Killer Snowflakes in a Socialist Utopia

Slowly, but surely, we will see Trump turn into an albino, as those daily injections of Clorox start to kick in. Soon, he will look like Marcel Marceau. He already has the mime hand gestures down pat. Wax on, wax off. Accordion squeeze and release. One-hand figure 8’s. Tugging on the invisible rope.

What is a post-trumpvirus pendejodemic America going to look like? At this tipping point in our history, we could fall on the side of complete anarchy, chaos, and lawlessness. Basically, what we have now. Or, we could fall the other way and turn into a Bernie Sanders-style socialist utopia, replete with mass public transportation, a social safety net and distribution of wealth. In this world, there would still be pockets of capitalist resistance; underground, illegal free marketers trying to preserve their old, Robber Baron ways. Therefore, a crack unit of Killer Snowflakes would be formed to root out these pockets of capitalist criminality.

Here is my screenplay on how this might play out…

The Killer Snowflakes – Episode 1 – Stalking the Stockbrokers

FADE IN

INT. – Illegal Day Trader Speak Easy Joint – EVENING

A room full of outlaw day traders are conducting felony free market stock transition crimes which have been deemed illegal and immoral by the new Socialist Order. They are totally unaware of the mortal threat approaching.

CUT TO:

EXT. – Elevated Monorail Station. – MOMENTS LATER

A monorail stops at an elevated station. Three people exit. They are professional Killer Snowflakes; former Special Forces officer, CAPT. MALTESE STALLION, 50, Chicano P.I., LARGO KEYES, 30, and ex-Vegas Chorus Line Dancer, LEGS AKIMBO, 45.

They walk down from the elevated monorail station and walk two blocks to an alley behind a building.

Maltese: “This is the place. Good work tracking down the joint, Largo.”

Largo takes out a sawed-off, pump action, shotgun from his trench coat. Maltese locks and loads his .60 caliber mini gun. Legs ties her long blond hair in a ponytail and slips on a pair of nine-inch, titanium spiked heels.

Largo: “No problem, Maltese. It was easy tracking these capitalist assholes. Whenever you see a bunch of young, white dues with pocket protectors, wearing Dockers and Hush Puppies gathering in a building, you know there’s trouble.”

Legs: “I don’t get it. We have a wonderful socialist utopia. Free college, universal base income, Medicare for All, an yet these goddam capitalist survivalists keep trying to make money the old-fashioned way…”

Maltese: “Insider trading and stock manipulations.”

Largo: “Let’s get ‘em!”

They bust down the door. The day traders all turn around in horror at the three Killer Snowflakes.

Day Trader: “KILLER SNOWFLAKES! Everybody, duck and cover!”

But before they can duck and cover, Maltese, and Largo blast the room with buckshot and lead.

Legs: “Take no prisoners!”

Legs goes around and applies the coup de grace to the back of the heads of still live, groaning day traders with her nine-inch, titanium spiked heels.

Later, the Killer Snowflakes go to a nearby Tofu Parlor for a cup of miso soup.

Legs: “So, who’s next on the list?”

Maltese takes out a map and sealed envelope marked: “Who’s Next.” He spreads out the map on the table and opens the sealed envelope.

Maltese: “According to these orders, our next objective is here.”

He points to an area in rural Arkansas.

Maltese: “Here, It’s here. Largo, you know anything about this?”

Largo: “Yeah, there’s a band of feral hedge fund managers running wild out there. They call themselves the Hedge Hogs. Tough bunch.”

Maltese: “What can we expect from them?”

Legs leans back in her chair and props up her shapely legs on the table, still wearing her blood-stained, nine-inch titanium spiked heels.

Legs: “well, you know what they say. Never expect more than a grunt from a pig.”

Maltese: “Or a hog?”

Largo: “Yeah, or from a hedgehog.”

We hear the monorail station PA system.

PA System: “Monorail bound for Rural Arkansas, now loading on elevated Station #9,”

Maltese: “That’s us. Let’s go.”

Largo: “Station # 9 is a mile away. We’ll never make it in time.”

Legs: “Don’t be silly. We’ll just catch the All-Purpose Express Monorail outside the door. It goes directly to Station #9.”

Maltese locks and loads his .60 caliber mini gun.

Maltese: God, don’t you just love living in fucking Socialist Utopia?”

FADE OUT

Episode 2: Assignment Arkansas: The Razorback’s Edge

Enquiring Minds Want to Know

Trump sits down for a one-on-one interview with a New York Times reporter. The reporter is curious about Trump’s assertion that the coronavirus was man made in a Chinese lab.

Reporter: “Mr. President, you say you have conclusive evidence that the Chinese produced the coronavirus in one of their labs?”

Trump: “Yes, I do. And the details are horrible, horrible. Unbelievable stuff like you have never heard before.”

