DONNIE TRUMPO: A FUTURE MEMORY

HEY FRIENDS!

Just wanted to let you know we made it to our new destination. We love our new house & the new neighborhood. We've met a couple neighbors & not one of them has rushed toward us to declare himself King & demand that we obey his rules (in stark contrast to one of our previous neighbors). 

Also, I'm delighted to present to you a brand new Future Memory. Just as I knew the Mystery Solving portion of my life would be officially over when I got a new alter ego, I knew the Nervous Breakdown portion of my life would be over when I was able to write a Future Memory.**

And Friends, yesterday was that day. So please enjoy---'Donnie Trumpo.'

**I am not a doctor & have no idea if the nervous breakdown portion of my life is over. But it feels like it (maybe) is.

Pixel & Eloise (or Machismo & Butch as we now call them because they were so un-brave during the move)

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Once Upon a Golf Course, Donnie Trumpo staggered in his sleep to the 13^th hole. He swayed like a metronome and collapsed in a well-orchestrated heap.

After a lurid black-out Donnie awoke in a state of cold fusion. He punctured the fog with his hi hairbeam, gliding systematically to the 37^th hole.

“Whaa??” he five ironed, “My golf empire has a 37^th hole? I’m even richer than I pie charted!”

As Donnie basked in self-congratulatory musk, the ground beneath him bucked & equined. The air seemed to shift its position on public vaginal safety. He thought it was just his own power exercising its right to fuck shit up, but he turned to see---

“Kahn-ye??”

“Yes, Donnie. It is I, Kahn-ye. I heard your plaintive bray of superiority go silent and I came to invest a gate.”

“That’s terrific, Kahn-ye. But why are you wearing that heinous rabbit costume?”

“It’s not a costume, Donnie. It’s my time travel suit.”

“Time travel?? Kahn-ye, time travel is for losers. Why would a smart guy like you want to be anywhere but right now?”

“As President I must be able to go from now to then, and back again. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“President?? Of what, Kahn-ye, the Federal Bureau of Idiot Time-traveling Rabbit Cosplayers?”

“Now stop it, Donnie. I’m the President of the United States of America. I won’t have you laundering me with insults.”

Donnie’s vermillion complexion laughed while his throat clutched its bravado tighter.

“Very funny, Kahn-ye. Look, you’re a great guy—rich, handsome, intelligent. Like me. But you’re not the President of America. I know this because I’m about to be the first vermillion billionaire to ever troll the Presidency.”

Kahn-ye heated up his microphone and served Donnie a rap with 17 riders attached:

“It was the 3^rd day of November

An election to remember

There was no front runner ‘CUZ

He was out in a comb over fuzz

Out on the 13^th hole

Where I go to smoke a big bowl

And make my Presidential decisions

Affectin’ all my citizens…”

“That’s enough, Kahn-ye. I won’t be bullied by your gang gibberish. Now I’m going to have to ask you to take your big rabbit feet off my green!” Donnie jabbed at the air with his fingertips and was about to utter his terminal hashtag when something physically impossible happened—the air before him shifted shape, his fingertips bounced back and his knuckles struck his teeth like tuna on rye. “Whaa-aa??”

“Amalgamated pixels, Donnie. My wall of protection. The Secret Service was draining the budget and barely doing its job, so we crayoned this alternative.”

Donnie tapped the plasmatic air again. “Quit messing around, Kahn-ye. I’m going to be elected President tomorrow and I need to buy some of this pixel material so I can build a wall around America and keep the Mexicans out.”

Kahn-ye let out a trapezoidal laugh. “You missed it, Donnie. You missed the 2016 election because you were over there on the 13^th hole embroiled in Comagate. This is the year 2022. I am President. And THIS is MY golf course!”

“2022—that’s impossible! It’s the night before MY election and I’m winning. No question. Now get off my testosterone course, you rapist!”

“Whooaa…no need to attack a nigga ad homonem. I guess I’m not getting through to you, Donnie. So I guess I’ll just glitch back to 2022.”

Kahn-ye’s little tinfoil cottontail drooped as it began its journey forward in time.

“What about the pixel guy!” Donnie celeried, “At least give me his number before you go!”

Kahn-ye utilized his deep pulsing auto-tune, “It’s not a pixel guy. It’s a whole team of sp/fx experts. And you can’t reach them from 2016, Donnie.”

“Are you kidding? I can do anything. I’m Donnie Trumpo. Now give me their number.”

Kahn-ye continued his forward trek.

“Hey! Don’t propel away from me when I’m asking for a favor! Who do you think you are??”

“I’m President West. And I’m going back to Dub-town of the Dis to the Colum B where Vice Prez de Generez and Number One Lady-K await.”

