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I had a dream that ex-President Donald Trump arrived at my office with an embarrassing problem. He had gone to bed and awakened the next morning with a penis for a nose. I felt like telling him that God had punished him for screwing so many innocent victims, but I refrained from the remark and comported myself professionally.

"Every time a woman walks past me, I feel like Pinocchio after he has told one of his lies, Dr. Pangloss," began Trump. "Can you do anything for these woodies?"

I felt sorry for the President. Nobody should have to walk around a Christian country like ours with a penis dangling past his lips. I also needed to put his place in history in the proper perspective.

"Don't flatter yourself," I answered. "Pinocchio was a good friend of mine and you're no Pinocchio."

I had lopped off cancerous breasts, but this was a surgery beyond my capabilities.

"First of all, you need to stay away from Viagra," I said. "We could perform a circumcision, but I don't think reducing your penis a few centimeters will make much of a difference; the cosmetic change might enhance your appeal with the gals. They prefer pretty dicks.

"By the way," I ventured, unable to contain my natural curiosity, "is you nose stuck smelling your ass?"

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