If Donald Trump Were Santa Claus

 

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In the world of “What If,” since it is almost Christmas, I can’t help but come up with a weird idea  -- what if Santa Claus were to retire and Donald Trump take over.

First, The Donald would move his headquarters from the North Pole to Florida.  Only he and his secretary would relocate, however.  He would leave the elves up in the frozen north, under the supervision of overseers, and would lower their pay to just above poverty level.  The elves, of course, would go on strike.  The Donald would respond by bringing in thousands of laborers from India and expecting them to get used to living in subzero temperatures.

Herr Orangenfuehrer would not travel on Christmas Eve via sleigh and reindeer.  He would commission a special flying gold Mercedes, at taxpayer expense.  In the meantime, he would encourage his Indian toymakers up north to slaughter and eat the reindeer, which he would look upon as useless.  Rudolph’s shiny nose would be used as a street lamp.

When his Indian workers decide to join the elves on strike, the tiny-fingered dictator wannabe would outsource the toymaking to small businesses, which he would refuse to pay for reasons only he would know.

Donald Dishonest would kiss the behinds of his Evangelical followers by shouting all over the place that Christmas is Jesus’ birthday and must only be celebrated as such.  The fact that he doesn’t care a whit about this fact and is only saying it to make himself look good won’t make a difference.  Enough people will believe that he is religious to enable him to fool some of the people some of the time.

The Orange Menace would declare a moratorium on his tariffs, but only for his North Pole-Florida toymaking business.  Everybody else would just have to suffer.

Last but not at all least, Donald Trampler would not distribute toys to anyone on Christmas Eve.  Instead, he would travel the world in his flying gold Mercedes and expect people in every home in the world to give him gifts.  He would return to Florida with an overloaded Mercedes filled with the world’s enforced tribute.

Of course, most of his loot would consist of gag gifts because the majority of the people on the earth hate him and think he’s a stupid clown, but he will be too brain-addled to notice.

The North Pole-Florida toy company would go bankrupt because of neglect and mismanagement.

And that, dear readers, is what would happen.

 

The Harebrained Royal Heir

ANNOUNCER:  I present Her Royal Highness Princess Ivory Eugenia Barbie Margaret Dollie Alexandra of the House of Dummschaff, Crown Princess of the Kingdom of Allwettia

PRINCESS:  As you all know, I will soon be Queen, if everything goes right.  My poor father, King Rudolph, known to you commoners as Rudy the Wolf, is dying.  He has had one of these attacks at least once a year for the last 20 years, so there is always a chance that he’ll come through this one.  In that case, I shall remain Crown Princess, and my only duties will be to look good, get married, produce some royal kids, and show up at all the right ceremonies.

You wouldn’t want my life.  Believe me.

By the way, I love a joke as much as the next person.  But will whoever has been posting all those “I’ve had Ivory” notices all over the place, please stop it!  I have never had casual sex in my life.  Well, okay, I’ve had a few encounters with strangers just for the fun of it, but only a few.  And I have never had an illicit affair.  What?  Well, that one doesn’t count.  The Duke and I were only long-term friends with benefits.  We could only get together, anyway, when the Duchess wasn’t home.  Hmm?  No, that one doesn’t count, either. ... Neither does that one. ... Oh, just take those signs down!

You over there – what did you say?  Something about the apple not falling far from the tree?  Well, let me assure you that my father’s reputation is grossly exaggerated.  If he had bedded as many women as everyone says, he wouldn’t have had any time to do anything else.  And the first person who makes a wisecrack from THAT will have his taxes audited for the last 20 years!

It seems that everyone wants to know how much energy I will put into ruling the kingdom.  According to rumor, I have never shown any desire to do any work or anything requiring thinking.  Well, that’s why a Queen has advisors, secretaries, and servants.  After all, I can’t do everything myself, and I can’t think of everything.  It’s much more pleasant if I can trust everyone else to do things right so that all I have to do is sign things and show up at the right parties and balls and whatnot.

Yes, please?  Why, of course, I will be a real monarch!  I will not be a figurehead, even if other people are doing all the real work.  Anyone who has any ideas of taking over my job will be fired.  I plan to keep all the power, with as little trouble to myself as possible.

What will I do for poor people, you ask?  Well, poor people don’t dress well, and they live in such awful houses.  I’m sure they are chagrinned to appear in public.  I will have high walls built around all the poor districts of every city and divert all roads away from poor villages.  This way, the poor can hide from everyone with dignity, and we won’t have to know they are there.

Yes?  No, I will decidedly NOT be imprisoning the poor inside ghettos.  They simply won’t be able to go through the gates unless they are properly dressed.  I can’t help it if they don’t have the money to dress like billionaires.  They’ll have to share, or something.

I beg your pardon!  That remark was not necessary!

