Tag Archives: Donald Trump

Bring Me Sunshine

Following on from Donald Trump’s suggestion that hurricanes should be nuked to stop them forming, he has issued a checklist detailing how to deal with other weather scenarios:

Lightning: Beat it away with a baseball bat. Or, better still, a metal frying pan.

Wind: Point enough fans towards it to exactly balance it out. Admittedly, this might cause a tornado at the point where they meet, so:

Tornado: Drop a bowling ball into it. It won’t stop the tornado, but if timed right the ball could be shot out directly at North Korea.

Too dry and hot: Not sure. Ask the people who organise Glastonbury.

Drought: Shoot arrows at the sky.

Snow: Allow global warming to turn this to rain.

Rain: Move to California.

Rainbows: Follow them to the end to find the crock of gold.

Climate Change: Follow the activists on Twitter to find the crock of shit.

Hang on, you just said global warming would stop snow: No I didn’t. Fake news.

Hail: To the Chief, yes, that’s my song.

Unrelenting drizzle: You’re from Ireland, aren’t you?

Dense, impenetrable fog: Become President.

 

 

This Land Is My Land

Donald Trump reportedly wants to buy Greenland from Denmark…

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Winter was coming.

It was still only August, but then Autumn does not happen in Greenland. Soon the midnight sun would set, then snow would fall, at first gently, then not. Night would fall too, and remain fallen for months to come.

In a bar in Nuuk three men were sitting at a table, sipping from cold tankards. They sat contentedly in bearded, woolly-jumpered silence, happy to let their conversation take as long as their beer. Eventually Einar spoke.

“He has some nerve, though,” he said.

“Who has?” asked Kunût.

“Trump,” said Einar. “saying he wants to buy us.”

“Too right,” said Kunût. “He thinks he can do it just because they already have an Air Force Base here. That makes as much sense as him being able to buy France because they have a Disneyland.”

“Would we get a Disneyland?” asked Einar, sitting forward.

Kunût shrugged. “Who needs one?” he said. “A load of slides and so called high-speed rides. They should come here and try to walk uphill in November, or try to stay on a sleigh being pulled by muskox.”

“You’re right,” said Einar, sitting back again. “Good job the Danes told him to get lost.”

Aatuut spoke for the first time, but slowly, like a man who had been giving some things some thought for some time. “Of course, it’s got nothing to do with them,” he said.

“How do you mean?” asked Einar.

“Well, we’ve had home rule since 1979,” said Aatuut, “so it’s us the US would be buying us from.”

Kunût frowned for a second as he tried to work out that sentence. “Still wouldn’t matter,” he said. “We wouldn’t be interested.”

They sat in silence again, but it was a different silence, one with an almost audible hum of thinking going on beneath it. Eventually, as before, it was Einar who spoke first.

“Um,” he said, “how much is he expecting to pay?”

“Dunno,” said Aatuut, “but in 1946 Truman offered 100 million dollars.”

“I see,” said Einar. “And, um, just out of interest, what would that be today?”

“One point four billion,” said Aatuut quietly. “I looked it up.”

“Wow,” said Einar, “and there’s only fifty-six thousand of us. We’d probably get a couple of million each.”

“Yes,” snapped Kunût, “but so what? I mean, we’d all become Americans. We’d all have guns.”

“I don’t think they’re actually compulsory,” said Aatuut.

“There’d probably be a lot of fracking,” said Kunût.

“A lot of fracking what?” asked Einar.

“No, that was the end of that sentence,” said Kunût. “It’s a type of mining.”

“We have mining already,” said Aatuut. “Rubies, iron, uranium, you name it.”

“We’d have Trump as our President,” said Kunût desperately.

“And so what?” said Aatuut. “We’ve been owned before. Everyone’s had a go – Norway, Denmark, Portugal -”

“Portugal?”

“Apparently so,” said Aatuut. “I think they were lost. Anyway, the point is that they’ve all ruled us, and didn’t pay us for the privilege of doing it. Why not let  America have a go? We’d get Netflix, we’d get Starbucks, we’d get Obamacare (news sometimes takes a while to get to Greenland), and most of all, we’d get two million bucks each.”

“God bless America,” breathed Einar.

“But if we all got it,” said Kunût, “then prices would just go up. Puek would charge us more for beer.”

They all turned and glared at Puek, the bar owner, who’d been following the whole conversation from behind the counter. He smiled at them.

