Putting Donald To The Test

President Trump has, in his own words, accumulated lots of data and he has an astonishingly high IQ. I thought it only fair that we should be allowed to disseminate more widely the pearls of wisdom that no doubt shimmer in his every insight. His education was, self-admittedly, stellar, so I have taken the liberty of peeking at his answers to an exam on American History. 

exam-question(a) For a start I wasn’t president, which is a HUGE historical factor. If I had been president that graph would have looked bigly different because we would have had TOUGHER VETTING and a BIG WALL. It would have been the biggest wall ever with all the best bricks and the people would have thanked me for making them safe. I would have had the best ratings. The best! They’d have built statues of me in all the best cities too. Sorry if that makes the rest of you losers feel insecure, but it’s true.

(b) Lots of illegals poured in from “places” like Mexico and started taking jobs from decent Americans. Many of these illegals were bad dudes. BAD!

(c) Some of the Mexican bad dudes had children who were also bad dudes but as time went by some of the bad dudes wormed their way into the courts and became so-called judges who started making very bad calls on things they had no business poking their illegal noses in. This cost decent American patriots as much as $25 million in certain cases if you are to believe the failing New York Times, which you shouldn’t because it is staffed by liars and crooked pollsters. Sad!


(a) Because of tree-hugging snowflakes like John Muir, staff  in National Parks think it’s okay to tweet lies about so-called climate change and how it’s affecting the “poor little fishies” when they should be out counting my inauguration attendance more accurately.

(b) More wriggle room, right? Pipelines and so on.

(c) Oil fields. Lots of oil fields. We didn’t have fracking then, right? Now if I had been president between 1890 and 1945 we’d have had more fracking as well as more oil fields because some of my best friends are oil barons and frackers. Right frackers, not leftie liberal crybabies who consistently misrepresent me in the failing media. Roosevelt would have been with me on that one, trust me. He would have loved Donald J. Trump.


(a) “Former” president John Adams. Says it all. The guy was a loser. And Rush is a Canadian band so they have NOTHING to say about any American war.

(b) Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman getting to be a doctor. That was revolutionary. Would have happened sooner if I had been president. Adams held her back. Loser!

(c) You spelled “singer” wrong. Rush was a singer of the Declaration of Independence. Probably their worst track. Terrible drumming. See my earlier answer, we have NOTHING to learn from Canadians. I’m tired now. Can Steve do the rest of the questions?

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Nigel Molesworth Reports

 Further apologies to Geoffrey Willans and Ronald Searle


Since mi last misive there hav been SINISTER developments at st custards.

Last Monday our weedy Head had a brakedown during an ofsted inspektion and started throwing flowerpots at fotherington-tomas from his window on the 2nd floor. We noble lads were cheering wildly and the skool dog was barking furiosly and fotherington-tomas was hopping around wailing like a girlie until a begonier catch him on the cranium and he trip over the skool dog, PRANG, horse de combat as they sa. The poor lad had to be taken away by ambulence (the word on the skool grapevine is he can resume skipping agane once doctors have removed the bits of terrercotter from his brane. Chiz chiz). Meanwile the Head took refuge in the skool gym gibering like mi bro molesworth 2 after Peason put a sackful of worms in his satchel. When the police eventually found him he was curled up naked in a feetle ball sucking his thumb and asking for nanny. The Head that is, not mi bro after the worms. Thuough it is only a matter of time before mi bro follow in the Heads footsteps in mi opinion.

To be clear, that was not the SINISTER development. O no! As any fule kno, st custards hav lost more Headmasters than gillibrand hav had xtra skool dinners after winning a new trophy for for scoring goals at football. At least two others Heads that i kno of were taken away naked and dribling from the skool gym. It is a fact that Heads everywhere hav been losing marbles at a rate of nots ever since the kane was banned and they can no longer beat us:

PSCHYITRYST: So, [put anonymous Heads name here], how hav you been feeling?

HEAD: Sad.

PSCHYITRYST: Sad? Tell me more, mi dear fellow…

HEAD:  Sad. Miserible. Depressed. Downcast. Cressfallen. Mornful…

PSCHYITRYST: i see you were an Eng. Lang. skolar…

HEAD: Why yes! How did you kno?

PSCHYITRYST: Just a wild guess. So, my dear old chap, what hav happen to make you so sad, miserible, depressed, downcast, cressfallen and mornful?

