the glasses onto the gold-adorned decor and gaudily restored Victorian sofas. The camera zooms in to frame a single vein of liquid tearing down a gelatinous, quivering neck, shaking fearfully along it’s perilous journey before it finally seeps into the crisp white collar of a fine linen shirt.