Donald Trump: Active Shooter Deactivated

trump

“You don’t know until you test it, but I really believe I’d run in there even if I didn’t have a weapon.”—President Donald Trump

A slight breeze wafted through his voluminous hair as President Trump rappelled from the helicopter. His lithe body silently hit the ground, and using his eagle-eyed vision—still 20/20, even after years of reviewing thousands of very important business documents—he quickly assessed the situation.

Yet another shooter. Yet another high school. But this time…this time, things would be different. This time, Donald J. Trump was going to put an end to it.

Did he have a weapon? Not in the traditional sense, no. But for some men…for some men, their very bodies are weapons.

With the lightness and speed of a mighty puma, Trump ran to the front door of the school.

“If my calculations are correct,” Trump thought, “the shooter will be right behind here.” He kicked open the door.

And there he was—the shooter stood a mere ten feet from Trump. The two men stared at each other for an instant. Trump hadn’t seen such cold, menacing eyes since he had fired Teller (of Penn and Teller) during season four of “Celebrity Apprentice.”

The killer started to aim his rifle, but, before he could shoot, Trump undid his long red necktie, fashioning it into a crude lasso. With a flick of his wrist, the fabric wrapped around the gun’s barrel—and, in a split-second, the gun was in Trump’s hands.

“Looks like the tables have turned, hombre,” Trump said.

But wait! Suddenly, the assailant pulled out a knife and lunged toward the president!

That was his second mistake. (The first mistake was trying to do a school shooting while Donald J. Trump was in office.)

Luckily, a bag of golf clubs was leaning against the wall. Trump grabbed a 9 iron, a golf ball, and a tee. Without even a practice swing, Trump let loose a perfect shot—driving the ball right into the madman’s skull. He dropped to the floor, dead as a doornail.

“Now that’s what I call a hole in one!” Trump said.

The hallway filled with happy students and teachers. “Thank you so much for coming to rescue us, Mr. President!” one shouted. “We are all really big fans of yours!” Trump shook all of their hands and tossed some “Make America Great Again” hats into the adoring crowd.

“Mr. President, you saved us all,” cooed a comely young woman, the head of the cheerleading squad. “And seeing you now in person, it is obvious that you are a very big, strong man,” she purred, squeezing his shapely bicep.

“Hold on just a second, missy,” Trump said. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen, but my birthday is next week!”

“Have you ever heard of a little something called a rain-check?” Trump asked, flashing his trademark devil-may-care grin.

Everyone laughed and applauded, applauded and laughed, long into the night.

Advertisements

Trump Is a Moron, a Logical Proof

1_5yN1VX65SJvsqtRR28LJ7w

FACT 1: The main thing Reince Priebus wanted to do in early 2016 was prevent Donald Trump from winning the GOP nomination.

FACT 2: Priebus failed to do that.

LOGICAL CONCLUSION A: Priebus is not a capable person.

FACT 3: Trump hired Priebus to be his first chief of staff.

LOGICAL CONCLUSION B: Trump either a) is unable to draw LOGICAL CONCLUSION A; or b) doesn’t think it’s important for a president to have a capable chief of staff.

IF a): Then Trump is unable to draw simple logical conclusions and is a moron.

IF b): Then Trump is too incompetent to run a mid-sized company, let alone the nation, and is a moron

Q.E.D.

 

Even More Edits from Milo Yiannopoulos’s Book Manuscript

The correct spelling is ‘Goebbels’—no R.

This only makes sense if you assume that none of your readers are women.

Delete.

That’s not a real Shakespeare quote—Google says it’s from “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.”

This section is confusing. Did you translate it from the German yourself?

I understand that your hair-care regimen is important to you (and it’s obviously quite complex) but devoting six pages to it seems excessive…

DELETE!

Have to check with our lawyers on this one, but I’m pretty sure that doing that to a cat (or any pet) is illegal.

Actually, the Spanish Inquisition was a real thing. (That’s what the Monty Python sketch was referring to.)

I don’t understand the point of including the full lyrics to the “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” theme song here—explain?

Cut all archaic racial slurs.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DELETE!!!

Santa’s Last Stand

As a young boy growing up in the tumultuous late ’80s, I was often filled with an overwhelming sense of hatred. I despised being forced to attend the first grade, I loathed eating my vegetables, and I detested the pedantic morality of Mr. Rogers and his so-called “neighborhood.” But I saved the overwhelming share of the vitriol packed into my six-year-old frame for one man: Santa Claus.

You see, Gentle Reader, I was not like all the other little boys and girls on my block, who lay down on Christmas Eve nestled all snug in their beds while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads. No, when I dreamt of ambulatory foods, it was more likely to be of gefilte fish and matzoh brei doing the hora at my cousin Moshe’s bar mitzvah. I was a Jew, and Christmas was not for me.

