The confessions of fake Melania.

Damn!  Whey did I let the have moleskin on my nose show?

OK, holding things back has never been my strong suit - meaning you never want to be trapped in an  elevator that is perilously stuck between floors with me -  but I have a confession that needs to be made.

I am Fake Melania. 

Yes, that is I, Cookie, in the right side picture.  Every one is talking about it.  Or they were, yesterday.  Fame is fleeting, no?

Preposterous you say?

You have never seen my legs, but they really very nice.

And I am toe walker, meaning there is no heel high enough to conquer me or make me tip over.  Not even stripper heels.

How do I do it?

And in the right light, my goatee shaved and my pouting lips, coated with Radiant Rose Dawn Mystique lipstick, a pair of sun glasses from a designer whose name - if you can't tell by the shape - would be obvious if you ran in the circles that Melania runs in, along with a wig and a ordinary satin lined top coat, I become Melania.

Why do I do it?

Because I believe that a girl in trouble is a temporary thing.  That's why.  And Melania is the type of be-atch who has her underlings give and give and give some more until there is nothing left to give, then she makes them give to their very marrow, leaving them soulless, desiccated shells of their former selves.

Melania and I are like that.

So, Melania and I were getting our weekly sea weed wraps - they used to be monthly, but as she said "Cookie, neither of us is nubile anymore," so now we have to go weekly.  Anyhow, so we are all bound up like villains in a Wonder Woman comic book and I asked how Washington was treating my Mel.

"Eet eze horrible here.  I shvitz and get wet with the glistening sweats from the humids weather," she said.  "It makes me feel dirty in not a Melania kind of way."

And I said "Stop it," half jokingly, half not, because I really hate "the humids weather" crack because it makes her sound so provincial, and "I asked how things were going with her and the Most Powerful Man in the world?"

"Putin never calls me anymore.  It upsets the Donald."

So I asked how things were going with her husband and her, in that tiny White House, and I noticed that one of eye cucumber slices wiggled as she gave me the stink eye.

"Eff this facial masque weren't hardening and soaking up all the impurities een my skin I would give you such a look."

So I kinda turned my head to side and said "What up, buttercup?"

So Melania goes into this story about how she is always getting pawed by him in front people, you know as to say "Look what I can get away with" but when they are alone he sits in the corner making these lists of people who have wronged him so he knows who to exact his revenge upon.

"Or for fun, John Kelly will pitch pennies at him and watch him scurry about the blue room.  It's rather fun, actually."

"Well that sounds dreadful," say I.  And indeed the mud mask was hardening, causing mine to crack every time I said something.

Just then Olga and Simone came in to remove the masque, give us out facial massages and facial admonishments ("Cookie, never down!  Always up!") and eventually the wraps were cut off and Melania and I found ourselves in our white cotton robes at the spa's Herbs Body Shop (the name of the tea room) for herbal teas and non-gluten (which means non-glutton to me, because Cookie loves his gluten) cakes and we continued our conversation.

In a nutshell, Melania hates being First Lady ("I get the sick every time I hear 'Flotus' - it sounds like intestinal gas.") and she really really hates that Donald is President.

"This is not journey I signed up for.  I can love a fat, rich man, that I will outlive.  I did not think this would have ever happened.  Where can I sunbathe topless now?  My bra's are made of Kevlar."

I assure her "None of us thought it possible, either."  I would put my hand on her, but touching Melania, now that she is First Lady, is a Federal Offense.  So the best that I do is give her that "there, there," look.

So I asked her "Hey, lady: what a win would look like for Melania?"

Melania cocked her head ever so slightly to the side and said, "Well, since Robert Goulet is dead, an affair with him is out.  OK, then; I just want some sleep.  Restful sleep.  Every night the Donald gives me this thing he calls a Dutch Oven.  It is not something from Netherlands but it comes from his nethe-regions.  OK, heez ass.  And it has nothing to do with cooking, but everything with brewing.  It's digusting."