I think it’s time for me to flounce out now, so I can go to my room and sulk in peace, like the princess I am.  Good-bye, all.

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Inspired by a writing prompt by Jenalyn Cloward Barton

Posted on Facebook’s Writing Prompts Group on May 14. 2018,

“You may be the rightful heir to the throne, but you’re definitely not the right one for the job.”

This is What Happens When You Fool Around on Facebook

Posted to the Writing Prompts Group on Facebook by Author Leland Lydecker:

You've lived in this slum all your life, staring up at the towers of wealth and affluence above and longing for the kind of life where you have clean running water and enough to eat. While hunting for another job, you stumble across a posting for a R&D position with the city's largest cybernetics manufacturer.

The pay is a small fortune in your eyes, and the only required qualification is the ability to pass a physical health exam. One line in the small print catches your eye as you press the button to sign up: "CyberTech Corp now removes the pain receptors of all its R&D subjects in accordance with UN regulations regarding human testing."

How does the new job work out for you?

https://www.facebook.com/LelandLydecker/photos/a.1925095311102443.1073741828.1906593652952609/2028857987392841/?type=3

My Response:

I brush the roach off the computer screen and he falls to the floor behind the old desk. I hope I will never see him again, although it's certain that his family and friends will show up looking for handouts. They always do. Our douchebag landlord refuses to pay for an exterminator, and half the tenants in this dump are slobs. The roaches and the mice are the only living things that prosper here. Don't get me started on the peeling lead paint and the broken steps. The landlord has been jailed twice for these, but he always manages to avoid doing anything about them.

Now that the roach isn't distracting me, I can continue my online search for a job. I have searched through several websites so far and sent my resume to at least 10 places. I am now on a site that advertises jobs in research and development. I figure they won't be too choosy about hiring people to try out new products or new medications, and maybe I can make enough to move to a better hovel than the one I now occupy.

I scroll through a bunch of ads for men to test new anti-impotence drugs and women to test new perfumes. I am not a man, and I'm allergic to perfumes. One ad, though, makes me stop and read. CyberTech Corporation is looking for human test subjects. The pay is $50 per hour, with free lunches and free transportation. "Whoa!" I say to myself. I click on the link leading to the website of CyberTech, where I find more information about the job.

CyberTech plans to do some experimental research to see how much power can be derived from the human brain. For this they need subjects in good health who don't mind lying still for a few hours a day with a wired-up helmet on their heads. For $50 an hour I will do an upside-down pole dance while singing "New York, New York" and slapping myself on the head.

I am poised to click on the "Apply Here" button when my eye falls on some small print near the bottom of the screen that reads, "CyberTech Corp now removes the pain receptors of all its R&D subjects in accordance with UN regulations regarding human testing."

What the hell! Does that mean I'd be numb for the rest of my life? Would I be "mostly dead," like Westley in "The Princess Bride?" If I choose not to have my receptors removed, will I die in excruciating pain? If they remove my receptors, can they put them back after the experiment is over?

On the other hand, a pain-free life might not be so bad: no more headaches; no more backaches; no arthritis pain; etc.

"Okay," I say to myself, "$50 an hour, here I come. The die is cast."

I click the button, fill out the information and wait for them to get back to me.

Mr. Anderson's Birthday Party (A Halloween Short-Short Story)

Dear Sister Hilda:

I am submitting this for the English assignment you gave us, to write a story about something true.  You are going to think I am making all this up, but I’m not.  It really happened.  My Mom will back me up, if necessary.  Even my brother Patrick will back me up, because he won’t tell a lie to a nun.

Theresa McMahon

My parents love old houses.

When I was nine years old, Mom and Dad bought a corner lot in our little town “for a song.”  The lot had a peeling, two-story wood frame house with one of those big verandas that had a swing.  It took them almost a year to bring that old house up to where it could be inhabited again.  It cost them more to renovate that old fossil than they had paid to buy it. When they were finished, though, it was really lit.  Mom planted a flower garden, and Dad re-seeded the lawn.  We moved in right after my tenth birthday.

People would drive or walk by our house, stop and take pictures.  “You should see what the McMahons have done to the old Wilkerson house!  It’s a miracle!” was what everyone was saying.  This got to be a real pain.

We had all heard the stories about the house being haunted, but nothing bad had ever happened there, and if there were any ghosts around, they didn’t seem to mind us or all the renovations.

One night, shortly after we moved in, I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth after having washed my face, including the back of my neck and behind my ears (because Mom loved to pull surprise inspections).  I heard three loud POPs coming from the bathtub.  When I looked, I saw a tiny red bubble sneaking up through the drain and a yellow one trying to hang onto the faucet.  I screamed.

I heard loud footsteps on the stairway, and Mom and my little brother Patrick slammed into the bathroom.