HEAD: [beginning to quiver like jelly] Its just…[he sobs]

PSCHYITRYST: Yes, yes! Go on! Let it all out, you pore sap!

HEAD: i cant beat the boys! Ever since they banned the kane, i cant spank the evil little bliters! [He lets out a huge sigh of releif] Oh mi god how good it feel to sa it! If only i didnt hav to be so nice to them. So encouraging. i miss the sound of wilow on butock! i miss the anguished wails! The entreating plees! Wood that i could just hav back those halsion days! [GRAMMER]

PSCHYITRYST: Mi work here is done.

Anyway, deer reeder, what usually happen after a Head is carted away to the lunatick bin is a period of wild rejoycing among the boys and a marked increase in the use of BEER and CIGGIES among the Masters. For a while even the deadly skool sossages seem to taste a little less like something Heston Bloomingdale mite hav thrown up. The skool dog waits in vane to be huzzed one which make him even grumpier than ushual. All in all it is a good time to wear criket pads on your legs.

Here is the SINISTER bit. No sooner had the last incrimanating vestige of begonier leaf been swept away by the skool groundsman than grabber got a misterious phone call from his pater who was in banking but is now something big in the ministry of edukation. Aparently because of breaxit the govt is trying to suck up to the new president of the United States, Donald Trump (i kno, i promise i didn’t make that up!), who is a swanky American tycoon and orange, not to mention a bit of a lunatick with a wierd hairdo who hav already upset the queen and everybode after only a few days of frothing at the mouth, grabbing privite parts and ordering people about like he was Atila the Hun or something.

Grabber senior told grabber on the qt that we were being sent some American teaching staff pronto because the pm agreed they could test a new edukation system here at st custards. In return the president has said we can hav all the pumpkins we can eat and the proper instruktions for the nuclear misiles they sold us thirty yeres ago.

All the Masters are in a rite bate because noone will explane to them what it all means. They are in the dark. Which to be fare is pretty much buisness as ushual as far as i can see. The only one who seems to be happy about the whole affare is the Religious Ed Master, who danced around the playground and sa “at last, now they will all hav to take me seriosly” before sending out for crates of textbooks about Noahs Ark and tearing down all the dinosore posters in the Science Block. He hav always been a bit odd. Peason once caught him in the skool libary blacking out all the E words in a biology primer.

Anyway, gentel reeder, that is all for now. As you can see st custard’s is still the uter shambles it hav always been, and now with added Americans. i will let you kno how it goes.

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Mr Smith Goes To LALALAND


Yesterday I went with my wife to watch LALALAND.

I suspect my blog is not eagerly sought out by Trump-leaning folk, but any readers of that mindset will already be thinking “There’s another sad, liberal snowflake in thrall to his wife”. I should, therefore, make clear the decision was mine. If that merely confirms me as a sad, liberal snowflake, then so be it. People who figure things that way are so past reasonable debate that the effort is hardly worth the candle.

I thoroughly enjoyed the film, by the way, but this is not intended as a review. While watching, I couldn’t help but reflect on what is happening in America right now. If you were seeking a metaphor for the division between conservative and liberal America, Hollywood appears to lie along the fault line. As implied above, I think it a fair assumption that the core Trump supporter would not be a natural moth to LALALAND’s flame. Let’s face it, the film is in no small measure a paean to Hollywood, the creative process and, by extension, creative types. When Emma Stone sings about The Fools Who Dream, it could almost be a direct rebuttal to those, such as Trump and Piers Morgan, who consider actors as okay provided they don’t get above themselves and begin to speak out in matters political.  It’s as if, in some way, an actor is expected to sign a waiver agreeing to leave his or her conscience at the door. Now, you wouldn’t expect Piers Morgan to tell members of his audience “you’re a plumber, so you have no right to express your opinion”. Why, then, the special pleading for actors?

The answer is clear. Actors have, in abundance, what Trump and his acolytes fear most: an ability to connect, to communicate and to inspire; to tell a story that makes an entire audience wake up from an emotional and intellectual torpor; to point out, on some of the biggest stages in the world, that the emperor, indeed, has no clothes.

Trump is not going to win over more supporters by any of the actions he has taken thus far. His fan base in the US comprises those who were already turned on by those sorts of thing, and those who were not but saw no better alternative in Hillary Clinton.  As he is understandably loath to acknowledge, his ratings are already demonstrably poor, so, no matter how shrill the denials, it’s probable that he will only haemorrhage support from here.