Reporter: “What is your source for this evidence?”

Trump: “I can’t tell you that.”

Reporter: “Is it the same source you had in Hawaii who couldn’t believe what he found about Obama’s birth certificate?”

Trump: “I can’t tell you.”

Reporter: Is it the same source who told you, you could blow up hurricanes by detonating an atomic bomb in the middle of them?”

Trump: “I can’t tell you that either.”

Reporter: “Is it the same source who told you three million dead, illegal immigrants voted for Hillary in the 2016 election?”

Trump: “No, I can’t tell you that.”

Reporter: “What about injecting bleach or exposing the body to extreme light or UV rays to cure the coronavirus? Where did that come from?”

Trump: “Nope, nope. No way Jose. Can’t say.”

Reporter: “Well, do you know the way to San Jose””

Trump: “Yes, I do. No one knows the way to San Jose better than I do. Better than Dionne Warwick or Burt Bacharach. But I can’t tell you how to get there.”

Reporter notices a current issue of The National Enquirer laying on the Resolute Desk. The cover has a huge headline that reads: Chinese Gynecologist Admits He created the Coronavirus in Hillary Clinton’s Vagina.

Reporter looks a Trump warily and smiles.

Reporter: “Mr. President, did you get all those stories from The National Enquirer?”

Trump sees the tabloid laying on his desk. He quickly grabs it, crumples it into a tight, small ball and puts it in his mouth. He gulps hard.

Trump: “No, (cough, cough), absolutely not. I did (choking) not get those stories from (choking, coughing) this paper.”

Reporter: “Then why are you eating it.”

Trump: “I (gagging), I can’t tell you that. Hand me that Diet Coke. (choking) I need something to wash this down with.””

 

Reporter gets up to leave without handing Trump the Diet coke.

Trump: “Hey, fake news! Are you going to (gagging) going to report this?”

Reporter (smiles wryly): “As you know, Mr. President, I work for the failing New York Times. So, no, I can’t tell you that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Donald's Final Solution

Trump prepares for a nationally televised address to the nation on his cure for the coronavirus. He is eating KFC right out of the bucket.

Staff: “Mr. President, here’s a copy of your speech. You might want to look it over before you go on the air.”

Trump: “Ivanka, this was supposed to be the eight-piece, crispy, family meal with extra gravy. There are only four pieces in here and a carton of cole slaw. How did this goddam carton of cole slaw get in here.? What am I, a fucking rabbit?”

Ivanka: “sorry, Daddy. I went to the drive-thru and they said there’s a shortage of fried chicken because so many of the undocumented immigrants working in the chicken processing plants have died.”

Trump: “Died?” From what, chicken pox? (he laughs derisively to himself), Chicken pox, that’s a good one”

 Pence pops up from behind Trump.

Pence: “Sir, thanks to your outstanding leadership, humor is up to its highest levels since the Harding administration.”

Pence pops back down out of sight.

Trump (continues): “When was Tonya Harding president? Anyway, those immigrants should have gotten vaccinated. Anyone who wants a vaccination in America can get one. I should know. I got a ton of shots for the clap in the Seventies.”

Staff: “Sir, you’ve been on the air live for the last three minutes.”

Trump: “Well, just let me finish this thigh. I love a good piece of thigh, don’t I Ivanka?”

Ivanka: “DADDY!”

Trump: “Oh, like Jared and the whole world doesn’t know…”

Announcer: “Live from the Oval Office, President Donald Trump.”

Trump hastily wipes mouth with napkin, burps loudly takes a huge gulp of Diet Coke and belches volcanically.

Trump (belches again): “Oops! Good evening my fellow Americans. I am here to announce my Final Solution Plan for the current plague that I inherited from Obama. Joining me here tonight are some unfake reporters from Brietbart, Fox News, One America News and The National Enquirer.”

Reporter: “Mr. President, who came up with the name, Final Solution?”

Stephen Miller pops up from underneath Trump’s Resolute Desk.

Stephen Miller: “I did! Heil Hitler!”

Trump pushes Miller back down under the Resolute Desk.

Trump: “Also sitting behind me are Dr. Tony Fauci and Debbie Birx. “

Camera pans over to Fauci and Birx. They look dour and somber. Trump turns around to acknowledge their presence.

Trump: “They look like hostages because they are scientists and they know I’m going to ask them some lame ass question and they are going to have to come up with an answer that doesn’t completely contradict me, but nonetheless eats away at their credibility.”

Reporter: “What is your Final Solution Plan, sir.”

Trump: “Technically, you should begin your question with “sir” and end it with “sir”. Want to try it again?”

Reporter: “Sir, what is your Final Solution Plan, sir.”

Trump: “I’ve been in contact with some of the world’s leading unicorn breeders and they’ve discovered unicorn urine not only gets rid of pimples, it can also cure COVID-19.”

