“Let Them Eat Steak” Trump Victory Ends in Blaze of Dyspepsia

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. 

THIS POST IS SATIRE! 

Robo-Rubio Upgrade Too Late?

Faust Company Issue 203

Lisa Ipswich @lipswich

image

Robo-Rubio has proven that he is ready for the big leagues.

But is it already too late?

An aide close to Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell confirmed that the original design team at Reblican Establishment Enterprises had been fired after the android suffered an apparent breakdown during the crucial February debate.

The writing was on the wall: it was time to call in the big guns.

Olaf Erickson, of Lund, Sweden, remembers that he was watching the National Hurling Championship when he received the call:

“It was Mitch [McConnell]. He’d just pulled the plug on the American programmers and was looking abroad. Somehow he got wind of my team.”

Erickson, the world’s leading expert on simulacrum design, wasn’t surprised to hear that Robo-Rubio had broken down during the debate.

“Trumps nonsequiturs, his logical fallacies and boorish manner would distress the protocols of even the most sophisticated robots,” Erickson explained. “Only my design team can write the proper algorithms to weather the hot air of a gasbag like Donald Trump.”

Anit Chowdhury, of Lahore, Pakistan, the team’s lead algorithm designer chimed in: “Robo-Rubio required a whole new level of sophistication. Gone are the days of the the ‘aw shucks’ congeniality protocols, for example, of the Ronald Reagan model, which, quite frankly, a chimpanzee could have written.”

Lead behavioralist, Yuri Gregorovich, or Kiev, explained that he had inculcated 110 communicative gestures of a male Silverback gorilla into the Robo-Rubio’s motherboard to help the android interpret Trump’s bizarre body language.

Gregorovich was pleased that after extensive coaching Robo-Rubio now behaved: “…like an anal retentive prick with severe Aspergers. You’ll also notice that when Robo-Rubio gets caught in a feedback loop, he repeatedly accuses Donald Trump of repeating himself until he can reboot.”

Though Robo-Rubio’s performance has improved thanks to the hard work of these H1-B visa holders, there is worry at Republican Establishment Enterprises that it may be too late.

“We turned up his vitriol and basically obliterated his common sense protocols,” Gregorovich said. “But the average Republican voter still perceives Robo-Rubio as aloof and over-educated.”

“Mitch wanted me to turn his rhetoric down to Third Grade level,” Erikson said. “But we couldn’t get any lower. Mitch worries that Robo-Rubio is still more articulate than Trump, but there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

The truth is a hard pill to swallow:

Despite Robo-Rubio’s upgrades, after Super Tuesday’s disaster the Republican Establishment android may be destined for the scrap pile.

This post is SATIRE.

Thanks to Bill Draheim for providing the photography. You can find more of his visual art at billdraheim.com

Palin and Trump Find Common Ground in Pill Penchant

Dissociated Press, January 25, 2016

Following Palin’s endorsement last Tuesday night, Republicn front-runner Donald Trump hosted the former Alaskan governor at a prominent downtown Des Moines country club.

As discussion of geopolitics and international trade ground to a halt, the new “besties” rekindled conversation around their shared interest in prescription medication.

After polishing off a third gin and tonic, Palin began laying out her evening dose on a napkin.

“Enough about OVOMIT,” Trump blusterously ejaculated, “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“You mean these little jobbies?” Palin vocalized breezily. “Well, this little guy is Vicadose: for chronic fatigue. Here’s Benzathoradin: for hyperactivity. And this beauty is Thoradine: for migraines. Denzathoradrine for belly aches. Sinusodrine for chronic sinus failure.”

Not one to remain in ignorance, Trump pointed his gimlet finger at an unmarked green pill: “What’s that?”

“Anchorazine,” Palin offered proudly. “To channel Alaska’s natural glory when I’m abroad.”

Trump conceded no knowledge of this new medication, his usually bullish face showing uncharacteristic wonder.

He then admitted that Toupeezadrine was a favorite of his to help offset syntactical errors while stumping. “Without that stuff, I’m just like a duck out of water,” he lamely acknowledged.

A minute later, Trump pounded his chest, attempting to back peddle from his admission of weakness.

Palin, in an effort to mollify the presumptive Commander-in-Chief, assured him that her Friday pill, Amnesiadrine, would help her forget the events of the week.

Bedazzled by her solicitude, Trump initiated a hearty belly laugh that rang through the garish halls of the prominent Iowa establishment.

After his paroxysm of unfettered joy had abated, Trump leaned toward Palin: “This has got to remain between you and I, Sarah,” he whispered conspiratorially. “ But I’ve got a third-generation Cuban doctor in Florida who can get you some Coughinzodrex. That shit’ll shake the hump off a camels back!”

Upon further probing, the Northern Lights luminary and the midwestern magnate discovered to their astonishment that they patronized the same Floridian cash-and-carry, strip-mall, brick-and-mortar pseudo-pharmacy.

A reverent moment of silence mooned between the two as they reveled in mutual admiration.

Taking advantage of the intimacy of the moment, Trump got down to brass tacks and asked her the million dollar question: “Why’d you choose me, honey?”

“It was simple Donald—may I call you Donald?” The former gubernatorial whirlwind replied sedulously, “One day I was sitting on my porch looking out across the water at that erect ramrod tower of yours with those bold, gold letters T-R-U-M-P running up the side like victorious soldiers and I thought, ‘He’s the one for me!’”

Trump protested that he had no tower in Nome, nor on the opposite Russian shore.

“A girl can dream can’t she?” Palin replied, winkingly. “Especially when she’s in a caffeine-vicadose-cocktail coma.”

*This Post Is SATIRE.