img_8507            By Bill Charles


As a hot sunny day greeted the thousands of visitors who poured into the latest of America’s renamed national parks, only a few patrons noticed the words on the few stray signs that had escaped the renaming process:  Mount Rushmore.  The vast portion of the signage bore the new name:  Trump Park & Casino No. 74.  Pressing incessantly upon the guardrail of the viewing area, the crowd forced several losers over the edge to their well-deserved deaths on the rocks below as the emcee with the apricot-colored hair-like substance atop his head nodded his approval.

“You’re beautiful, beautiful!” said The Donald.  “Be sure to hang on tight to your betting stubs.”

Each member of the crowd followed his admonition.  Which one of the four presidents would be replaced?  The odds-on favorite was Theodore Roosevelt.  He wore glasses, after all.  His Highest Excellency President Trump raised his right arm and waved his hand ever so slightly.  The crowd fell silent.

“Here it is,” he said as he held up a neon orange plunger for all to see.

The cheering renewed for several minutes until the Trumpster waved his hand again.  Several loudmouths, slow to respond, were hurled—kicking and screaming, of course—into the chasm by more obedient members of the throng.

“They were probably rapists,” Trump remarked.  “I love you people who took care of that problem for us.  People who take care of problems before they get out of hand are winners.  I love winners.  Let’s give those winners a big round of applause.”  In less than a minute the ovation died out on its own to be replaced by a low murmur.  Trump continued.  “I know you’re wondering who’s been voted off the face of the mountain.  Let’s find out, okay?”

The crowd fell silent as Trump grasped the plunger with his stubby fingers and gave it a quick, firm push.  Nothing happened.

“Fooled you!” shouted Trump just before he broke into a hearty laugh.  The crowd joined him with such force that a nearby kettle of vultures removed themselves several miles to the west.  After a few seconds, Darn Old Trump waved the crowd to silence again and pulled out another plunger—apricot-colored, this time.  “This is the real thing, folks.  Okay, here we go.”

“One!  Two!  Three!” shouted Trump and the crowd together.

Down went the plunger setting off a large number of coordinated microbursts that took off the face of . . . Abraham Lincoln!  Lincoln’s nose collapsed and fell first.  His beard held on for a couple of seconds or so before sliding off.  His eyebrows remained attached for several seconds more and then slipped into the cloud of dust rising from the base of the peak.

“Okay folks, I know all about the betting line.  Most of you losers figured that it was going to be Teddy Roosevelt we’d be saying bye-bye to.  Bad guess.  Hey, I couldn’t wipe out T. R., could I?  No!  Think about it.  T and R are the first letters of my last name.  I love myself too much to do that.  Although I admit glasses are for losers.

“Think about it some more.  Lincoln was a loser.  He was probably diseased.  I read that somewhere.  His kids kept dying. His wife was a crazy skank.  He didn’t finish his second term.  Winners finish what they start.  And he didn’t have the resources to hire proper security.  I have proper security, believe me.  Well, that’s it for now.  When it’s time to unveil my visage, you can—and will—come back.  Okay, get out of my park.”

“Three cheers for President Trump!” screeched a glassy-eyed white man of middle years.

“That’s His Highest Excellency President Trump, dumb-ass!” riposted an AK-47-wielding ranger as she hit the man repeatedly in the groin with the butt of her weapon.

At that point the crowd shuffled off the premises while singing a snappy rendition of “Whistle While You Work” until only Trump and his retinue remained.


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