Harrumph for Drumpf: why America deserves Donald J. Trump

[with apologies to Kerouac & Minchin]


While the left-wingers scramble to make peace between Clinton and Sanders;

While the right-wingers, god-n-guns-clingers quibble over forever or never and other matters;

While the indies bunch their undies in delusional desperation of a third-party cavalry with no explanation;

I’m left wondering what the fuck you’re all thinking … so, I’ve taken to drinking.

It’s mid-May as I write this and I’m sposed ta be working but somewhere in the background my subconscious is twerking and herking and jerking with the unmistakable doomed feeling they’re about to make Trump king.

In my brain of brains, I know it.

That the electorate has blown it.

Donald J. Trump will be the next President of the United States … or POTUS

What manner of hocus-pocus could produce such a POTUS?

With no one to save us, not even the SCOTUS.

Though, I must concede, we’d have one sexified FLOTUS.

But, that’s not the question. So, what is the question?

I’m so glad you aksed.

But, first, let me aks you a question—a soliloqus survey of facetious intention—why won’t you take “yes” for an answer?

This Tangerine Tasmanian Devil with a Tourette Infection introduced himself as such early in the elections.

He showed us his ass and we all laughed.

He threw shit at the pundits and, man, we all loved it.

He threatened and swore, bragged about his whore (the one from the Jersey shore) … and we asked for more.

Hour after hour, he slow-marched to power while you liked and shared and selfied and glared at the retweets of retweets about whether his hair was real—here nor there!

All the pants-pissing, hand-wringing, threats-to-move-to-France-singing won’t save you from the tangerine screams of the pileated POTUS.

Consider this notice!

Now it’s not so funny, him ranting about unfriending Britain and giving Japan nukes and dismantling the U.N. … it’s enough to give me the pukes.

The problem’s not that he’s so bad but that we’re not so good.

I mean, who are we to balk?

Are we really much better?

We’re all bullshit and talk and … I don’t know, something that rhymes with “better.” (Wetter? Sweater? Better?)

Donald Trump is a narcissist?

You’re a fucking narcissist with a much smaller friends list.

The Donald is stupid?

What’s the last million-dollar business deal you did?

Or the last book you read?

Or the last deep quote you said?

Or the last homeless man you fed?

Or the last drop of blood you bled … fighting for those congressional cunts living off the taxes

skimmed from broken backses

of high-dollar companies who exploit employees

with bullshit ploys of Horatio Alger proportions

while they ration your portions …

and tell you they cannot reimburse your labors

cuz your neighbor’s kids finally gots healthcare

and that just isn’t fair

that a country this rich should hafta make the switch

from wringing profit from blue collars

and giving those dollars to the top one percent of the top one percent of the top one percent of the top one percent.

Yes, he’s terrible but he’s no terribler than most of the rest of us or half of the best of the most of the lest of us or some such fanatical mathematical parenthetical ornithological bullshit I can’t even comprehend-ical.

Why aks why? Try Drumpf Wine.

We’re too busy getting high and indulging in 50 Shades of Hunger Games and getting shitty and pissy about contemporary hippies.

Love thy bacon!

Hate thy Hipster!

You can’t call that lady mister! (Let’s call it a truce, Bruce)

But consider this, sirs: we’re all fucking Hipsters.

Every last one of us, from the yuppies to the stumble-bums.

With our kilts and beards and vinyl and craft beers made from chrysanthemum tassels and Jesus Lizard assholes;

Super Nintendos and vintage typewriters, trippin on Tom Waits and sniffin highlighters.

The Greatest Generation looked down on the Boomers and they really hate us fucking GenX losers.

And don’t even get me started on those Netflix, selfie sticks Millennial pricks.

We’re all Internet famous, conveniently blameless, while the ice caps melt and ISIS chops heads off lookin like pissed off Bee Gees and y’all still fussin over what kind of wee-wees the he-shes needs-be to tinkle in public privies.

