Trump noted that his sister will turn 35 just before the election, which is the minimum age required by the Constitution to be president or vice president. “She just makes that by about seven, eight days,” he said, calling his sister “a machine.”
"That is really sweet of him," Ivanka replies when reached for comment. "I don't know if I'd be a good vice president, but Eric would be an amazing cabinet member. He's so handsome he'd have both parties crossing the aisle."
"I'm flattered," admits Eric, "but Ivanka is incredible. "She runs three miles a day on unbelivably shapely legs. She could easily run the country."
Ivanka blushes slightly as she pushes back her glossy blonde hair. "I'd rather be in Eric's hands," she reveals. "His biceps are gigantic. Even when he's covered in warm, sticky sweat you can hardly get your hands around them."
Eric's eyes slide down Ivanka's sleek form and he inhales sharply. "God didn't make anybody close to Ivanka," he finally reveals. "She's got that big old butt you need to hang on to if the economy is gonna take a real pounding."
Ivanka reddens slightly as her aureolas stiffen. "Eric has the smooth, muscular chest that says he's a civilized man, but in the center there's this thick thatch of chest hair that says, 'I may be a man but I'm also an animal, and if I wanna fuck you then I'm gonna fuck you.""
Eric is flustered but won't be stopped. "Ivanka's got these thick, pillowy lips that every guy wants to see in action," he says. "She could filibuster for a hundred thousand years and nobody would tell her to shut up. I'll bet half the congressmen would jump outta their seats and say, 'Bitch, you need to take care of daddy over here!'"
Ivanka can't take any more. She flings herself against her brother like somebody who's spotted a black guy at a Trump rally. "Oh Eric!" she moans, flattening her heaving bosom against her brother's pinstriped suit.
"Oh, Ivanka baby!" Eric gasps as he struggles to undo his pants. "Oh baby, baby, baby. I don't think I've got the patience for Congress but I'll be Secretary of your Interior any day."
Eric picks up Ivanka and effortlessly lifts her up onto a nearby desk, shoving pencils and Chik-Fil-A menus flying. He slides her skirt up to her hips, exposing a thin pink slip and soft flesh. "C'mon, baby!" he begs. "Open up them drawers like Hillary opened the embassy in Benghazi."
"OH, ERIC!" breathes Ivanka. "FUCK ME! FUCK ME LIKE OUR DADDY FUCKED ATLANTIC CITY TAXPAYERS!"
He's thrusting his firm pelvis against her sleek torso when suddenly she raises her arms to make him stop. "Wait," she protests through sweaty locks. "We can't. This is wrong!"
Eric's hurt eyes lock on hers and the intimate glance they exchange says far more than words. "You mean you're bleeding out of your whatever?" he asks, and she nods.
Donald Trump shrugs. "Aren't they amazing kids?" he asks, and then he starts talking about Mexicans again.