“Worse than that,” he said, “if I had two million dollars, I don’t see why I’d open the bar at all.”

Einar stared at him in horror. “Probably just as well,” said Aatuut. “We’d all have to speak English, and you’d have probably had to change the name. A bar called Puek’s might not thrive.”

The group glanced around the room, empty apart from the four of them. “Sorry,” muttered Aatuut.

“No problem.” said Puek. “Anyway, twenty-five thousand.”

Einar frowned. “Twenty-five thousand what?” he said.

“Dollars,” said Puek. “If you divide one point four billion by fifty-six thousand, you get twenty-five thousand.”

“Is that all?” spluttered Aatuut. “I couldn’t even buy a new fishing boat.”

“The tight-fisted git,” growled Einar.

Kunût grinned. “He can go and frack off,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 

The Perfect Fit

Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. Thought processes were visible on his face as he contemplated the manner of his exit – would he shout, would he rant, would he throw a glass of water into the face of the man who had just fired him. Dignity fought with anger fought with humiliation, and, rather to the man’s surprise, dignity won.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, “for the opportunity to serve.” He stood and walked out of the door.

Donald Trump breathed a sigh of relief. Not all of his sackngs had gone as well.

The man just leaving was Trump’s forty-third Secretary of State, in the sixth year of his eight year reign. In total he had used the expression “you’re fired” two thousand three  hundred and fifty-seven times. His catchphrase from the Apprentice was really coming back to haunt him.

Some had, like the person who had just left, taken it relatively well. Others had not. Trump remembered fondly back to a time where being called a “dotard” had been the worst and most esoteric insult he had ever received. Since then, the words “lunkhead”, “lamebrain”, “dullard”, “ignoramus” (he had thought that was an animal, the offspring of an iguana and a hippo) and “gobshite” had been added to his vocabulary by departing staff, and that wasn’t even counting the words he’d already known.

And they were just the people he’d fired. Others had quit, citing stress, or frustration, or  the realisation that they had lost all self-respect as reasons for their departure.

And then each in turn had appeared on Oprah or Ellen pushing their quickly cobbled-together book, telling the “exclusive” inside story of life inside the White House, each portraying an administration running around in panic as if the building was on fire. And then each book in turn would top the bestseller lists, especially the one that portrayed an administration running around in panic because the building was on fire, on a chilly day when Trump had decided to microwave his socks to warm them.

And as they came and went, Trump would replace them, from an ever-dwindling pool, or a gradually draining swamp, if you like. He had long exhausted the supply of seasoned politicos, fellow millionaires and family members, and had taken to hiring ordinary Joes, having found that hiring only people called Joe made it easier to remember their names.

So his staff declined in experience, knowledge and age. Trump looked at his phone, at the tweet that he had sent out that very morning:

The media say that my new chief-of-staff (Joe) is a 17 year old sophomore student. FAKE NEWS!!! He’s actually a 17 year old studying semaphore, for his boy scout badges. His motto is BE PREPARED to make America great again!!!

He sighed as he read it. He had hoped it would sound defiant, but even to him it sounded lame.

And now he needed a new Secretary of State. The person would have to visit other countries, form bonds with other countries, occasionally bomb other countries. It was not a job that any idiot could do, he told himself, or he would have done it himself.

The Donald (no-one is sure why he called himself that upon taking office, Dick Chaney didn’t have the same inclination when becoming Vice-President) sat looking at the phone on his desk for a very long time. To anyone watching he would have looked like a great statesman deep in thought. In fact he was trying to remember how to get an outside line.

Eventually he picked up the phone and decisively pressed a button. This resulted in a short and confused conversation with the White House souvenir shop, during which he unintentionally managed to buy a bobble-head Eleanor Roosevelt.

He hung up and tried again. This time he heard the phone at the other end ring, and eventually a voice said “hello??”, two syllables that somehow managed to convey so much, that the person at the other end recognised the number but couldn’t quite believe it, that the person was both offended yet intrigued, and that the person hadn’t been in the public eye for quite a while now and was not happy about this.

“Hello, Hillary,” said Donald Trump.

 

 

Dragon’s Den

Saint Enda took a long, deep breath and, holding his offering in front of him as if for protection, stepped bravely into the Dragon’s lair.

