The President, happy to finally be alone for the night, and clad only in an open luxury robe and his tighty-whities with the little presidential seals embroidered along the waistband, scratched his ample belly and ripped a wicked soda belch. Pleased with his burp in the smug way only a man accustomed to greatness can be, the President hoisted himself on to his bed. Using the remote, he raised the volume of the Fox News midnight rerun of Tucker Carlson's show. Just a few characters into what was sure to be an expertly crafted tweet, the bed began to quake and a misty fog gathered beside the bed. Within the mist appeared the giant visage of a mighty orangutan hovering in the air. The two proud beasts looked warily at each other for a moment.
The President broke the silence, "I wondered if you'd come tonight."
"Of course I have," replied the orangutan. "As your Spirit Animal, I am here to guide you through all your big decisions."
"This is a tough one. You want a Big Mac while we talk it out? I have three left," asked the President, gesturing to the silver tray beside him on the bed.
The orangutan waved off the offer. Nodding at the television, he asked, "What does Tucker think?"
"Oh, I don't know. I don't really watch. I miss Bill."
"Look, we all miss Bill, but don't be so quick to dismiss Tucker. Did you know I am the one who advised him to stop wearing bow ties?"
"Proving, once again, that your advice is always great, the best advice," said the President.
"Exactly. I've never steered YOU wrong. Hair and complexion? Perfect. Using a limited vocabulary? Makes you seem real. Spending the entire campaign flinging poo? Brilliant, though I suppose calling yourself the Chaos Candidate was better than the Poo Flinger. But the results were the same. Projecting toughness? You're the king of the jungle, baby. Pee wherever you want? That's how I do it. Wait for female consent? Screw that, you're an animal with needs. The King takes what he wants! Dammit, I'm proud of you. I couldn't be happier to be your Spirit Animal. I am you and you are me."
The President chuckled. "Thank you for your guidance Great One. I've learned so much from you already. It is funny, isn't it? Everyone is worried about who is advising me. Bannon or Miller. Ivanka or the Kush. Putin or the Saudis. They would all shit bricks if they knew I was taking recommendations from a floating monkey head. Now, about this Paris Climate Accord. We have to stay in right? There is an army of scientists that say we have to stay in. Something about saving the world. I dunno, I wasn't really paying attention in the briefing."
"Scientists!," the great ape bellowed. "Scientists? With their theories and their calculations? With their data and their evidence-based deductions? Scientists, who have done nothing for my people but lock us up and perform experiments upon us? Really, Prez, who are you going to side with, hundreds of researchers who have dedicated their lives to finding a thoughtful, data-driven solution to stemming the tide of global warming, or a fat, lazy orangutan speaking to you from the Great Beyond? Are you the type of guy that bows to peer pressure? If the rest of the world jumped off a bridge, would you? Give me a break. Get out there and lead. Act bigly. Be different. Be bold. Be a maverick, like Nicaragua and Syria. Ignore the propaganda and leave the agreement."
"Of course. Thank you for your counsel. When will I see you again?"
"I shall return when you are feeling confused, inept, or utterly incapable."
"Great. See you tomorrow, then."
"Indeed. One more thing, big guy. You're looking a little pale. I'd add some more orange in the morning." With that the great mammal faded away and the mist cleared.
The President, somewhere between sleep and a fever dream, slumped back against his pillow, his phone falling against his prodigious belly, tapping the send button. As he slipped from consciousness, the President sighed the beast's name with a reverent whisper: "Covfefe."
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