In a parallel universe somewhere Donald Trump is using his finances to restore the Dodo bird to civilisation. His initial thought process revolved around creating one female and seducing her with his lustrous locks and vagina lips, but his daughter hastily talked him out of it, fearing that little Donald (his penis, not his gay son) could fall victim to bird flu.
With that project taking time to come to fruition, Donald needed something else to occupy his psyche. His eBay selling days were numbered after a second negative feedback strike (Super Nintendo Sunset Riders had a tatty box), and the milk that had once gushed from his burger sized nipples was now an apologetic trickle – his next of kin had finally sucked that puss filled well dry.
A light bulb needed to flash soon for the nasally voiced septuagenarian, fortunately six billion dollars can buy a lot of 60 Watt bulbs.
“I am Trumpton, Lord of the dance” he declared to a room full of potential employees, swinging his sweat stained corduroy threads above his perspiring money maker as they pretended to be impressed, whilst secretly wondering if he was suffering a stroke or the symptoms of delayed male menopause.
In actual fact he had struck gold; bum bags for bums; Bum Bum Bags! Oh, Trumpstonator, with this idea you are really spoiling us!
‘I am Lit’ he Tweeted to followers. ‘Today I have designed the perfect fanny pack for homeless people in Britain, where it is known as the bum bag because their bums are their asses and their fannies are women’s naughty bits or a crude description for someone you don’t like!’
‘By measuring the exact dimensions of each homeless man at all of the tube stations in England’s capital I have found the ideal dimensions for the demographic!’
This Tweet had far exceeded the 140 character limit and wouldn’t send, he needed to amend it. “I could change the word tube to tub” he opined wisely to his put upon P.A, as she tapped away on his smart phone, which was in actual fact a lump of rotting beef that he’d been bashing around for several decades.
Eventually the Tweets were sent and production began on the ‘Bum Bum Bum Bag’ the additional bum ensuring that only the bummiest of bums were able to procure one of these delicious tie-arounds.
Donald set up his rickety table on the outskirts of a fish market near Old Kent Road, his eyes filled with cataracts and wanderlust. The stench of the decapitated sea creatures filling his nostrils in a way he hadn’t experienced since his massive Cocaine binge the previous hour.
Thousands of well-wishers approached the shaky table with the folded napkin under one leg, each impressed by the elaborate stitching on the bags, but nobody would purchase one.
It seemed that the one flaw in this virtually airtight $6bn blueprint was the sheer contempt shown for the more affluent hobo, who may carry some dosh in his or her socks or pockets. Without them onside this was a machine gun in the mitts of an infant.
Trump was declared bankrupt within hours, his favourite toilet sold to Michael Buble at auction for a pittance. Desolate, he shot himself up the anus with a stolen BB gun. Three pellets lodged; the permanent anal beads a reminder of happier times.
Trump Towers was melted down and turned into hair dye for Pokemon characters with reading difficulties, with Donald Trump melted down to become part of the Atkins diet – delicious when sprinkled directly onto a pork chop despite being 92% flaking scrotum.
That is how we remember Donald Trump in our parallel world, how about you? His teeth toured around various Ripley’s Believe it or Not franchises, his legacy assured among a jaded society.
But, what of the Dodo? 17 beautiful babies seared at Trump’s hand, each with their own roadkill reminiscent hairstyles. Yes, it seems that devious Don did have his wicked way with the bird after all, the filthy shit!
The chronicles of Trump are available at all good supermarkets in exchange for a pint of tepid dog milk.