Donald Trump is my bad biker boyfriend

One day, we ran into a skinny, intellectual-type outside Le Club. Harvard guy. He didn’t look so tough; more like a golfer. Next thing we know, he was blitzing us like he was flying Air Force One. Obamacare, trade deals, Planned Parenthood funding, debt limit increases, a zillion Executive Orders. That dude sky-jammed everything he wanted down our nets.

My boyfriend did nothing except say, “We’ll get him next time.” But the dude kept raining dunks on us. I wanted a real man to stand up for me but my old boyfriend was busy playing fantasy football and growing facial scruff, or posing in front of a mirror at the gym.

Every morning I’d get up and something else had fallen apart. The creditors were knocking down our door. My crazy old neighbor from Vermont raided our freezer and stole our BBQ grill, railing against the 1% who ate “his” steaks. The Russians down the block knocked over my mailbox and ran their hot-rod over our lawn. When we complained, they put my mailbox back up and ran over it again.

And what did my old boyfriend do? He whined, put more product on his hair and went back to watching the Kardashians.

Then Donald came along.