As published on Medium weekly here. I spun together real life scenarios and biographical information to bring to life a fictional story involving top political and pop icons. Similar to Forrest Gump, but about Kanye’s ambitions for presidency.


Fanfiction Summary:

Kanye and Kim are ready to become the next JFK and Jackie O. Everyone thought his run for office was a joke, and yet it’s his dream, his future, his and Kim’s destiny. They have been working so hard for this, but Beyonce and Jay Z may take it all away…
Join Kimye on this tale of political espionage as these American pop royals battle to enter the political mainstream.


November 8, 2015

Mushy yam-colored skin slapped against tawny young flesh with each of Trump’s thrusts. His hair waving to and fro, his crinkled orange face in a tight pucker. He was close to climax.

Making a short, loud open-mouth cough, he overtly shouted, “Rebuild the Empire!” with climax. Donald liked trying new campaign slogans at the point of peak pleasure to see if they could carry the weight of true emotion.

Having finished, he fell suddenly and at full speed, like the end scene in Moby Dick, breaching back onto the small-malnourished model with whom he shared his bed. She gave out a quick gasp, raising her Swarovski covered wrists to cover her breasts and face, hoping Trump’s weight wouldn’t pop a synthetic breast.

Trump liked feeling his weight upon his most recent Eastern European immigrant guest; it reminded him of his power. Helping her get her green card and learn English was, in his mind, a certain form of charity. With a long exhale, he pulled himself off her.

“Tomorrow I go on Kanye’s yacht,” he sighed.

“Yak?” She asked.

“Big boat. Kanye’s. He’s an important donor, I must support him.”


“It’s Kanye, that black guy who sings, dabbles in fashion? Don’t worry your pretty head, get some rest. Reaching into his bedside drawer, he pushed aside a bottle of Viagra and grabbed a bottle of Klonopin.

“Sleep my dear,” Trump cooed, handing the model a pill, “Tomorrow is a big day for me.”

The model gulped down the pill, shortly passing out, an ever growing pool of saliva wetting her pillow.

“Do I really have to wear these?” Bernie said, snapping his Yeezy’s together like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.

“Of course,” his wife Jane said, “Kanye is an important donor, impressing him is important,” giving him a tight squeeze on the rump. Her cheeks were still flushed from their non-gender specific pegging morning romp in the sheets. Everyone deserves equality, even in the bedroom. During this daily morning ritual, pleasure was monitored consistently by both parties to ensure a fair and safe environment.

“I made a point not to take money from donors,” Bernie whined.

“I know, but if you don’t take his money, at least ask for his support.” Bernie knew Jane was right. Although Obama had called Kanye an “ass hole” in the past, Kanye had recently won over him and Taylor Swift. He seemed to be in with Bernie’s in-crowd. And besides, his Yeezys were growing on him. They were much more fashionable than his usual velcro-leather sneakers (although they had less sole support).

He quickly crammed Vermont maple syrup candies and Character Is Destiny: Inspiring Stories Every Young Person Should Know and Every Adult Should Remember by John McCain into his canvas duffle bag. The old bag had been with him since his year at Brooklyn College. Scotch Taped up so many times, he liked the worn, used image the bag conveyed. Bernie headed for the train from Vermont down to Kanye’s yacht, moored in Southampton.

Hillary looked at herself in the mirror. Long gone were the days of the WASP yellow power suit and yet she wasn’t sure how to best impress Kimye. Hillary put in her large pearl earrings and accent necklace set. Her thick wool bright blue suit was always a safe staple. After all, this suit had won her millions worth of support in the past, why stop now?

Calling in her makeup artist. “Maybe a little more contouring,” She instructed, “Like in that Kim Kardashian Youtube videos.” She really wanted to get into the shoes of Kim (in a figurative, not ShoeDazzle kind of way).

Hillary was fascinated by Kimye. Her team had tried and tried, but didn’t seem able to catch the energy this couple easily controlled. So much free press. How did they do it? She’d be in the game for ages, but couldn’t seem to upgrade her techniques to win over Millennials, at least not like Bernie. She made a mental note to ask Kim for some tips in private later, maybe get her on a call with some of her staff. Perhaps she could convince Kylie to launch a “Power Suit” shade lip kit, with the proceeds going to her campaign (although she knew Kris Jenner would never let that happen).



