The Bigly Healthy President-Elect & the Poet Doctor of the Upper Eastside

by Jeff Eagers

Not only is he the richest, and the fairest, but he’s also the healthiest of them all. This claim came out about a year ago during the the election season, and so I dropped in to see what the scoop was now that Donald J. Trump was hired.

“Yes, he’s the healthiest president-elect. I can say that unequivocally. He’s the best. Just the best all around,” says his doctor, Twitter mentor, personal trainer, and coke-addled binge buddy Harold Bornstein.

As I got into the limo that was to take Bornstein and Donald Trump to lunch, I was met with Bornstein, who sat alone in a ruffled suitcoat, stained pants, and held a beautifully polished mirror off of which he was snorting premo-grade Colombian cocaine.

“I try to get four or five lines down as fast as possible,” Bornstein says, “before Donny can get into the stash. You know, it’s kinda like a race with Donny. Everything’s a race. Skyscrapers. Women. The presidential office. People. It’s all just some race or another to the guy, so I gotta get mine in while I can.”

Not even a minute into the ride Bornstein tensed up and lashed out at me as I watched, listened, and recorded our conversation.

“Hey, don’t be shedding any bad vibes, Jeff. Nobody invited you anyway. You can fuck off for all I care.”

And then, like the sun reappearing from behind the clouds, he shifted moods again.

“And, you know, to be honest, I kinda just want to impress Donny. He blows through this shit like it’s nothing — like he’s drinking water or something, through his nose. I just can’t keep up, man.” He sniffled, looked into the mirror, and adjusted his long, graying hair.

Harold Bornstein, also known as Count Harold, writes epic tantric love poetry when he’s not performing colonoscopies. For Trump, he says he’s performed both.

Bornstein has treated Donald Trump for over 35 years, and before that, his father treated the Trumps. The two have grown close over the years, and from the way that Bornstein spoke about Trump I could tell there was a special connection between the washed out colonoscopist and president-elect.

While our driver took us to pick up Trump, Bornstein regaled me in his medical practice. “We also do endoscopies. I used to have this pretty funny comic on my website of a man lying in a cot that said ‘Please inform all of your visitors that a video tape of your endoscopy is available in the gift shop.’ I wanted it to say ‘colonoscopy,’ but my nurse said that was too crude. What the fuck does she know of humor anyway?”

When we picked up Trump he was waiting on the sidewalk outside of the Kasowitz law firm mumbling to himself and tapping his toes on the crumbling concrete. He entered the limo a bit glum and soon recounted a disagreement he had had with his lawyer about the difference between the words consent, consummate, consummate consent, and commiserate.

“Commiserate,” Kasowitz reportedly said, “is what you pay me to do. Consummate consent is what you pay a prostitute for. And consent is the thing you didn’t get before you and Epstein consummated your love for that thirteen-year-old girl.”

Trump then asked Bornstein to pass the mirror so he could get what he termed a “big league,” caterpillar-sized line of coke. This appeared to cheer him up.

“But,” he continued, patting Bornstein affectionately on the back, “at least I have my doctor behind me. Get it? Get it? He’s my colonoscopist!”

For a story about the man’s health, I must say I was somewhat skeptical, if not outright doubtful, given his high-stress lifestyle choices, but to be honest, once he entered the limo I realized that I had never seen such a healthy specimen in my life. His skin was so fine and translucent that the flesh beneath it almost shined like an incandescent bulb. His hair was so thin and soft it blew in the window’s breeze like that of a freshly shampooed puppy. His nose was… well, probably more powerful than a Dyson vacuum cleaner.

The man had never had a drink of alcohol in his life. “Don’t like the taste of the stuff. It’s too bitter.” He’s never smoked cigarettes. “They’re for fags. That’s why they call ’em that.” What was abundantly clear, however, was that the man is addicted to cocaine. I asked him if he thought the cocaine would affect his health negatively.