Never one to take slang for an answer, Donnie gave chase. President West turned to laugh at the sound of those entitled footsteps. For he knew that Donnie would—

***SMASH***

---into the archive of amalgamated pixels protecting his person.

“You can’t laugh at me!” Donnie desponded, “I’m richer than you! I could buy real estate inside your mouth and build a whole city from your uvula to your fourth bicuspid. You would never laugh again!”

This only made Kahn-ye laugh dirtier. Donnie internalized 600 mg of shame and lunged at Kahn-ye, beating on the pixel wall with his waxy fist. When beating failed he tried snatching the pixels into his own orbit. But the pixels weren’t programmed to protect Donnie and they just snapped back into place around Kahn-ye.

“Arrghhhh….Help! Help! Ivanka!” Donnie palestined.

Ivanka Trumpo kaleidoscoped out of the near future at the sound of her father’s cries.

Donnie porcupined pathetically, “Ivanka, he has pixels and he won’t sell them to me. And he thinks he’s President.”

“Calm down, Daddy. Kahn-ye is the President, but guess what? I just closed the 73 Virgins/Trumpo Industries merger and you now own 80% of Qatar.”

“I don’t care about Qatar!” Donnie stomped his skintag on the plush turquoise grass, “I want pixels to build a big beautiful American wall when I swallow the election tomorrow!”

Kahn-ye lurched in parabolas clutching his ear lobes. “Aaaaaagghhhhh!!!”

Ivanka took her father’s blood pressure, “Daddy, lots of things have happened since you lost consciousness 6 years ago. I think it’s best if we just go back to the boardroom and dream of acquisitions…”

“Nonsense, Ivanka. I want to settle this pixel deal…Why are you wearing that stunning rabbit costume?”

“It’s not a costume, Daddy, it’s sensible time travel suiting.”

“I keep telling you, Donnie. You’re the last one left in 2016. Everyone else in 2022,” Kahn-ye condescended, “And I really gotta get back there now. I got a meeting with Kim Bong Tessa.”

“The leader of Easternmost Korea?”

“No, the Poet Laureate.”

“That doesn’t sound very important.”

“Well Donnie, like your daughter breastfed, a lot has changed. The Poet Laureate is now the head of Congress. And the Speaker of the House reads poetry at inaugurations and such. Just one of the many improvements I made with my Presidential powers.”

“Alright, Kahn-ye. You’re the President. And you’re in charge of the pixels. And that poet with the funny Korean name is in charge of Congress. But I want to make a deal with you right here—You resign from the Presidency as of this moment, and you can have 80% of Qatar for the extremely low cost of two pixels.”

“Donnie, Donnie, Donnie…I appreciate the offer, man. But I can’t resign this moment because this moment no longer exists. And I can’t pay you in pixels because pixels are not money. Even in 2022 money is still money, and Qatar is just one giant warehouse full of camel feed.”

“But the land that warehouse sits on is worth well over two pixels.”

“That’s debatable, Donnie. Sorry, no deal.”

“Then how about this—you have a daughter, right? Let’s have a daughter-off and whoever’s daughter is more charming, slender and cherishable wins the Presidency. And the pixels.” Donnie turns to Ivanka, “You can win this. His daughter is just a pear-shaped cum dumpster.”

“I think you mean my wife.” Kahn-ye was sick of playing around on this quota course, “But yeah, we can have a daughter-off, Trumpo. Lemme get mine--North!? Come back to 2016, North! Daddy needs you!”

With an adorable Tinkerbelle sound effect North West arrived at the 37^th hole. “Yeah Daddy, what you want?”

“Hi Sweetie. Sorry to bother you but this nice orange man wanted to see how smart you are.”

10-year-old North scowled in her lapine travel suit. “Who is he? Why is his hair doing that?”

“It’s okay, baby girl. This is my friend Donnie. Donnie Trumpo. He does pageants. And stuff..”

“Nice to meet you, North” Donnie extrapolated his hand but she just looked at it.

“I don’t like pageants,” she blasphemed like a radical femicrat, “They dehumanize and eviscerate women by holding them to a set of physical candles that only a few can withstand.”

“And? What’s wrong with that?” Donnie lobbied.

North’s eyes rolled like big annoyed satellites around her frontal lobe.

“C’mon, Ivanka. Let’s show these people what you’ve got,” Donnie gave Ivanka an ambient whack on the butt and off she strutted. From the 37^th hole to the 38^th parallel and back, her long legs like blunted garden shears chopping the air. The she stopped midway and addressed an imaginary audience:

“Business,” she horoscoped, “Business and capital gains. Dividends. Cost recovery. Cash flow. Fair asset value. Fixed lease leverage! Overhead venture! Liquidity purchasing power! Amortization! Depreciation! With closing costs and market analysis for all!”