FAuci and Birx look at each other and visibly blanch in horror.

Reporter: “Sir, so, you want everyone to drink unicorn urine?”

Trump: “Don’t be ridiculous. That would be unhealthy and unsanitary.”

Reporter: “Sir, so how….”

Trump (interrupts): “I have notified the commanders of my new, tremendous, Space Force: Sky King, Terry and the Pirates and the Red Baron…”

Reporter: “sir, the Red Baron? Isn’t your son Barron a bit young to fly a plane?”

Trump: “I don’t know him very well. Never met him. But I understand he isn’t even potty trained, much less pilot trained.”

The reporters laugh nervously.

Trump: “We are going to turn the unicorn urine into an aerosol spray, load it up in huge cannisters, scotch tape them to the wings of a billion Space Force planes, orbit the Earth at high altitude and crop dust the whole fucking planet. The virus will be dead in seconds and a grateful America will crown me Emperor for Life.”

Reporters gasp in amazement and take notes furiously. Trump turns to look back at Fauci and Birx.

Trump: “I think this sounds interesting. It could work, right? Maybe. Maybe not. But you will check it out, okay? What have we got to lose?”

Fauci pulls out a small revolver from his vest pocket. He shoots Birx in the head, then puts the revolver in his mouth and pulls the trigger.

BLAM! BLAM!

Reporter: “Oh my God! A murder, suicide right here in the Oval Office!”

Trump: That’s what you think you saw. That’s what the fake news will report. What you really saw was a man exercising his Constitutional Second Amendment Rights.”

Reporters nod in agreement and unison, like an Oprah audience hearing some bullshit piece of advice from Dr. Phil.

Trump: “Jared, clean up on aisle three.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sarcasm Walk Back

Will “sarcasm”, as employed by The Incredible Hoax president, in his lame ass attempt to walk back his stupid inject disinfectants and UV ray treatment, be the new Get Out of Jail Free Card for his male MAGA Maggots?

Two young lovers, Bill, and Coo are sharing an intimate moment on Coo’s front porch swing.

Bill” “Wow, I’ve never done it on a front porch swing.”

Coo: “Yes, it was very romantic. I love you, Bill.”

Bill hesitates momentarily. He pulls up his pants and clumsily and hastily puts on his t-shirt. He slips his feet in the wrong shoes. Notices his error and does not bother switching them and quickly ties his shoelaces. He stands up, dons his MAGA cap in a jaunty manner and faces Coo.

Coo (swooning): “Oh, Bill. When you don your MAGA cap in that jaunty manner, you look just like Bogey in The Maltese…”

Bill (abruptly) “Coo! Listen, I…I…I love you too. I want to spend the rest of my life with you right here on this front porch. Just with you, darling. Forever.”

Three weeks later, Bill is nowhere to be found. Coo finally reaches him on the phone.

Coo: “Bill! Where are you? I thought you loved me. You said you wanted to spend eternity with me here on the front porch…you know, (Coo lowers her voice and whispers softly) you know, uh…swinging.”

Bill: “That was just a sarcastic question directed at your cats napping on the porch. I was just being sarcastic. I think your cats understood that, Coo. Okay, thank you very much.”

 

CLICK!

 

Unforeseen Consequences

No doubt, the country would be better off if Trump just went to his golf course and played golf every day for the next seven months until the November election.

Of course, there would be unforeseen consequences.

Dateline: November 2020

Miguel Fuentes, the groundskeeper at Trump’s Doral Golf Course, speaks to reporters.

Reporter: “Miguel, why did you call this news conference?”

Miguel: “Who the fuck’s idea was it to let Trump play golf every day for seven months? There’s gotta be a billion divots out there. Deep ones, too. We found two dead caddies at the bottom of a couple of them. They had fallen in and broken their necks. Another one fell in a divot and survived, but had to have his legs amputated. He is now strapped to a skateboard. We call him Porgy.”

Reporter: “What happened to Porgy?”

Miguel: “He’s working as a caddy at a miniature golf course. Jesus Christ! The course looks like No Man’s Land in All Quiet on the Western Front. I’ll have to rent a backhoe and bulldozer to fix the place.”

In other news…

Yesterday, all three of Trump’s medical experts defied and disagreed with him during the press conference. Wait for it…

BREAKING NEWS!

Trump Announces New White House Medical Team!

Trump: “I’m announcing my new, tremendous, incredibly talented, compliant medical team. First, Dr. Oz. Not too many people know, Dr. Oz was the personal physician to Dorothy, The Scarecrow, and the Tin Man. The Cowardly Lion, apparently, was afraid of anal thermometers. Welcome, Dr. Oz. Next, we have Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil is not a specialist in any recognized field of medicine, but he sounds like he knows what he is talking about and I love that. Finally, we have… (he peers out into the audience) …where is my African American?”