From the day after Halloween until New Years, Old Saint Nick is inescapable. He’s in the mall, listening to the whispered wishes of mucous-filled little Christians. He’s on TV, pimping everything from Coca-Cola to Julio’s Chicken Shack down on 8th Street. He’s on the street corner, ringing an insufferable bell and collecting spare change for shadowy “charitable” organizations that “help” the “needy.” This was all incredibly damaging to the developing psyche of a precocious youth who recognized his clear exclusion from the orgiastic worldwide celebration of all things merry. Every Christmas light–bedecked house galled me. Every candy cane mocked me. Finally, in my ninth year, I reached the boiling point, and accepted the burden that destiny had placed on my shoulders. I knew what I had to do: I was going to kill Santa Claus.

You needn’t worry about how I survived to voyage the North Pole. That part of my tale is inconsequential—reindeer meat is surprisingly filling, let’s just leave it at that. After neutralizing his elite team of Swiss Guards, I entered Santa’s sinister fortress. Even Upton Sinclair could not accurately recount the horrors that I witnessed there. In an effort to cut costs, Santa had downsized much of his elf contingent, replacing them with Taiwanese street children. Disturbingly, these former runaways were forced to wear prosthetic ears and curly shoes, presumably so that Santa could continue to nourish his insatiable elf lust. I quietly made my way through the workshop, avoiding the numerous mangled “elf” carcasses that littered the floor. Finally, I found myself in front of a large door emblazoned with “K. Kringle” in gilt lettering. Gently opening it, I entered Santa’s inner sanctum. The big man sat in front of me.

“Well, little boy, what would you like for Christmas this year?” he asked, lifting me onto his surely diseased lap.

“Well,” I stammered, in my best Gentile accent. “I really want some Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. And a new bike. But most of all, I’d like…this!” I swiftly pulled out a razor-tipped menorah, and drove it into Santa’s massive belly.

“Ho ho ho!” Santa bellowed in dismay, as nine separate streams of blood gushed from his corpulent body.

“I did it! Santa’s gone, and Christmas along with him!” I cried, finishing the job with a few whacks to the head with an oversized dreidel.

Arriving back home, and already formulating plans to eliminate the Easter Bunny, I found the following note sitting next to my fireplace, beside a glass of milk and a plate of cookies:

Well played, Cohen-Wade. Well played. But I cannot be done away with quite so easily. What you’ve failed to understand is that Santa isn’t so much a person as an idea—a symbol for all that’s good and pure in this world. Trying to kill me is like trying to kill hope, charity, or love. Until you realize that, you’ll never know the true meaning of Christmas.
Happy Holidays,
S.C.

“What a fucker,” I thought. Grabbing some Throwing Stars of David, I ran out the door, heading northwards to finish the job.

Majority of Nation’s Scientific Knowledge Now Comes from Snapple Bottle Caps

A study released today by the National Science Foundation states that most of the average American’s comprehension of science originates from “Real Facts” printed on the underside of Snapple bottle caps. According to the report, the quirky facts, which appear under the caps of all Snapple and Diet Snapple drinks, have quickly eclipsed news reports, television documentaries, and even high school and university classes as the primary source for the nation’s understanding of scientific truth.

“In a survey of the American public, less than half of the respondents were able to positively identify a diagram of the periodic table, let alone articulate the concept of an element,” said Roger Flanagan, a Presidential Science Advisor and the study’s author. “However, fully 87% knew that giraffes have black tongues, as stated in Snapple Real Fact #22.”

One of the study’s strangest findings was that Snapple Real Facts frequently provide supplemental knowledge about topics that the average American can often barely comprehend. “An overwhelming majority of the population recognized the accuracy of Snapple Real Fact #117, which states that ‘Saturn would float if it were placed in a gigantic bathtub,’” said Flanagan. “This is true, of course, because the gas giant has an average density that is less than that of water. However, we were surprised to find that only 9% of Americans could identify Saturn as a planet in our own solar system. It turns out the other 91% believed that the Real Fact was referring to the car.”

Reaction from the scientific community has been mixed. “Science is not a purely theoretical field—it affects our everyday lives in a number of ways. It’s alarming that most Americans don’t know simple scientific facts that affect their personal health,” stated Sandra Vorhaus, a molecular biophysicist at Johns Hopkins University. “On the other hand, I suppose that there may be some practical value in knowing that termites eat through wood two times faster when listening to rock music. That’s #52, by the way.”

Mitchell Goldberger, CEO of the Snapple Beverage Corp., praised the study’s findings. “Our company is proud to fulfill a valuable civic function through our Real Facts program,” he said. “Thomas Jefferson famously wrote that ‘a well-informed populace is the best defense against tyranny.’ How better to fight tyranny than with a little of the ‘best stuff on Earth’?”