Some dude on the news in JC Penny slacks and cheap shoes probably made at Nike HQs by a Chinese youth in a suicide booth said Trump’s got the foreign policy chops of a chimpanzee in argyle socks.

I may have embellished the part about his tootsies but the point remains salient in that the dude’s a bit bazooky … but, no more than the rest of us, all except the best of us.

On the social we’re all experts on nutrition, war, politics and more.

And, that would be fine if the truth weren’t aligned with the fact that most of us can’t balance a checkbook or lose weight or make it to a second date—let alone broker a piecemeal peace deal between Israel and the Palestinian State. (You heard me, Netanyahu!)

We jump before looking, respond without listening, and that ain’t even the worse thing.

We use each other as verbal punching bags because it’s cheaper than therapy … and we all know therapy’s for fags.

We seem to be OK with the stigma which really is an enigma because most of us could use a few sessions to lessen the anxiety and fucking depression and get rid of those bags, fucking luggage … under our eyes.

Scared and angry and dishonest about it.

We’re a bunch of fucking liars—there, I said it!

We lie every day in our own way.

Some of us lie a little about little old things, and some of us bullshit about every goddamn thing.

And, that’s OK, because we like to be lied to ev-er-y ev-er-y day-ee-ay.

Here comes the Drumpf, happy to oblige.

He’ll tell you the biggest, the best, the most awesomest lies.

Can’t find a job?

Blame an immigrant slob.

Not paid enough?

Your boss is taxed too damned much.

Junior’s a moron?

Blame the public teacher union.

Can’t get an erection?

That’s cuz Obama won the election.

DJT is gonna MAGA.

“Make America Great Again” is the slogan for this saga.

And, let’s face it: you don’t really give a shit how he intends to perform … so long as you can keep playing Candy Crush Saga and watching Eskimo porn.

Who wants to do hard work to fix America’s ills?

Get Donnie boy elected and he’ll pay the bills.

You know who Donald J. Trump is?

He’s Jack Nicholson’s character in “The Witches of Eastwick.”

The dude’s obviously evil AF and nobody seems to give a shit … except for a handful of folks left scratching their heads but they’ll be labeled as bitches and witches and burned in their Abercrombie & Fitches until they is dead.

Fucking dead, I say!

What’s fashionable about fascism? It rewards the weak, mean and stupid.

It’s so late now, bro, I don’t even know what to do, kid.

He can be funny and charming, I’ll give that to him.

Though, it’s utterly alarming, the things he plans on doin.

But, like I said in the beginning, it’s too late to turn back.

America’s going to prom with the asshole quarterback.

We’re gonna be finger-banged in the backseat of the Trump-mobile and left on a gravel road

with no shoes, no coat, no way to get home.

Curse of the sandwiches; planning for aging parents

The struggle is real for people caring simultaneously for their children and parents … what is referred to as the “Sandwich Generation.” (It’s not nearly as delicious as it sounds.)

Something that never entered my mind as a young moron was what you’re supposed to do with your parents when they get too old to take care of themselves.

The wife and I have only recently begun asking each other what we’re going to do when either of our set of parents begins pooping in the hamper and sticking the cat in the microwave.

One of the biggest issues with this is that some of our parents are so nutty to begin with.

How will we know when they start to slip?

And, let’s say they do come to live with us—where are we going to put them?

I guess I could stick them in the basement like that John Carpenter movie The People Under The Stairs.

How creepy is that going to be when the voices start wafting up from under the floorboards?

“Please feed us, Benjamin, we’re so hungry.”

“The wife said not to.”

“I’m sorry I called you an ‘uneducated bum.’”

‘No, you’re not.”

“We haven’t seen sunlight for months.”

“Sorry. You should have thought about that when you bought me women’s swim trunks for ninth-grade pool class.”

I guess we could use it as an excuse to get revenge on our parents.

But I’m not that kind of person. (I mean I’m not the kind of person who is stupid enough to admit to a crime in writing before I commit it.)

On the upside, I’d get to be the one to say, “Don’t make me come down there.”

