Scandal at the Court: Trump’s Crypto Caprice Leaves Lobbyist in Limbo! 🏛️🪙

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ACT I, SCENE I. (A lavish salon, somewhere between Mar-a-Lago and the stage of the Comédie-Française. Enter PRESIDENT TRUMP, surrounded by flatterers and sycophants, clutching his magical speaking box—Truth Social.)

TRUMP (boisterous, tapping screen): “Behold, citizens! A Crypto Strategic Reserve! The modern Midas touch! XRP for all!”

(Enter BRIAN BALLARD, the master lobbyist, peering nervously from behind a velvet curtain.)

ACT I, SCENE II. The Post That Launched a Thousand Facepalms 😂

BALLETTE (a staffer, breathless and eager): “Sire, if thou lov’st progress, thou must applaud the crypto crowd! Might I humbly suggest this saucy prose?”

TRUMP (delighted, oblivious): “Let us dazzle those blockchain peasants!” (Publishes post)

But lo! The gods of irony conspire. Ripple—yes, XRP, that glimmering bauble—happens to fill the coffers of Master Ballard’s firm. Garlinghouse, the CEO with dreams bigger than his tokens, yearns to have his XRP kissed by presidential favor.

Hours pass. The plot thickens, the air chills.

TRUMP (wroth, arms akimbo): “What’s this? Am I but a puppet in Ballard’s theater? Cast him from the court! Never again shall he bask in presidential glory!”

Sotto voce, West Wing whispers fly: “Avoid the man in the brocade jacket. Shun him at every council!”

Yet, as in all farces, gold flows toward scandal. Ballard Partners’ coffers swell—one hundred thirty new clients, $14 million richer. O, what wondrous deception sweet self-promotion can yield!

But the nobles mutter:

“Beware he who would salt his resume with royal acquaintance,” whispers a Trumpian confidant. “He hawks his importance as merchants hawk perfumes at the fairground—potent to the nose, potent to the purse.”

ACT II. The Offended Protests! (But No One Buys It)

BALLARD (dignity wounded, yet clinging to hope): “I, sir, never traded on friendship for favor! My honor is as unsullied as a pixel on a brand-new iPhone.”

His vassals, meanwhile, deny all trickery, claiming that no Machiavellian plot darkened their boss’s browser history. Yet, whispers abound—clients seek fresher intrigue, newer passages to the Orange Throne.

And thus, Ballard—once the darling of the campaign treasure-chest, who wined and dined and rubber-chickened his way across the capital—now finds his entrée less certain, his banquet table less crowded. Still, he soldiers on, clutching his Rolodex with the tenacity of Harpagon hugging his coin purse.

CURTAIN. (And somewhere, Molière laughs in his grave—“Plus ça change…”) 🤡💸🏰

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2025-05-11 11:13