In Pchattusta Poonus, we had our very own outrageous, larger-than-life personality in charge for a time. Although his reign ended in the siege and seizure of his property and the forced sterilisation of his entire enormous family as decreed by the Ooopchantil judges, today we look back and laugh - and not just because of the nitrous oxide Mr. Poonus made compulsory for everyploov to inhale before meals!
At the moment, humans and ploovians alike may take heart in the fact Donald Trump's election will result in a new zenith for the popular, all-American, all-staged sport of wrestling. A little something like this...
On April 7th, 2017, the White House lawns hosted a fateful event: Wrestlemania. Never one to let an opportunity slip by, President Donald Trump rechristened the White House as the Trump House. Banners, festooned with the WWE and Trump brand logos, cascaded down the building in a patriotic, moneymaking display.
The formerly pristine, untouched lawns were converted into an impromptu stadium; the most advanced mobile stands, stacked twenty rows high, encircled the wrestling ring. On the night the arena was crammed to capacity. Trump, toting an AR-15 assault rifle, aimed the gun skyward and fired, bellowing 'America!' between discharges. Roars of applause and “USA! USA!” greeted each shot until the weapon's magazine was empty and a microphone given to the President:
"Ladies and Gentleman. Ten years ago in the Battle of the Billionnaires I beat, bodyslammed and shaved the skull of wrestling magnate Vince McMahon. Today the stakes are much higher. Boys! Wheel them in."
A squadron of secret servicemen appeared with Mark Zuckerberg, Satya Nadella, Tim Cook, Brian Chesky and Travis Kalanick. Each was bound and gagged to a wheelchair and visibly terrified, as the referee for the match suddenly roared, smacked a can of Budweiser against his skull and aimed it at the tech luminaries, the mass manufactured suds cascading against their squirming, monied faces.
"Tonight...tonight is the Battle of the Siliconnaires!" cried Trump, gleefully.
"Each of these captains of American industry are responsible for so much business, so much business. Now isn't that great? That's great, people. However I've heard some terrible things about Silicon Valley ruining good American lives by bringing in Indians, making crappy bloated computer software, having honest Americans work for garbage on their middlemen apps, and making the FBI work harder on their encryption. I mean come on: the God-fearing patriots of the FBI!" Trump shrieked, grimacing and shaking his head indignantly.
"Nerdy Timmy there even said NASA and his Maps thing predicted flooding tonight. Well sorry, but the only floods we'll see is the flood of righteous abuse against you sad, sad competitors. That is if you pick the wrong contender to fight my man Stevie!"
Stone Cold Steve Austin entered the ring alongside five obviously lesser wrestlers, flexing his biceps angrily. Wrestling magnate Stephanie McMahon, eager to join the proceedings, assumed her place near to Trump. Each of the tech business geniuses were made to choose a fighter to represent them, as Trump menacingly hefted an electric razor and a tattoo gun to the baying crowd who chanted: "Shave em'! Brand em'!"
Calling for quiet, Trump addressed the billionaires with a pointed finger: "Attention, our quinoa chomping, pretentious nonsense spouting, electric car driving, global warming myth advocating betters. Let me show you how true Americans behave!"
Trump turned to Stephanie McMahon and suddenly suplexed the woman. Lifting her aloft with an opportune grab between the thighs, Trump rounded off with a coup de grace bodyslam. Turning to the crowd as Stephanie heaved and rolled in mock agony on the ground, Trump fist-pumped the air and howled:
"Yeeeahhhh!! Right in the pu...wha?!"
An enormous shadow was suddenly cast upon the floodlit area, puzzling the beet-faced President. Hysterical catcalls and cheers turned to screams of horror: a tidal wave, two hundred feet high, was poised above Washington D.C. . The President’s security detail futilely aimed and fired their guns at the watery horror as it inevitably swept downward in a devastating arc.
Trump, gobsmacked, sprang into survival mode. As the wave neared impact, he ripped off Stephanie’s business suit top, looked into her shock-numbed eyes, down at his own erection, then grabbed her silicone-stuffed breasts and said:
“Just trust me!”
The water crashed down, deafeningly junking the entire stadium, washing away thousands of spectators, amid agonised screams and carnage. Yet just minutes later the scene was tranquil; Washington D.C. was utterly covered in water, rather like a fine sizzling steak smothered by cheese and ketchup to the point of its own invisibility.
Moments later, a small splash disturbed the still scene: it was President Trump and Stephanie, the breasts of the latter were repurposed as buoyant ballasts.
“Let’s get to high ground.” spluttered Trump, still grasping Stef's life saver mammaries. With instinct and skill, he paddled the pair to the Washington Monument, whose phallic peak stood just above water level.
“For God’s sake Donald, that hurts!” Stephanie protested as Trump’s stubby fingers dug in.
“This is your President at stake, you nasty woman!” Donald shot back, panting between paddles.
At last the two reached the monument’s peak. Clambering onto it, they turned, greeted only by devastation. Soaked, panting and shaken, the pair surveyed the deluged remains of the greatest country on Earth.
“Damn...we gotta get some coal-fired drainage pumps and petrol generators over here, fast.” Trump said, nodding emphatically.
A desolate hour went by before an air ambulance appeared overhead, scouting for survivors. Spotting Trump and Stephanie, it slowed to hover overhead. A medic appeared at the helicopter’s doorway, poised to throw a ladder to save the two.
“Do you have your credit card information and a form of identification with you?” the man called, hands firm upon the tantalising rope.
“What?! No! I’m the President. This is Stef McMahon. We’re good for it, I swear!” Trump spluttered, anxiously.
“Sorry Mr. President. I’m not authorised by my employers to offer a life saving rescue without payment details. Good luck, sir!”
The man pulled away from the doorway, craned his head to the pilot, and said: “Let’s find someone worth saving. These two freeloading pr'cks deserve to die...who do they think they are? Mexicans?”
Trump, momentarily stunned, shook his head and muttered: “Deplorable...those guys, total and complete deplorables. Bigly.”
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