I give her that "I know, darlin' " look.  "Bless his tiny, congested heart."

"Could be worse.  Look what he did to Marla Maples.  One word: 'Tiffany'," I reminded her.

We laugh.

"Don't you think that Eric (Trump) looks like Nosferatu?  Yeah, my step son looks like Nosferatu.  How the fuck did that and all of this happen?" she laughed.

We laugh again.

So we hatched this plan, with some help from Kellyanne Conway.  Why Kellyanne?  Well the bitch has TERRIBLE skin issues.  She's like snake, always shedding her outer covering and she has found that the HDTV make up that the networks use is like the perfect concealer.

"Kellyanne's fresh layer of skin after she slithers out of the old layer is translucent until it dries - like all cicadas, so the thick HDTV foundation makes he at least look less like an alien from Uranus.  Don't tell her I said that, or I will cut cut a bitch," Melania said, half jokingly.

So with wig, trench coat, those big honking sunglasses and some stripper heels, I become fake Melania for a couple hours while she grabs some Zzzzzz's in the White House bunkers.

We've been doing it since June.  I play Melania with a headache, and the President keeps his distance.  If it involves Air Force One travel, I have the secretary of the treasury give the Donald a coloring book and some fresh crayons.  Donald will only color with fresh crayons. 

And it was working until that BITCH Kellyanne rats me out the National Enquirer!  How do I know this?  Because that's what Kellyanne does.  She squeals to the Enquirer, or worse, Tomi Lahern.

"She is such a C U Next Tuesday," said Elaine Chou over drinks one night at the Prince George County Hooters.  Elaine loves Hooters.  "Mitch would love to join us, but he can't, because everyone would want to know why he can't get a bill passed in Senate. I could tell them why.  For the same reason he can't get it up in the bedroom."

"I loathe Kellyanne," Elaine confided.  "Did you know she has the hotsies for Mikey Pence?  She can't get near him because Mrs. Pence (she has no first name, you know, but she'll answer to "Mother") always has a can of moth spray handy.  Kellyanne HATES moth spray.  File that in your mental Rolodex for later."

Let me tell you, Elaine was right. Some O-Cedar moth proofing keeps Kellyanne at bay better than a voodoo curse.

But Elaine, as it turns out, also makes a great duplicate Melania.  I showed her the costume and she had to try it on. Elaine's a bit short, so she needs platform shoes to pull it off.

When Melania saw her in the get up she said "Bitch! I hate you you look so fine."  Because of this, I can get a day off from Melania's day off if Elaine is free. 

But lets get this clear - I AM fake Melania.  Elaine is just moonlighting.  Get's her away from having to go to Kentucky and drinking moonshine.

So I asked Elaine what Mitch thought about this.

"Yurtle is too busy playing with that nasty ass outtie bellybutton to notice," she said while we were doing shots of Ouzo at the RNC Club. 

We were having a swell time - until Tomi Lahern came into the bar and we had to duck out through the backdoor of the joint.

Elaine HATES Tomi. 

"You know, I am not one for bad things to happen to people, but I bet we could ship that skank off to North Korea and get Kim Un to get her the F off our backs.  He'd feed to a pack of wild dogs.  Wouldn't that be some awesome shit?"

"Why don't you invite her to Kentucky and leave her in a hollow?" I ask.

"Me, Mitch and Tomi in a private jet to Kentucky to drop off the trash.  As if Hatfield's and McCoy's don't already have enough problems."

All I can say is thank GOD the President can't read. Otherwise he'd know what I am up to, and Elaine would have to go back to wearing that electrified chastity belt Mitch likes her to wear.  And nobody wants that.  Not Me, not Elaine and certainly not Melania.

"Oh, for fucks sake, the Donald would be livid.  And I need my beauty rests," said Melania.  You know, she's really in her mid fifties.  But by not smiling she keeps the wrinkles at bay.

Don't worry America, we got this covered.  And just in case, Ivanka Trump always has Donald's shock collar.

Yeah, we got this covered.