Trump peers out into the audience and points to someone…

Trump (continues): “There he is. Stand up, Dr. Dre. Dr. Dre will be rapping medical advice to the black community. I love the blacks…well, except for the uppity, black bitches in the press who disrespect me with their horrible, totally unfair, logical questions.”

Reasonable & Responsible

Do you find it curious that whenever  a group of White Nationalists, Anti-Semites, Klansmen, MAGA cap-wearing, AR-15 toting assholes get together for a Nuremberg Rally for him, Trump always manages, without fail and reflexively, to find many in the crowd to be “reasonable and responsible”?

FADE IN.

INT. – White House Press Room – DAY

Trump finishes up his daily pathological, non-stop, kaleidoscopic upchucking of lies, deflections, projections, finger-pointing, whining, and name-calling to take a question from a very patient reporter.

Reporter: “Mr. President, a lynch mob, in a redneck Red State that worships you as the Second Coming, dragged a black man out of a county jail and up to a hastily, shabbily thrown together gallows for hanging. He had been picked up for unpaid parking tickets and was scheduled to appear in Traffic Court.”

Trump: “As you have reported in your fake newspapers, more people are killed in auto accidents, in the USA, than by this overblown Chinavirus hoax. This guy sounds like a dangerous hombre. He should not be driving around with a bunch of unpaid parking tickets. Your reporting, on this so-called “lynching”, was too harsh. To me, it looked more like a beautiful, fraternity hazing prank.”

Reporter: “Sir, he was dragged out of a county jail by a mob of…”

Trump (abruptly interrupting): “Enough! You are a disgrace. I did not see the lynch mob drag him out. He was reasonably and responsibly escorted to the gallows. By the way, you reporters, once again, failed to give us any credit. That rope was made with Trump Hemp and the gallows was constructed by Jared Kushner’s construction company.”

Reporter: “The gallows collapsed when the trap door was released and fell on the ground into thousands of splintered pieces. The rope snapped and broke, causing the black man to slam to the ground, suffering severe, multiple ankle sprains.”

Trump: “well, there you are. One less tap-dancing Mr. Bojangles wannabe we have taken off the welfare rolls. No harm, no foul. Next question.”

Donny Jr. Pleads the Fifth

Donald Trump Jr. gave a new, fifth version of that infamous meeting with a still undetermined number of Russians in Trump Tower to the Senate Judiciary staff. In case you’ve lost track, here is a rundown of the five stories.

STORY #1

I got a call from Jared asking me if I wanted to meet this hot Russian babe; a former gymnast who had become a lawyer. We met for a few minutes in Dad’s Tower. And, yeah, she was super-hot. I mean like, petrified woody inducing hot. When she crossed her legs, Jared yelped like a puppy. Can’t remember her name; Nadia, Natasha, Ludmilla. Some commie-girl’s name. All I remember are those powerful thighs of hers. God Almighty! My ribs hurt just thinking about them.

STORY #2

No, no, as I recall now, Jared and I met with two Russians and the hottie chippy lawyer to talk about procuring…I mean, adopting some young Russian girls for my brother, Barron. It’s lonely up in the Tower. Wait, there may have been four or five Russians. Okay, now that I think about it, the whole Bolshoi Ballet company was there. The meeting may have lasted ten minutes. Can’t remember. Just remember my ribs were bruised that night.

STORY #3

Okay, okay. Now I remember. I was negotiating a deal with a group of Russian businessmen. I was trying to unload a warehouse full of Trump Vodka on the Russian Red Army as payment on our overdue loans. The whole Russian army are a bunch of alcoholics. Hell, these Russia booze hounds will drink Vitalis hair oil in a pinch. I can’t recall the details of this meeting. But the hottie chippy lawyer and I went to a local cantina and had beer and tequila shots afterward.

STORY #4

Jared reminded me that the Russian loan sharks Dad owes money to were threatening to toss Ivanka in a wood chipper head first, like that scene in “Fargo”, if they didn’t get their money. Jared and I met with the loan sharks and offered them Eric instead. Can’t remember how things turned out, but haven’t seen Eric in days.

STORY #5

According to my previously lost notes, I received an email from a Russian operative telling me he had an incriminating video of Hillary Clinton documenting her total unfitness to be president. To the best of my recollection, it was a video of Hillary doing her Pilates exercise routine. I mean, this bitch can’t do one single push-up. She’s totally unfit to be president.

THE REAL STORY

Fine. I guess I must fess up. What really happened was I met the Russian hottie chippy lawyer in Dad’s Tower. We watched Akira Kurosawa’s classic movie “Rashomon.” Very interesting concept. We ordered tacos from our favorite local Mexican cantina. We drank way too much beer and tequila shots. We may have had sex, I don’t remember. All I remember is waking up in the ER with three cracked ribs.