The lair was large, and not quite round, more oval-shaped. For a second St Enda thought that it was empty, but then, from a throne at the far end, the Dragon arose and padded menacingly towards him.

The two stood facing each other – both proud, both haughty, both ginger. It was like watching a family row between the Weasley twins.

“Who are you?” growled the Dragon.

“I am St Enda,” said St Enda, “the patron saint of Ireland.”

The Dragon’s eyes narrowed. “I thought that was St Patrick,” he said.

St Enda snorted. “God, everyone bangs on and on about St Bloody Patrick,” he said. “All he did was chase snakes – basically over-fed worms – out of Ireland. Whereas I saved our country from ruin,  re-built its economy, scrapped taxes on its water -”

“Didn’t you bring those taxes in in the first place?” asked the Dragon.

“Um, yes,” said St Enda, “but the important thing here is that I scrapped them. And I drove the fearsome, three-headed Troika from our shores by, well, by giving it everything it wanted. And after all that the other guy’s still more revered than I am. Honestly, it’d try the patience of a saint, and obviously I’m not just that as a turn of phrase. I mean, he wasn’t even born in our country.”

The Dragon nodded. “I know exactly how you feel,” he said. “Bigly.”

“Anyway,” said St Enda, “I brought you this.” He held forth a glass bowl containing some green plants.

The Dragon snorted, with far more impressive results than when St Enda had a few paragraphs ago. The saint could feel his eyebrows smouldering gently.

“I think you’re mixing me up with Popeye,” said the Dragon. “I don’t eat spinach.”

“It’s not spinach,” said St Enda. “It’s shamrock. It’s supposed to be lucky.”

“If it was all that lucky,” said the Dragon, “it wouldn’t be cut up and lying in a bowl. Anyway, why are you giving it to me?”

“I have come to entreat with you,” said St Enda.

“Er, what?” said the Dragon.

“I need a favour,” said St Enda. “You have fifty thousand of my people in your land who shouldn’t be here.”

“I see,” said the Dragon. “And you’d like them back.”

“God, no,” said St Enda. “I want you to keep them.”

“Why?” asked the Dragon.

“We don’t want them,” said St Enda. “They’ve got used to proper public transport, and real summers, and they’re three series ahead of us in Blue Bloods.

“I see,” said the Dragon. “And why would I want them?”

“They’re Irish,” said St Enda simply. “Everyone loves us. Everyone knows that.”

The Dragon thought for a moment, then began to speak. St Enda noticed that as he spoke he would raise one front claw and bring the tips of two of the talons together, as if he was trying to do a shadow-puppet of a rabbit on the wall behind.

“Very well,” said the Dragon. “Because they are Irish, and because of your, um, generous gift, I will let them stay.”

“Thank you,” said St Enda.

“Would you like me to build a wall around them, to keep them here?” asked the Dragon.

“Trust me,” said St Enda, “I don’t think you’ll find that’s necessary.”

 

 

Trump Card

WordPress asks “Do you think Donald Trump would make a good US President?”

This is the first time they’ve gone so blatantly parochial, choosing to ignore the fact that many of their users are (a) not American, (b) don’t care, and (c) don’t know enough about Donald Trump to be able to offer an opinion.

Luckily lack of knowledge rarely stops me offering an opinion, so…..

I think Donald Trump would make an excellent President because:

  1. He has a huge black Tower named after himself. This lends him the aura of an evil overlord from something like Lord of the Rings, thus scaring the enemies of the US;
  2. He could solve Ireland’s economic woes by simply buying us, with change from his back pocket;
  3. I’d like to see Tina Fey‘s impersonation of him;
  4. He is a germophobe, so he’d pump millions into researching the cure for the common cold. And he’d have Monk as Secretary of State;
  5. He would re-introduce the Presidential wig, leading America back to the spirit of Washington and the founding fathers;
  6. You’re not serious. That’s his real hair?
  7. Ivana Trump would become FLOTUS (see, I know all the lingo), which is cool, because she doesn‘t have a US birth cert either;
  8. He owns the Miss Universe Corporation and is thus the only man on earth of whom Silvio Berlusconi is jealous;
  9. Trump is another word for fart (we let you get away with two Presidents called Bush, but we‘d just have to make jokes about that);
  10. And finally, he has Irish roots.

Actually, I have no idea whether that last one is true or not, but believe me, if he becomes President we’ll find some.

Just ask Mr Obama, from Moneygall, County Offaly.