We find ourselves at the intersection of Incredulity Prospect and Constitutional Crisis Avenue. Michael Cohen, attorney at law for none other than Donald J. Trump, recently was outed against his will for a handsome charitable contribution to a Ms. Stormy Daniels, adult film star. The self-effacing philanthropist was caught red handed doing the right thing for the rightest of reasons. He secretly paid Ms. Daniels $130,000 U.S. dollars of his own money to hush her pouty lips and help her escape the tawdry world of pornographic films. The poor woman was down on her luck and so desperate that she contacted the Trump campaign, no, I mean, Attorney Cohen, Esq., and threatened to blackmail candidate Trump late in his bid for the presidency in 2016. We have not witnessed philanthropy on this level since George Costanza started The Human Fund.
Michael Cohen saw through her extortion ploy as a tragic cry for help. He raced altruistically to set up a shell company in Delaware for the sole purpose of paying her blackmail demands in order to rescue her from a life of sexploitation. At no time did he believe for a second that Ms. Daniels had a torrid affair with his best bud and major client, Donald J. Trump. He later told investigators it was all a big humanitarian misunderstanding. Paying her demands might look like yielding to extortion, but Mr. Cohen reported it was really a gift from one Trump bimbo to another. Nothing more or less. “I’d do it for any woman with boobs the size of Rhode Island” he reportedly said.
As Cohen further related after all the other reporters left the room, it began several years ago. Ms. Daniels had photo shopped pictures of herself with Mr. Trump in 2006 as if they were an intimate golf twosome at one of Trump’s golf courses. Melania had just delivered their son, and Donald needed some R & R of another sort. The misguided Stormy then put her evil plan into effect, contacting the Don and demanding hush money for something that never, ever, let me repeat, never happened. On your mother’s grave, I swear.
In Political Stilletos Magazine, Mr. Cohen was interviewed recently by former White House spokesman Shawn Spicer.
“I know it’s all truly false because I was there when the first high heel fell, so to speak. I was attending Mr. Trump’s personal care. I am also a licensed CNA. Mr. Trump had called me into his toilet area. I remember it like it was yesterday, Dec. 7, 2010, Pearl Harbor Day, which is ironic because Mr. Trump’s toilet seat is inlaid with mother of pearl. You don’t forget these things. 
“I had just read the first extortion letter from Ms. Daniels aloud when he called me into the bathroom for another delicate matter. ‘First things first. We’ve gotta do the first thing and do it first.’ He’s like that, cuts to the marrow of meaning in a way that even asphyxiated well diggers can grasp. 
“Anyway, he made sure I used antibacterial lotion and latex gloves to inspect his nether regions on the back side. You see, he had been complaining of a rash back there below his spare hair pelt that he grows just below his belt line. Something just didn’t feel right. I detected a small lump, a nuisance really, like Devin Nunes.
“I combed through the back up pelt and found nothing out of the ordinary, and then he was relieved. I took a picture and added it to his collection of specimens. Ever since his nanny scolded him during toilet training, he has been perfecting his revenge. It is not encopresis. This is a man who is legendary for playing 3-D checkers while other men play chess and flush away their swine before pearls. It is part of a larger strategy to be a totally self sufficient rebel locked in the anal explosive stage. 
“Mr. Trump complained of rectal pain occasionally, but especially in the latter days of the presidential campaign. He thought a Crooked Hillary supporter might have poisoned him at a McDonald’s drive through window. Once again I put on the gloves and checked him. The pelt was fine, shiny and vigorous like a silver back gorilla’s coccyx after hydrogen peroxide treatments. That’s when he said, ‘Lower. In.’
“I took a deep breath and asked him if he was sure. ‘Sir, permission to touch you there.’
“‘Permission granted’, he replied. Gingerly, like Fred Astaire gingerly, I looked in and saw a vision I can never unsee. As I pulled back his ample saggy butt cheeks, I found Nancy Pelosi staring wide eyed back at me. ‘What are you looking at?’ she snarled. ‘Everyone my age has had a little work done.’
Before I could respond Sean Hannity shouted, ‘It’s Obama’s fault again. Show us the birth canal certificate.’ 
A strong hand came up from the deep and covered his mouth, pulling him back into the Abyss of Buttocks. Slowly I saw another hand and then a severe jaw appear. It was Michael Flynn. ‘Lock her up. Lock her up.’ he chanted rhythmically.
“That’s when Mr. Trump said, ‘There! That felt better. What’s going on down there Michael?’
“I was a gassed at that point. I mean exhausted with the comb in one hand and the tweezers in the other. Plus, Mr. Trump is a large man with a rump like William Howard Taft, the bigliest president in U.S. history. I didn’t know what to say in such unimagined territory.
“It was at that very moment when I was overcome with compassion for porn stars stuck in a humiliating lifestyle like hard candy pellets in a Pez dispenser in the President’s butt. I remembered the threatening letter that no one in the campaign or White House has ever seen. Ever. I contacted Stormy and made my career escape plans for her known to her. She was dumbfounded and agog over my offer. No one had ever made her such an unconditional offer of love and freedom. She accepted. Case closed. Honest Injuns.”
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