“What is it?” screamed Mom.

All I could do was point to the bathtub.  By this time, it was filling with tiny bubbles of many bright colors, coming from the faucet and the drain.

“Shit!” said Patrick.  His mouth was hanging down about a foot.

“Don’t say that word!” said Mom.

Patrick managed to close his mouth and swallow.  “Sorry, Mom.  It just came out.”

“It must be coming through the pipes,” said Mom.  “We’ll have to go check them out.”  Mom is good in a crisis.

“You mean the pipes in the basement?” I asked.  “But Mom, it’s spooky down there!”

“You two won’t have to go down,” she said.  “I’ll go down.  You’ll just have to stand at the top of the stairs, hold the door open so I can run up fast if I have to and keep a flashlight ready, just in case.”

“Well, okay,” I said.  “But maybe we should call the Psychic Hotline or something first.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Sorry.”

We ran down to the basement – well, Mom ran down to the basement.  Patrick and I just kind of hobbled downstairs and fell over each other on the way to the basement door, trying not to get there too fast.

“Move, you little zit!”

“YOU move!”

We finally reached the basement door, where Mom was waiting for us.  We remained at the top of the basement steps while she went down into the darkness.  For some stupid reason, the light switch is at the bottom of the stairs.

Mom turned on the light.  This made the space even spookier.  It was so quiet I could hear Patrick breathing behind me.  Mom went over and inspected the pipes, but didn’t find anything.  She couldn’t find anything by the boiler, either.

“There’s nothing down here,” she said.  “I guess I’ll just have to call a plumber in the morning.”

She turned off the light and started to come back up the steps.  She was stopped dead by a voice that whispered, “Mrs. McMahon?”

Mom whipped around and turned the light on again.  “Who’s there?” she demanded.

“It’s only I,” said the voice, and a middle-aged woman in a long, pale dress suddenly appeared at the other end of the basement.

All three of us screamed.

“I am so sorry,” said the woman.  “I keep forgetting that one mustn’t materialize so quickly in front of people who are still living in their bodies.  Please forgive me.”

“Who are you?” asked Mom.

“Oh, where are my manners!  I am Rachel Wilkerson.  This was my family home.  We all perished in the influenza pandemic of 1918.  My sister Leah and I were the last ones to die.  She’s here, too.  Leah, come and materialize.  We have visitors.”

Another voice answered, “I can’t.  I’m not dressed for receiving.”

“Oh, nonsense!  You’re a ghost!  Nobody cares how you look.  You’re keeping our visitors waiting!”

A head, two hands and two feet appeared.

“Leah, this is Mrs. McMahon and these are her two children.  They live here now.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. McMahon.”

“Uh, likewise, I’m sure,” said Mom.  “Can either one of you tell me why we are getting colored bubbles in our bathtub upstairs?”

“Oh, goodness!” said Leah.  Her two hands clapped both sides of her face.  “They must have gotten into the water somehow!  How awful!  It’s my fault.  You see, we are having a birthday party for poor Mr. Anderson …”

“The man up the street who died recently?” asked Mom.

“Yes, indeed,” said Leah.  “We felt so sorry for him because he never had a birthday party when he was alive, so we are giving him one now.  I was trying to make colored bubbles and I guess I did something wrong.”

“Don’t worry,” said Rachel.  “We won’t do that again.  You can live in peace.  In fact, we will be leaving soon.  We have been waiting all these years for someone to come and fix this house and make it beautiful again, and you have done a creditable job …”

“A wonderful job,” said Leah.

“Yes,” said Rachel.  “Leah and I have decided that it’s time for us to get a new evaluation and, hopefully, progress on our way to the heavenly realm.  We’ll be sure to say good-bye before we leave.”

With that, they both disappeared, leaving the basement as quiet as before, but a lot less spooky.

“That was Gucci!” said Patrick.

“It sure was!”  I said.

“Okay,” said Mom.  “That was enough excitement for one night.  To bed, both of you!”

Two weeks later, we found a note in our mailbox from Rachel and Leah, saying good-bye and thanking us for being good to their house.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Anderson,
wherever you are now!

The Ancient Deities Support Society and Dysfunctional Family Primal Therapy Group REDUX

I am in the process of writing a funny novel about a university professor and a group of ancient Greek gods and goddesses still living, now, in the 21^st Century.  I thought it would be nice to have some fun here with the premise that a bunch of REALLY old Greeks with magical powers are still living in the 21^st Century and fitting pretty well into modern society.

The Jolly Green Giant as Athena

The scene is a large room in a luxury penthouse in Manhattan, which appears to be made of nothing but windows and spare, modern furnishings.  The room is full of people, none of whom appear to be any older than about 25 – 30.  They are all drop-dead gorgeous, some more than others.  They are dressed in various styles, from designer clothes to jeans and sweats, depending on profession, personality and financial status.  They are sitting wherever they can find something to sit on.