President Declares National Day of New Kids on the Block Remembrance

WASHINGTON, D. C. (AP)—In a solemn ceremony yesterday in the Rose Garden, President George W. Bush declared a nationwide Day of Remembrance for the popular ’80s singing group New Kids on the Block. “We are gathered here today for a single reason,” said Bush, flanked by his Cabinet and a bipartisan Congressional delegation. “To recall five American icons: Jordan Knight, Jon Knight, Joey McIntyre, Donnie Wahlberg, and Danny Wood. They were, are, and always will be our New Kids.” The President then released five doves into the air as a lone bagpiper droned the familiar strains of “You Got It (The Right Stuff).”

President Bush proceeded to read, in chronological order, the New Kids’ complete discography. “Stop It Girl. Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind),” he intoned stoically. “Popsicle. Angel. Be My Girl.” The list was later continued by Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, radio personality Casey Kasem, and former New York City Mayor Rudy Giuliani.

The day’s impact was felt both nationally and locally, as communities across the country held their own observances. All 437 citizens of rural Hanover, Montana gathered for a candlelight vigil in Courthouse Square, where the Chester A. Arthur High School choir sang their own rendition of “What’cha Gonna Do About It?” In St. Louis, Missouri, Mayor Francis Slay unveiled five life-size murals constructed by local artists from thousands of copies of the liner notes from Step by Step, the album often referred to as “The New Kids’ Sgt. Pepper.” The remembrance was even observed in outer space, as astronauts aboard the International Space Station donned vintage “NKOTB” t-shirts and released five doves into orbit.

Some citizens chose a quieter form of remembrance. William Freedman, a Camden, New Jersey bus driver, observed the day by leafing through his complete collection of New Kids trading cards. “Here’s #76, entitled ‘Jordan andDanny at the Studio.’ Look at them: so young, so innocent…there’s so much they didn’t know,” he said. “This one’s also a sticker.”

President Bush concluded the day with a nationally televised address from the Oval Office. However, Mr. Bush immediately broke form by tossing his pre-written speech to the floor and rising from his desk. “Sometimes words alone are not enough to express what we feel,” he murmured. The President then launched into an impromptu a cappella version of the New Kids’ hit 1989 single “Hangin’ Tough.” “Listen up everybody if you wanna take a chance. / Just get on the floor and do the New Kids’ dance,” the President sang in a full and lovely tenor. “Don’t worry ’bout nothing ’cause it won’t take long. / We’re gonna put you in a trance with a funky song, ’cause you gotta be / Hangin’ tough, hangin’ tough, hangin’ tough.” After several more verses and an improvised dance break, Mr. Bush returned to his seat and concluded his remarks by repeatedly screaming, “I love you Donnie! Whoooo!”

The members of New Kids on the Block could not be located for comment.

—Originally written for The Yale Record in 2003

Whites Appropriate One Millionth Slang Term

MILLBURN, New Jersey (AP)—When fourteen year old Madison Flanders uttered the phrase “Fo’ shizzle, my nizzle” to a group of friends in the suburban Short Hills Mall, she had no idea that she was making linguistic history. Lexicographers at the American Heritage Dictionary have officially identified this statement as the one millionth time that whites have totally usurped a word from black slang into their own idiom.

“Young Madison may not fully realize its implications, but her light-hearted quip authoritatively tipped the scales of ‘fo’ shizzle, my nizzle’ in favor of Caucasian, as opposed to African-American, usage,” said Dr. William DeWitt, editor-in-chief of the dictionary. “Besides the obvious milestone this case presents, it is also noteworthy for being the fastest such appropriation we have yet recorded. The time between when blacks first used this unique phrase and whites totally coopted it is a record seven and a half months. Just for some historical perspective, it took forty-nine years for whites to put their definitive stamp on the word ‘cool.’”

If past usage trends are any indication, “Fo’ shizzle, my nizzle,” which roughly translates as “for sure, my acquaintance,” will abruptly decline in use among young blacks as new slang terms are created to take its place. However, all evidence indicates that this cycle will endlessly repeat itself, as these same novel expressions will once again fall into mainstream white usage, thus necessitating another round of linguistic invention.

“African-American teens have been the ‘R&D lab’ for new slang in the U.S. for the past hundred years,” stated Dr. DeWitt. “Ever since whites started using the word ‘hunky-dory’ around the turn of the century, this pattern has consistently recurred. However, despite the symbolic significance of cracking one million, a disturbing trend is developing. We’ve observed that the gap between when blacks first coin a new slang word and whites steal it is decreasing at a nearly exponential rate. Our current projections indicate that by 2015 the majority of whites will be using new black slang just twenty-one seconds after creation.”

Dr. DeWitt continued: “No one really knows what will happen once the black-invention-towhite-vernacular interval hits zero. Some speculate that it could be akin to entering a black hole—the everyday laws of linguistics that we live by may no longer apply. A few experts have even gone so far to say that at that point—and I know that this is hard to believe—whites may even start to invent slang for themselves, which will in turn be picked up by blacks. I can’t even imagine what such a nightmarish linguistic terrain would look like.”

Asked for comment on the “slang meltdown” described by Dr. DeWitt, Madison Flanders commented that it was “totally wack.”

—Originally written for The Yale Record in 2003