Trump grew beet red and clutched his hands as though he were very, very constipated.

“Wrong. Wrong. WRONG!”

“Are you saying cocaine is wrong, or cocaine doesn’t negatively affect your health, Mr. Trump?”

“My doctor — very good man, Harold — assures me this is the best of the Americas. You know, my only reservation is that we have to import it from some criminals in Colombia. You know how they import it? Harold knows. They put it up their butt. Believe me, I don’t want to be putting my nose on anything that has been in another man, woman, or child’s rectum. We should be growing this stuff ourselves. It think it would really give a bump to the economy, improve the bottom line!” He and Bornstein then erupted into another round of almost manic laughter.

I should pause here and offer a statement of full disclosure: on the ride to Burger King I joined the two in a “bump,” as they call it. It wasn’t much, just enough to get a read on the quality of stuff they were snuffing. First I rubbed it on my gums, of course, as they had instructed, to a pleasurable tingling sensation. And then a little eensty beensty bump. But Trump wouldn’t let me stop there.

“What are you, a girl?”

I told him I wasn’t.

“You some sort of pussy? Why don’t you take a whole line, like man? I don’t give interviews with women. I do other things with women. Am I right, Harold?”

So then I took another bump, and a little line that Bornstein laid out for me. It was a kind line, thin as the hair on Trump’s head, and yet, the stuff blew me away. Before I knew it we were forty minutes outside of Newark and had a sixteen-year-old hooker in the limo named Monique. Trump pretended like he was answering questions about his personal health, which was indeed the original intent of the article I was tasked with writing, but the whole thing had shamefully spun out of control.

“We’re gonna do great things,” Trump said. “My personal trainer has just told me about Pilates. It’s like yoga, but German. My dietitian recommended kale. Kale is OK — kinda bitter, but I’m told it’s gonna do bigly good things for my body. And then there’s kelp! Harold, have you heard about kelp? I’m told kelp is the new kale. We’re gonna get this stuff into the inner cities — it’s gonna blow their minds.” When I asked him about foreign policy he responded that there was none, but he was hopeful nonetheless.

“What’s the name of that little country inside of another little country in the Middle East? Palestine? Yeah, we’re going to build a wall, it’s gonna knock their socks off — they have a wall? A lot of walls? Well what’s the problem?” Across the limousine Bornstein evidently sent Trump a Snapchat of something funny, to which both erupted into a cackling laughter.

“Oh yeah, cous cous! We’re gonna win on some trade deals for cous cous, believe me. America never wins any more, and I think cous cous is really really great stuff — no, I really mean that — it’s like eating a million little Jewish pasta balls.”

Let me remind the reader, I got into this limo for one purpose, and one purpose alone: to write an article about the healthiest presidential candidate — no president-elect — ever. I’m about sixteen “bumps” deep, Monique is so drunk she can’t respond intelligibly, and Harold is fondling Donny in what looks to be a impromptu colonoscopy.

The rest simply isn’t fit to print.

To make a long story short, Bornstein explained there’s an ongoing competition between the two as to who can use the most cocaine before they get to Burger King.

“He’s always asking me to push my limits,” he says. “But, in the rush, I think some of my words… don’t come out exactly the way they were meant. I just don’t want him to think less of me, you know?” Bornstein, then very delirious, shifted moods once he realized that a stubby erection protruded from his underwear. “Hey, where’d my pants go? And who’s this dweeb with the voice recorder anyway? Donny, we gotta lose this fag!”

The next thing I knew the limo came to a stop, Trump’s driver violently escorted me from the car, and Bornstein, Trump, and Monique sailed off into the New Jersey night on the long, hard road to Burger King.

Like This One. Read the Rest.

Weenie 2:

— News

— Ask Harriet The Humpback

— The Bigly Healthy President-Elect & The Poet-Doctor of the Upper Eastside

— Turd Baby

— Sex, Drugs, & Polka: Interview

— Superman, with hand in pants

— Cat Trader