Donald Trump’s situation reminds me of a funny short story I read many years ago. The story is about an aviation hero. He flew beat-up planes during the swashbuckling early days of flying. You have read of aviation heroes of that era. First guy to fly solo from New York to Tuscaloosa. First […]
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Donald Trump’s situation reminds me of a funny short story I read many years ago.
The story is about an aviation hero. He flew beat-up planes during the swashbuckling early days of flying.
You have read of aviation heroes of that era. First guy to fly solo from New York to Tuscaloosa. First man to fly to Alaska. First woman to fly alone to Wabash. First one to do it naked. You get the idea.
There were dozens of these adventure-lovers. They put various cities on the map. To crown such flying achievements, the newly mapped cities welcomed these aviators with open arms, receptions, and keys to the city. They staged tickertape parades. The heroes waved from beribboned convertibles stuffed with politicians and adorned with local beauties. They were hosted at civic luncheons, ribbon cuttings, and tours of new sewer systems. Their photos were snapped with local celebs. Like Miss Sheboygan. And the Barley Snifter Banjo Pickers. You can imagine.
The short story is about a barnstormer who does something no other aviator has ever done. (That was the ticket to fame, of course.) He flew coast-to-coast backward. In a plane he patched together in his garage. Or something like that.
Well, he had to be welcomed by the potentates of the city where he landed. Right? Small problem. He was a slob. No pizzazz of Eddie Rickenbacker. No suaveness of Lindbergh. No spunk and pug nose of Amelia Earhart. This guy had no front teeth. He stunk. He spat in public. He hated babies and was allergic to apple pie. He got drunk and pinched ladies’ bums. He singed curtains with his bad breath. Asphyxiated one woman’s Pomeranian in two breaths. And he wore suits as loud as trombones. He snapped off filthy jokes, from behind the microphone. He propositioned wives of city big wigs and cadged money off mayors.
But, he was a genuine American hero! Therefore, he had to be feted. Cities felt obliged to roll out red carpets for him. On which he tracked mud and ground out cigars.
The powers of the universe conferred. They agreed on a remedy for the situation: a fancy city cocktail party on an outdoor patio on the top floor of the city’s new hotel.
A group of city officials chatted affably with this barnstormer. They suffered his jokes and insults. While he snarfed scotch. And asked about neighborhood hookers. They gently maneuvered him toward the railing at the edge. Then they tumbled his ingrate ass over the side. Splattered him sunny-side up on Main Street. Taught him to never again insult an alderman in this city, by god.
The elite among the Republicans are itching to do the same with presidential candidate Donald Trump. The anointed ones simply cannot abide him.
First, his hair. Unacceptable. His is no more presidential hair than a Mohawk on Hillary Clinton would be.
Trump dons purple shirts. Wears pink and green ties. “Tailor-made,” the elites sniff. “Have to be. Because nobody else would buy them.”
And he owns casinos. How gauche. And he names everything he owns after himself. The Trump Urinals in the Trump Men’s Room at the Trump Casino on Trump Boulevard.
The elites clear their throats. They tug their Brooks Brothers collars and murmur “We cannot have Trump Tissues in the rest rooms of the White House, can we?” Good god, no. Insufferable. Not done.
We cannot stand by and let that man turn the Annual White House Easter Egg Roll into: Check Out The Trumpette’s Bun Buns.
And let us not forget the outrageous things he says. Imagine a regal state dinner. The toast — with Trump Atlantic City Boardwalk Champagne. By the President of the United States. He grins. He fluffs his coiffure. He leers down the cleavage of the Swiss Ambassador’s wife. He adjusts his neon bow-tie. He raises a gold flute.
“Don’t I make great champagne? Better than what you Froggies turn out, eh? And you Italians. Don’t get me started on that bilge water in your fancy bottles.
Meanwhile, you Mexicans, I wouldn’t wash my car with your...”
Pssst. If you know any Trump insiders you might do The Donald a favor. Tell him to avoid cocktail parties on terraces higher than the first floor. Maybe avoid the cocktails. Especially anything made with tequila.
Tom Morgan writes about political, financial, and other subjects from his home near Oneonta, in addition to his radio shows. Contact him at tomasinmorgan@yahoo.com or visit: http://www.tomasinmorgan.com