November 9, 2015

Bernie waited in the upper deck of the yacht. Because of the train schedule, he showed up two hours early. Arriving at the slip, he kicked around the dock and spoke with the dockhands, who, upon seeing his Scotch Taped duffle, tweed jacket, and Yeezy’s, kept asking if he was lost.

Bernie felt like he was in the bowels of the enemy, surrounded by these huge ships. Sitting on a dock peg, he watched a Seagull swoop high into the air, a crab in its mouth, and drop it, it’s shell cracking on the wooden dock. We must crush the upper class, he told himself. Surrounded by all these yachts, he felt antsy with a want to fight and fight hard. This was the 1%, the crushing first class, and he must take them down. That’s why he was here, that’s why he was wearing Yeezy’s, to bring these moguls to their knees, help them understand the struggles of those below them in the economic pyramid.

As the sun set, Bernie was invited on-board. Waiting in the upper deck, he put a handful of the peanuts offered by the crew in his pocket, eating them slowly.

“What are you doing here?” He suddenly heard from behind him. Hillary had arrived, she strolled up, her short, thick heels clopping on the deck’s wood.

“You show up and ruin every party,” She yelled, knowing they were alone.

“The Democratic party was already ruined,” Bernie snapped back. Hillary’s face burned a fiery red. She was sick and tired of this hangaround. Of course he was doing everything ‘Millennial,’ the one voter group she couldn’t wrap her head around.

“For the first time I actually agree with you, Bernie,” Donald’s voice could be heard as he walked up the steps of the megayacht. “Looks like Kanye invited all of us together to meet him. That’s GREAT,” he said at the top of the steps.

The three stood together, eyeing each other up and down like dogs in heat. They were a ragtag bunch, but also the future of the world’s greatest hegemon.


Kim took a deep breath. She had been to many a stately dinner and had selected a full white dress with a gaping neckline down to her belly button. It had taken two hours for her housemaids to dress her, locking in her ample breasts with a patchwork of body  tape.

She and Kanye had great plans for the future. They would be the Jackie O. and John F. Kennedy tagteam of the 21st Century. She would wear white and he would wear black. And in these colorless shades they would rule the world together. Tonight was one slink in a Slinky chain of ideation to their greatest point of victory and world domination, rising like Phoenix, in a burst of fire and feathers, above this world.

Kim walked out onto the deck of the megayacht, where Melania had joined the group, arriving late having wanted to put Barron to bed. “Welcome guests, so great to have all of you here tonight,” Kim said. Walking to each candidate, she kissed their side cheek, giving a wide berth around Trump, knowing he had a reputation for being handsy.

“Right this way,” she gestured, leading them into the dining room enclosed portion of the deck. White linen lay across the full table and and chairs, the table ladened with gold silverware and trim along each of the plates.

“Kanye will only be a moment,” Kim explained as she pointed to each of their seats. The servers appeared. Each with blond hair and pale skin, they wore blue linen floor-length gowns, with white aprons and bonnets. A server for each guest, they approached the table in unison, pouring water into clear crystal glasses.

“Your servers have quite interesting outfits,” Hillary commented, politely.

“Thank you, it’s a thought piece of Kanye’s. They are each in historical house slave attire. It’s to help us, in this home, remember that we can’t dehumanize other based on our extravagant, superior, all-encompassing wealth. Very, like, humbling,” Kim explained, “We are the new slaves.”

Suddenly the lights dimmed. Smoke from a fog machine filled the room and the servers moved a thing curtain at the front of the room aside. Light shining from below, a black cross rose from the darkness.  I am a God from Yeezus started to play loudly as the candidates sat in darkness.

Suddenly, a light shone from the front of the table, outlining a human form on the black cross. Kanye became visible, in a black suit, tied with black painted ropes to the cross. Black on black on black.

Kanye opened his eyes, the balls the only white, “I am a God,” he stated blankly, turning his head robotically. He ruffled his legs and arms from the black rope, jumping from the cross and walking over to his seat, the music fading.

“Welcome guests,” he said, arms stretched wide. “I am so happy to have you all here. Thank you for joining me in this dark, twisted fantasy.”

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