Exhausted from breaking up fights all over the Trump Hotel Washington gym, I watched gratefully as lobbyists, cheerleaders, and fans finally filtered out.

There was only one serious injury. D’s Head Coach HRC had retrieved the ashtray she threw at William Rodham Clinton, and on her second try, beaned him good. The wound in his hairline bled profusely, causing the former president to schedule a cosmetic surgery haircut at Washington National.

“Tell’em to hold all flights like we did at LAX,” he yelled as the EMT’s wheeled him out on a gurney.

Gathering what little energy I had left, I dashed to the spin room. The D team stood together on one riser, sipping their post-game lattes behind a cluster of microphones on what was left of a Trump Hotel podium, still smoking from Dances With Wolf Blitzer’s attempts to smash it with her tomahawk and burn the remains.

“If I had been Head Coach,” B.O., said confidently into the mikes, pausing at least thirty seconds between each non-teleprompted phrase, “we would have won. I could have articulated my game plan. They still love me….”

“It’s not over,” Turtle Waxman interrupted, wringing his bloody, gnarled little hands Coach HRC had stomped on after the loss. “We’re having a recount right now. It’s going to prove we had the most popular points.”

“Hold on,” Big D said from the R team dais, “we played the game by the rules of Electoral College. I know those rules because I sold the students and assets of Trump University to Electoral College. Made out like a bandit on the deal.”

“See!” MSM (Mostly Silly Media) star Shameeka Brzezinskimobile screamed, Mascara streaks running down her cheeks. “To hell with these tears, it was rigged.”

Trent “T-Lo” Lott dapped, then rapped at the D’s: “Dat’s all beltway B.S…, ‘cause we kicked yo azz…. You ain’t got no cause…, since we followed da laws.”

RNC Head Coach Prince Ribald, bruised and battered from being knocked into the stands by HRC, struggled to hoist his beer mug to his team.

“Great win,” Ribald said, “and next year…”

“Next year nothing!” Vermont Senator and Democrat also-ran Larry David Sanders screamed from the back of the spin room. “We lost because we didn’t go left hard enough. You wasted too much time on the right side of the court.”

“Enough of this [expletive] crap,” Head Coach HRC hollered. “I’m headed to the woods. Who’s joining me?”

The spin room grew deathly quiet.

Third Reich glanced at his half-pint teammates shaking their heads. Turtle Waxman and Barbara Boxcutter were staying put. Even big ole dim-witted Bill Dumblasio had had enough of HRC.

“Don’t let the door hit you in the rear on your way out,” B.O. yelled at HRC, then whirled and exhorted his DNC teammates: “I’m headed to the UN to bury a knife in BiBi’s back,” he said. “Jean Kerry is lecturing Israel about the two-steak solution.”

“Unpresidented arrogance,” big D tweeted. “B.O. promoting Heinz 57 Sauce.”

“I remember sitting in my madrassa in Indonesia when I was seven,” B.O. continued wistfully. “My buddy Bill Ayres, of the Weather Channel Underground, wrote about this moment in one of my autobiographies, Dreams from My Stepfather. I can still see the wise old Wahabi imam shaking his head, saying the main problem with Israel was “too many Jews.”

It was quite moving to hear such sagacity from the clean, articulate outgoing President. There wasn’t a dry MSM eye in the room.

“Who’s with me?” B.O. asked as he headed for the exit.

Moving as one, the MSM genuflected and hustled to follow B.O. to the United Nations. The remaining Ds shrugged and walked to the RNC riser, where Sheriff David Clarke Kent and T-Lo handed them beers from the R’s team cooler.

“What’ll you do now?” Big D asked me as we sipped our cold brews.

“I’m working on another contest to settle this policy thing,” I said. “I’m calling it Dueling Documentarians of DC.”

Big D glanced at my Don King salt-and-pepper spiked hair as I continued.

“Massive Michael ‘Feed Me’ Moore has signed up for a sumo wrestling match with middleweight Dinesh “D-Slayer” D’Souzaphone in the Capitol Rotunda.”

I bid farewell to Big D and his team. Thinking about how much lead the 300+ pound Moore consumed while growing up drinking the Flint, MI water, I made a mental note to copy Putin on correspondence about the sumo match and remind him to bring the Siberian tiger.

Michael Henry Copyright © 2016