Excerpted from Town and Country Bumpkin March 11, 2017
By Oliver D. Berger @oldberger
After another stunning sweep in the Republican primary, front runner Donald Trump decided to put his money where his mouth was.
“So Mitt [Romney] says all my businesses go belly-up?” Trump raged at the post primary press conference. “Well, how about this Mitt: six of you press people have been selected (check your program for a golden ticket) and will be allowed to come aboard the new flagship of Trump Airlines !”
I was fortunate enough to receive one of these tickets. Here is a firsthand account of the events that transpired on Donald Trump’s aerial victory lap. he had managed to acquire.
“I got it for a song,” Trump said as he stooped to enter the chest-high passenger door of the Soviet-era Tupelov Tu-154, emblazoned on the side with the Big Man’s name. “Best. Deal. Ever. Go ahead, go ahead. Sit anywhere ya like. Now, who wants some Trump Steak? Brett, you got those old Trump steaks out of deep freeze?”
Brett Boot, Trump’s head of operations, answered in the affirmative, indicating that he had also brought some Trump Wine for the celebration. We were to be feted like royalty, it would seem.
“Heheheh, how you like that folks?” Trump asked. “Steak. And. Wine. Bee-a-ootiful. Am I right? Let me tell you something, you’re never going to taste a better Steak. Or. Wine. Than what I’ve got for ya today.”
While we were choking down the steak and chumming the wine–more vinegar now than vin blanc–Trump demanded that the provost of Trump University, Historian Eloise Brand, deliver a stirring victory encomium in his favor.
Professor Brand stood and uttered the following, though she was admittedly a bit wobbly on her pins.
When the Queen of England stood atop the battlements of the Taj Mahal and looking down on the German settlers of the Cincinnati River Delta in 1884 and said: “Let Them Eat Steak.” One of the tired, the weary, the bemused, refused to accept the insult in stoic Teutonic silence.
“Remembers the Alamo!” Grandpa Drumpf declaimed, knowing in his Master Race heart that Steaks and Freedom would one day be his descendent’s battle cry.
At which point she stopped. She looked up, a terrible blank expression in her eyes, a twist to her lips, and suddenly a terrific ripping sound came from her skirt.
After two decades of Trump holding on to the last of his steaks, it had only taken two minutes for them to ruin the digestive system of every man, woman and child aboard the plane, and within moments everyone on board had done “ye olde” watery business in their shorts.
Barely in control of my faculties, I nonetheless could not ignore the fact that, in response to our screams, the airplane began to rotate.
The pilot, who earlier Trump had boasted had received his piloting license from Trump University, addressed us over the intercom: “I’m panicking so I’m going to try and save us by doing something I saw in a movie.”
Needless to say, the 180 degree roll did not improve Trump’s victory party.
As I hung from my seatbelt, I saw Donald Trump wresting the sole golden parachute from Brett Boot’s trembling hands.
“Listen Brett,” Trump said as he strapped the chute on. “You let these sonfabitches on this plane know that if they try to sue: Donald Trump doesn’t settle! I always wiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnn….”
And then our erstwhile host was gone, plummeting towards the earth.
*This article has been updated:
It has been reported that Donald Trump survived the incident, but is not expected to appear at the University of Chicago, owing to the psychological damage.
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