80: A Blast from the Past
A BLAST FROM THE PAST:
HOW THE WORLD CHANGED 80 YEARS AGO IN JUST A FEW SECONDS
Eighty years ago — on June 14th, 1945 — Mr. Fred Trump of Queens, NY flexed his flabby sag loins, sucked in a deep breath, and then blasted his dribble into the motionless flesh of Mrs. Mary Anne Trump, half-asleep and bored out of her skull.
Indeed, Father Fred was known to everyone around him including those who could stomach more than a few miserable moments of his presence as a dubious and dastardly fellow, with those steely piercing eyes, excruciatingly drab and witless, insatiably driven by an obsessive worship of money. Mother Mary, coiffed with a distinctive reddish beehive bouffant, was his deeply frustrated former socialite-turned family-stable brood-mare, sadly and severely limited in her day by the strict roles and expectations of gender and responsibility. It was a marriage of money and misery.
But do credit Mrs. Trump for performing her faithful wifely duties on that sticky, hot, humid, summer evening though masking yet another utterly forgettable 3 minutes and 45 seconds of mind-numbing boredom. Thank God, she thought to herself, for the Presbyterian fantasy swimming inside her head of man machine Frank Sinatra crooning his hit single, “All of Me” to her at that very instant. Oh, Fred–do that to me one more time.
The couple’s brief biological tryst and exchange of body fluids marked yet another awkward bi-monthly routine of passionless matrimony, noteworthy now eight decades later only for the cataclysmic disaster thrust upon the world on that night. No one at the time could have foreseen the death of American democracy had just been conceived. It was like a sewer rat mating with a she-mannequin then left to metastasize in a dark cave hatching nine months later as a poisonous snake.
Pity us all.
It’s such a damned shame that on that fateful night, Fred didn’t whack off into a crusty sock as was his normal ritual, or on his most tingly occasions relieve himself in the shower, his faux would-be spawn swirling down the rusty drain pipe off into the yonder into a New York City wastewater plant. That’s where the demon-seed branded as “Donald” belonged. Just imagine how much better off we would all be right now if Mrs. Mary Anne Trump had given the excuse, “Sorry Fred, not tonight — I have a headache.”
