‘This is fucked,’ stated the Editor-in-Chief, looking at the nine hundred subcommittee applications scattered across his desk, evidence of over nine hundred people who want to write for The Obiter

‘What is it, Dad?’ asked senior writer Michael Fielding, weirdly.

‘Get me the President. Now,’ responded the Editor, hands trembling as he gazed upon the array of names in front of him, all of whom appeared incredibly desperate to be a part of The Obiter organisation. It seemed almost unbelievable that nearly one thousand people would want to write for this small-time satire publication, but the proof was in the pudding.

And then the email notification dinged. Another application. Another bright-eyed youngster, the 987th, in fact, who was gunning for a coveted position on The Obiter subcommittee. The subject of the email read ‘My Obiter Application,’ but all the Editor saw was ‘More Work.’

He sighed, as he thought back the glory days, when only three or four hundred students would apply for the subcommittee.

‘I’ve got the President for you on line one,’ chirped Michael, snapping the Editor out of his hazy, nostalgic stupor.

‘Terrific,’ came the swift reply, almost as swift as his chiseled, weather-beaten hands seized the phone.

‘Mr Tran? It’s your Editor…’ he began, before being cut off by a voice on the other end of the line that sounded suspiciously like Alec Baldwin.

‘This is Mr Trump, Commander-in-Chief, and the Drumpfy-Cheeto-Supreme. How can I help?’

The Editor slammed the phone down on the receiver with force only seen once before, after Churchill ordered Australian troops into Gallipoli. How could this be? How could he have just been connected with the Idiot-In-Chief? The scary orange Cheeto man?

‘Michael!’ bellowed the Editor. ‘I just spoke to the President… of the United States?’

‘You mean… The Orange Liar?’

‘You bet.’

This story to be continued.

No more to come.