Of course, I am never going down there.

They’ll be OK if I toss some canned tuna and peanut butter down the steps, right?

There is this old cinder block one-car garage out behind the house that kind of looks like a 1950s bomb shelter. I could always stuff them in there and hope for the best.

Of course, the neighbors might get suspicious when they see me trotting back and forth with cans of ensure and bags of cat food.

Not to mention the stench—there’s no bathroom in there.

Nothing but minimally adequate for our elders.

And what happens if both sets of parents have to move in at the same time?

They don’t really care for one another, by which I mean the Bloods and the Cryps don’t really care for one another.

My living room will look like the Gaza Strip.

Oh, they’ll promise Jimmy Carter peace at the breakfast table but by the time Dr. Phil is on, they’ll be hurling insults and rocks, and by then, probably poo, too.

I guess I can keep some canisters of tear gas on hand.

Does Amazon carry tear gas?

We could stick them all in a nursing home but frankly it would be too cruel of treatment for my in-laws and way too nice for my parents.

Besides, my wife put herself through school—all twenty-eight-and-a-half years of it—by working as a nurse aide.

It’s how she ruined her back and managed to be in constant pain for the rest of her life.

I’ve heard enough horror stories over the years to know that I’d rather be sold to a Slovakian circus or end up a carnival sideshow attraction than be sent to a nursing home.

“Step right up! Shiver in terror at the ungodly ear hair! Gasp at the amazing man-boobs! Dare to bear witness of Middle-Aged Dad!”

Anyways, those nursing homes are nuts!

And I don’t mean “nuts” in a “Mr. and Mrs. Gohs, the side-effects of the mercury Benjamin drank are worse than we had originally feared. He will never play the cello.”

I mean those nursing homes are just a balls-to-the-wall free-for-all of pant-pooping, boner-popping, old-person-sex-having prison where they are dropping like flies—insane, wrinkled, pee-soaked flies.

One day you’re getting punched, dry-humped and cried to—all by the same resident, by the way—and the next day you’re putting someone else’s stuff in their room. (Not so feisty now, are ya, granz?)

People don’t realize it when they tour these places but it’s death’s waiting room.

(Cue voice-over in creepy Boris Karloff tone.)

“Welcome to Expedient Meadows Retirement Community, we just had a room open up! Does grandpa bruise easily when punched?”

Of course they have a vacancy.

There is only one reason those rooms are empty … and it ain’t cuz grandma got better and went home.

Oh, sure, they try to dress the place up with a meeting room where they serve ice-cream on Tuesdays and hold a happy hour on Fridays.

Because if it’s one thing grandpa needs on top of all his medical conditions and medications is sugar and alcohol.

“I’m sorry, we’re at full capacity. But if you could call back on Saturday I think we might have an opening.” (Even sooner if the lady in room 12 doesn’t lose the attitude.)

And don’t think you’re getting off cheap.

Even the really crappy ones are charging like $1,000 a day—a day! You could set grandpa up with hookers, blow and an all-u-can-eat buffet in Vegas for that kind of cabbage.

(Note: remember to schedule trip to Vegas when book is finished. Also, stop calling money “cabbage.”)

I guess we could make things interesting and force our parents to “Thunderdome” it but I don’t think any of them have the vigor necessary to swing swords or chainsaws.

There’s no getting around it.

If we end up with all four of them at the same time, my house is going to look even more like a Wes Anderson movie than it already does.

Mom’ll be in the corner painting portraits of naked U.S. Presidents.

My father-in-law will spend his time lecturing everyone on the weather patterns he tracked throughout the 1980s.

And, dad, dad will continually interrupt my mother-in-law’s obsessive pulp fiction reading to horrify her with his vast repertoire of “dick” jokes, but only until he drinks himself to sleep each noon.

Now I understand why my biological father disappeared when I was seven.

I’ve got the perfect nursing home in mind, should he ever return.


Find any of this funny?

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They make great bathroom/waiting room/marriage-counseling-session reads

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