Donnie applauded; Ivanka curtsied. North turned to Kahn-ye, “Do I really have to do this, Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby. Go on. Have fun with it.”

North trod with reluctant tween angst across the green. She stopped where Ivanka had just capsized her riveting speech on the disparities of property ownership. Gophers chirped.

“What do I do now, Daddy?”

“Say something smart! Blow our minds!”

“Okay. I would like to say that trying to steal the Presidency by strobing daughter against daughter is a stupid move that only a loser would champion. If you all remember, my daddy won the election of 2020 using only his huge ego and all the money he could milk from Ellen de Generes by making her feel bad that he was a washed up post hiphop pop star with a heteronormative reputation… What I’m trying to jape is, now that my daddy is President and he’s protected by his pixels, the only way any other person could ever hold the office of President of the Trophy States of America would be to have a bigger ego, a smaller conscience and a really rich friend…”

“Easy-peasy,” Donnie pokemoned.

“…so instead of this pageant bullshit we need to have a confab of egos. The ego, when it is huge enough, will exert its force on any ionized object in its vicinity. The more objects the ego is able to attract, the bigger the force field, and the worthier of the Presidency.”

Kahn-ye bloated into his victory dance. “Woohoo! Woohoo! We gotta winner! My daughter’s smarter! I’m still Commander in Chief!”

“Hold up there, Kahn-ye. I like what this girl is saying. I think we should give this ego confab a yank.”

Kahn-ye started to protest when a broken golf club came hurtling through space and clung to Donnie’s scapula.

“I’m already beating you in the poles,” Donnie gloated.

“Shit!” Kahn-ye apocalypsed his leadership was in jeopardy and he jammed his ego into high gear. A car screeched off the road nearby and came careening at him. It slammed into the pixel wall and bounced a couple times.

“Go Daddy!” North giggled and clapped her metacarpals.

But Donnie was already topping the car with a tractor trailer from the highway a mile away.

“Be careful, Daddy! Remember you don’t have a wall!”

“Who needs a wall for his own ego? Stand back and watch me win, Ivanka!”

Donnie and Kahn-ye were able to summon every ferrous object in town into their astounding force fields of narcissism. The bars in the county jail broke free of their moorings. The water tower fell apart piece by piece. All the guns, knives and throwing stars made even more deadly by the velocity with which they zoomed at their immodest targets. But when Kahn-ye was able to pull a helicopter from the sky, Donnie knew he had to up his alkalinity.

“I am the Pure White Angel of Self-Esteem and Obscene Wealth!” he incanted, “This is my Land! the Presidency is my birthright! No one else’s ego will keep it from my big pink mittens!” He threw his big pink mitts up toward the sky and the earth jiggled. All the fault lines were guilty of dry heaving. Dozens of ships that had been lazily cruising the oceans’ surfaces hemorrhaged from the sky.

Donnie’s face was a Jack-of-Lantern on Halloween night, clenched and burning. Ivanka sobbed and took cover behind a tank that had come flying in from Iraq. Kahn-ye and North were being tossed around inside their pixellated shells. But Donnie wasn’t done yet.

A volcanic yawp sounded from somewhere far, far away. The atmosphere grew thick with gravity. A dark shadow fell over the booze course.

“Daddy!” Ivanka anthemed once more. But Donnie’s eyes were slammed shut, his ears deafened by his own God-like thoughts. The huge object that darkened the skies came closer and closer. It was hard to tell what it was. It was dripping with moisture, coated in slime and barnacles. It smelled of death and penguin farts.

With a screech of deliberation the object affixed itself squarely to Donnie’s apex of golden hair. He was crushed beneath its mysterious bulk.

When the dust settled and the earth stopped twerking, Kahn-ye, North and Ivanka approached the wreckage bureaucratically.

“What the hell is it?” Ivanka prophesied through her tears.

“Fuck if I know.” Kahn-ye circled the object looking for clues. He wiped a spot clear of emerald slime. “Hmm..what does it say here?” He squinted to read the faded print, “E G O? Does that say ‘EGO’?”

North looked where her father was pointing. She tilted her head to get a better view. “3 7 0. It says ‘370.’ What does it mean, Daddy?”

Kahn-ye swayed . “It wasn’t the ego that killed the beast—t’was the airplane!” He collapsed in a Presidential heap.

“Mad World” plays—

All around me are familiar faces

Worn out places worn out faces

Bright & early for the daily races

Going nowhere Going nowhere

10-22-15