A tall woman wearing a Dolce and Cabbana outfit is standing at one end of the room.  She is HERA, the wife of ZEUS.  She and ZEUS live in London and have become very British.  ZEUS is the founder and CEO of a multi-national, multi-layered corporation that produces airplanes, raincoats, umbrellas, waterproof boots, movies, videos, CDs and toys.  The room is part of ZEUS’s and HERA’s New York luxury condo.

HERA:  May I have everyone’s attention, please.

Everybody stops talking and looks at HERA.

HERA:  Thank you.  As you know, the first meeting of The Ancient Deities Support Society and Dysfunctional Family Primal Therapy Group ended rather abruptly when my dear daughter HEBE was grossly insulted by DIONYSUS, who is sitting over there.  HEBE suffered a breakdown and left to go across the street for a beer.  I am sad to say that she will not be here tonight.  She is resting in our country home in England.  I have bought a lovely and quite expensive card, which I have placed on the desk in the vestibule.  Please sign it and include your good wishes.  DIONYSUS, this includes you.

DIONYSUS:  What?  You talk-a to me?  (He has an Italian accent, having been living in Tuscany for a couple of thousand years.  He is bleary-eyed and a little bit sick looking.)

ARES:  That must have been a great party last night.

POSEIDON:  He saves a lot of money.  He never needs to hire wine tasters for his vineyards.

APOLLO:  He has wine in his bloodstream.  The only reason it doesn’t petrify him is because he keeps it flowing!

ARES, POSEIDON and APOLLO fall back laughing.  Everyone else, except HERA, smiles and giggles.

DIONYSUS:  Eh, stronsi!  Shut up!

HERA:  Stop it this instant!  All of you!

ATHENA:  Oh, HERA, don’t get your underwear in a knot!

ARTEMIS:  I don’t think she’s wearing any.  It makes panty lines.

APHRODITE:  I say always commando is best.  (Although she has been living in New York City for about 100 years, APHRODITE has never learned to speak English correctly, and she has a strong Greek accent.)

ATHENA:  Well, she always tries to command us, so she might as well go commando!

All the attendees are now laughing, not at the witticisms but at the look on HERA’s face.

HERA:  If you are finished, we shall continue with the meeting.  DIONYSUS, don’t you dare say a thing!

DIONYSUS:  Me?  I don’t say nothing!  Everybody else is-a talking!

HERA:  Well, just don’t!

DIONYSUS throws up his hands and shoulders in a gesture of frustration from having been blamed for something he hasn’t done this time.

APHRODITE (to DIONYSUS):  Ah, do not pay attention to her.  ARES and I, we know how to solve all problems.  You need a sexy girlfriend.

APHRODITE gets up and crosses to DIONYSUS.  She begins to massage his shoulders and neck.

ARES:  What are you doing?  Get over here!

APHRODITE:  ARES!  You are jealous!

She gets up, sashays over to ARES, sits in his lap and begins to stroke his head and bite his ear.

HERA:  Is this a support group or Sex in the City?  Everybody, shut up!

None of the attendees like being told to shut up.  The meeting dissolves into a verbal free-for-all, with everyone talking and arguing, all at once, including HERA.  Suddenly, there is a loud clap of thunder that shakes the walls and windows of the apartment.  Everyone is shocked into silence.  There is a two-second blackout.  When the lights come back on, a tall man with thick black hair and a well-trimmed beard is standing next to HERA.  It is ZEUS.

ZEUS:  What the bloody hell is going on here?

HERA:  I am trying to conduct a meeting and nobody is co-operating.

ZEUS:  Well, I told you it was a f***ing bad idea, but you insisted on going ahead with it.

HERA:  I expected civility, even from a room full of your bastard children.

ZEUS:  So we’re back on that topic now, are we?

HERA:  I shall retire to my room and lock my door.  If you need me, have the maid ring me on the intercom.

HERA strides from the room with a look of supreme injured dignity, giving ZEUS a backhand slap on his back as she passes him.

ZEUS (grabbing his back -- to himself and to everyone in the room):  Ow!  She’s exciting when she gets like this!

ZEUS exits the room in the direction HERA has taken.  POSEIDON, HADES, HESTIA and DEMETER giggle to themselves.  APHRODITE smiles.  Everyone else has the look of children who have just walked in on their parents having sex.

ATHENA:  That went well!

POSEIDON:  We all need a drink after that.  Come on, everyone.  I’m buying.

They all get up, grab their coats, purses, laptops and whatever else they brought in with them and get out of there as fast as they can.

Dionysus (a/k/a Bacchus) With Grapes on His Head

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For more of my humor, go here.