Trump does not have intellectual rigour, he has intellectual rigor mortis. He is both educationally and morally moribund. To paraphrase Franklin, he died at 25 in both respects but has yet to be buried. He knows, and fears, that he lives with an ever-present Sword of Damocles: being irrefutably found out. Why else withhold his tax returns? Why else move to prevent his audit? He knows, and fears, that anything that keeps shining an unwelcome light on these matters can harm him immeasurably.

That is Hollywood and the entire entertainment industry’s power. Its own brand of populism scares him to death.

And if he thinks he is bigger than both, then he truly is living in la la land.

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Launch Code of the Woosters

With apologies to the great P.G. Wodehouse.


“I say, Jeeves! What do you make of this Trump fellow?”

For perhaps a millisecond, the great man paused in the act of pouring my constitutional snifter. A less keen eye might have missed it, but I am hewn from more perceptive rock. Jeeves is renowned from Bombay to Beccles as an imperturbable cove, so this fleeting pause was tantamount to him rolling around on the floor and caterwauling like one of those tiny ankle biters one sees littering the park on Saturdays.

He placed the fruits of his labours at my right hand.

“I’m not sure it’s my place to say, sir,” he prevaricated. “He is the new President, after all.”

“Come now, Jeeves!” I chided, after an appreciative sip at my w and s. “You have your views. I daresay he’s the talk of the Junior Ganymede.”

“As you know, sir, to disseminate what the club’s gentlemen have to say about their gentlemen is expressly forbidden.”

“Yes, yes, Jeeves!” I replied testily. “But I am hard pressed to believe that this chap would recognise a gentleman, even were one to fall on him from atop the Chrysler Building. Leave alone have a gentleman’s gentleman in his employ. He is a classic example of the American business tycoon. You know the type: two hundred decibels in both speech and trouser.”

“Very amusing, sir. And you are correct. If he does, indeed, have a gentleman, the club has never heard of him.”

“Quite so, Jeeves. We Woosters have a nose for that sort of detail. Instilled in us by aunts through the generations, no doubt. But you, Jeeves, are an acute observer of the human condition. You’re a thinker, like me. What do you make of him? Warts and all.”

“There is something about him which is extremely familiar, sir.  We have run across his like on many an occasion. Not to mention hidden from him during several escapades.”

The Woosters are of stern stock. None sterner. Years of public schooling and the aforementioned aunts have seen to that. But as Jeeves spoke I am not ashamed to say that a platoon of chills performed a route march from my coccyx to my scapulae, before falling out in the general area of the nape of my neck. Every hair on my body stood to attention and saluted.

“Spode!” I gasped, expelling the dread word in much the same way as a Satanist might read aloud from the Grand Grimoire.

“Indeed, sir.”

Roderick Spode, the infamous Seventh Earl of Sidcup, is an odious oik and as close to a nemesis as yours truly has ever had, assuming you exclude various fiancées and Aunt Agatha. He is of the goose-stepping dictator persuasion and has frequently espoused the view that he would as soon squash me underfoot, like the worthless worm I am, as offer me tea and biscuits. His general vocabulary is one in which you suspect the words “vile” and “jelly” are never far from the head of the queue. One time leader of the notorious Black Shorts, he is not a man you would want to indulge with any form of power. If placed in charge of an entire country I have little doubt its populace would never again eat imported root vegetables, nor pass through any form of checkpoint with an unmeasured kneecap.  I mean to say, the blighter wears shorts!

“You are saying this Trump is an American Spode? By jingo, Jeeves, this is the very opposite of that Doctor Pancho fellow in that rum book by that French chappie!”

A frown breezed briskly across the mighty Jeeves brow. I knew his impressive brain was whirring and clicking just below.

“Doctor Pangloss, sir,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “From Candide, by Voltaire. ‘Everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds’.

“That’s the fellow, Jeeves! Except the opposite. This is for the worst in the worst of all possible worlds!”

“Alas, so it would seem, sir.”

“Is there nothing we can do, Jeeves? Would it be too much to hope that this Trump character has an Achilles’ Heel? Perhaps a sideline in lingerie? A ‘Eulalie’ to which he might be susceptible?”

“I have every certainty that there is, sir. One can only hope that it is discovered sooner, rather than later. The Americans have a Central Intelligence Agency, as implausible as that may sound. I believe they are working on it.”

