Trump’s 11 AM TUMS Presidential Maduro Catch him by his Toes.

The sun hadn’t even thought about rising over the Potomac when the “JFC Emergency” began. It started with a Bucket—actually, four of them—of “Justice Fried Chicken,” a local joint that promised “Extra Crispy Liberty.”

By 2:00 AM, the 47th President wasn’t dreaming of polls or rallies; he was occupied with the most high-stakes negotiation of his life, conducted entirely from the porcelain throne of the West Wing executive bathroom. It was a long night. A loud night. A night where the plumbing of the White House groaned under the weight of executive orders and Nashville Hot seasoning.

I might shove a drum stick up Maduro Butt or two or three. I’m PREZ. I can do ANYTHING!

Between rounds of what his staff politely called “Digestive Diplomacy,” the President’s mind began to race. He was in a state of gastrointestinal enlightenment. A whole night on the commode.

“It’s the oil,” he whispered to the wallpaper, gripped by a sudden, spicy realization. “The big, beautiful oil. I don’t even have to squeeze. It just falls out of my Ass.”

For years, Big Oil executives had been whispering in his ear like greasy sirens. “Sir,” they’d say, “Maduro took our rigs. He took our investments. He’s sitting on the world’s largest sandbox of crude, and he’s not sharing.”

Suddenly, as a particularly aggressive “greasy fart” echoed through the marble chamber—a sound so profound it allegedly tripped the Secret Service silent alarms—the plan materialized. It wasn’t just gas; it was inspiration.

“Wipe this shit off the Wall.”

“We’re going in,” he muttered, reaching for a gold-plated Sharpie he kept on the tank. “We’re going to capture him. It’ll be the biggest capture in the history of captures. Maybe ever.” Trump was dragging toilet paper from the bathroom to the activity room. And he had no clothes on.

By taking Maduro, I’m Super Powerful.

He imagined the pyrotechnics. He loved blowing stuff up—digitally, politically, and occasionally literally. He envisioned a scene out of a Michael Bay movie, but with more gold leaf.

By 6:00 AM, the JFC had finally settled, leaving behind a President who was exhausted, slightly dehydrated, but singularly focused. He called the Pentagon.

“Listen,” he told the General, who was still in his pajamas. “I had a vision. A very powerful, very smelly vision. We’re getting the oil back. And we’re bringing Maduro to Mar-a-Lago for a very stern talking-to. Maybe we’ll put him in the basement near the buffet.”

Fast forward to 11:00 AM today. The briefing room is packed. The air is thick with anticipation (and perhaps a lingering scent of fried skin and Old Spice). The President stands at the podium, looking surprisingly refreshed for a man who spent six hours fighting a bucket of chicken.

“Many people are saying it was the most complex mission in military history,” he begins, leaning into the mic with a smirk. “But really, it started with a feeling in my gut. A very strong feeling. Some call it intuition. I call it… the Native Son’s Resolve.”

He’s about to explain the ‘How’ and the ‘Why,’ but deep down, he knows the truth. It wasn’t just the Big Oil lobby or the seized investments. It was the 4-bucket meal that refused to go quietly into the night.

Would you like me to write the “official” transcript of that 11:00 AM press conference, including the inevitable questions from the press?

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE LOCATION: Mar-a-Lago Gold Ballroom (The “Big Oil & Buckets” Briefing)¹

DATE: January 3, 2026

TIME: 11:00 AM EST²

THE TRANSCRIPT: THE “CLARITY OF THE COMMODE” ANNOUNCEMENT

THE PRESIDENT: (Leaning into the mic, adjusting his tie, looking remarkably energetic for a man who hasn’t slept) Thank you. Thank you. We have a lot of people here. A lot of fake news, but a lot of patriots too. Today is a very big day. Maybe the biggest day for oil in the history of oil.

Last night, I had a very deep, very powerful experience. I was working late—I work harder than any President in history, okay?—and I had a little dinner. Four buckets. Great chicken. The best. I call it “Justice Fried Chicken” because that’s what we’re delivering today. Now, it was a long night. I spent most of it in the executive bathroom, which is a beautiful room, very high-end fixtures. And while I was… reflecting… I had a vision.

The vision was simple: Venezuela has our money. They took our rigs. Big Oil—great people, brilliant people—they came to me and said, “Sir, Maduro is sitting on a gold mine of crude and he’s using it to fund his little dance.” And I said, “Not on my watch.”

So, at 2:00 AM, right between a very aggressive bout of Nashville Hot reflux and a particularly—shall we say—patriotic greasy fart, I made the call. I said, “Get Delta Force. Get the ships. We’re plucking him out of his fortress like a drumstick out of a bucket.”

And we did it. He’s on a ship right now. He’s going to New York. He’s going to face the music. And we’re going to get that oil back. It’s going to be beautiful.

THE Q&A SESSION

REPORTER (CNN): Mr. President, are you saying a four-bucket meal of fried chicken influenced a major military strike against a sovereign nation without Congressional approval?

THE PRESIDENT: Look at this guy. Always with the chicken. It wasn’t just the chicken, Jim. It was the fortitude. I have a gut feeling that is never wrong. My gut was telling me something was very, very wrong in Caracas, and my gut was also telling me I shouldn’t have had that fourth bucket. But I did both. I handled the chicken and I handled Maduro. It’s called multitasking. You wouldn’t know about it.

REPORTER (FOX): Sir, Big Oil has been vocal about the billions seized by the Maduro regime. Is this about the indictment, or is this about the “monies” you mentioned?

THE PRESIDENT: It’s about both. It’s a package deal. We get the bad guy, we get the oil, and we blow some stuff up in between. Did you see the explosions? I saw the feed. Very high-definition. The best pyrotechnics I’ve seen since the Fourth of July. Maduro was in a “fortress,” they told me. I said, “I don’t care if it’s a fortress or a Taco Bell, we’re going in.”

REPORTER (AP): There are reports of civilian casualties and questions about international law.³ How do you respond to world leaders calling this an “illegal kidnapping”?

THE PRESIDENT: They can call it what they want. I call it a “Native Son Delivery Service.” We delivered him right out of his house. And as for the world leaders—mostly losers, by the way—they’re just jealous they didn’t have the guts to do it. They don’t have the fortitude. They don’t have the buckets.

THE PRESIDENT: (Pointing to a staffer) One more. Make it a good one.

REPORTER (OAN): Sir, what happens to the oil now?

THE PRESIDENT: We’re going to be “strongly involved.” Very strongly. We’re going to take that oil, we’re going to bring it here, and we’re going to make gas so cheap you’ll be able to drive a tank to work for five dollars. It’s going to be a new dawn. 2026 is the year of the Native Son, the year of Big Oil, and the year of the 11:00 AM victory lap.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a nap and possibly some Tums. God Bless America.

Would you like me to see a follow-up about Maduro’s first day in a New York jail cell, or perhaps a “Native Son” editorial responding to this chaos?