“Well more power to their elbow, Jeeves! Let us agree to ponder upon it ourselves. Who knows, on the way to my club I might come up with some form of weapon to use against this blister!”

The Drones, sir?”

I drained the last of the single malt.

“Indeed, Jeeves! Fetch me another bracer, if you will! There’s a definite chill in the air.”

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Should Auld Acquaintance…

This blog has been recycled from a previous blog. Recycling is good for the environment. Fact.


It’s Burns Night and later, after a few snifters, those of a more Scottish persuasion will no doubt be singing Auld Lang Syne. But what on Earth does it all mean? Fear not, my faithful follower! I studied Burns at school and, as my gift to you, I am happy to bring you the inside dope on what was going on amid that impenetrable thicket of Scots. You’re welcome.


Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?

Should we forget our old friends and not remember them?

[Note how Burns uses this tautological device to drive home his point about forgetting things. Like the thing he just said.]

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

Should we forget our old friends and Old Lang Syne!

[Old Lang Syne was a teacher of mathematics at Dalrymple Parish School where Burns first learned some of the things he later forgot. At that time, of course, Old Lang Syne was Young Lang Syne, second son of the headmaster, the original Old Lang Syne. To this day the debate rages furiously among scholars as to which of the Old Lang Synes is referenced in this poem. Some have even posited that Burns was referring to both. A sort of co-Syne.]


For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

My best drinking bud, let us drink a cup of something alcoholic to the memory of Old Lang Syne.

[A cup of kindness is generally held to be a corruption of “a cup of Kidney’s”. Kidney’s Old Peculiar Dark Ale was a perennial favourite at the Tam O’Shanter Inn, Alloway, where Burns spent many a long day between poems.]

And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp!
And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

For certain you’ll drink several pints of Kidney’s Old Peculiar, and so will I, to the point that we will toast Old Lang Syne over and over again with little memory of having done so already.

[The device of repetition is deployed by Burns throughout the poem, capturing the essential tediousness of a conversation between two drunkards.]


We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine;

Basically we’re both at that stage of inebriation where we’ve totally pissed our pants but don’t care because we’ve now moved on to the optics.

[Gowan’s Fine Scotch Single Malt Whisky was another staple at the Tam O’Shanter. After a particularly heavy session on it, Burns was once moved to write an ode to a louse.]

But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang syne.

But we’ve come a long way since Old Lang Syne. Which reminds me, we must drink a toast to him.


We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;

We’ve been piddled in the pub all day

[The Burn was a tavern notable for being frequented by poets of all persuasions. After heavy drinking sessions a favourite line among locals was: “Aye! Burns is burned in The Burn again the noo!”]

But seas between us braid hae roar’d

And it feels like we’ve drunk an ocean of ale

Sin’ auld lang syne.

Jings! We really should drink a toast to Old Lang Syne, before we forget.


And there’s a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught,

For auld lang syne.

Give me your hand, my best drinking buddy, I’ve just realised that after nineteen pints of Kidney’s and a couple of bottles of Gowan’s I am feeling such friendship for you that I might very well let you stroke my manhood. After all, it’s what Old Lang Syne would have wanted. Here’s to him!


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A Vision in a Dream. A Figment

My spirit guide, Bob, has been knocking urgently on my astral door ever since the inauguration. Seems Samuel Taylor Coleridge was on the Ethereal Blower with this report from the Other Side.


Millions of people thronged the Capitol  last Friday. And a Christmas tree.

In Washington did Donald Trump

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

And Ralph, the White House dresser, ran

Through swatches to complete the plan

   Downtown in old DC.

With twice five miles of plate gold found,

The walls and rooms were gilded round;

And there were toilets bright with auric frills,

The toilet rolls were golden filigree;

And here were Donald’s photos, flattering stills

Staring down at whomsoever had a pee.


But oh! that cool reflecting pool which slanted

Across the green Mall beside the Lincoln shrine!

Trump hated it! The whole thing left him haunted

As e’er because his self-esteem was taunted

By great deeds of the past he could not outshine!

In his speeches, with ceaseless swagger seething,

Were countless porkies, natural as breathing,

Almighty whoppers, pan-handled from a stream

Of glinting fools’ gold, a never-failing seam.

Huge falsehoods vented in front of cameras,

No evidence, each claim bigly bold as brass.

Amid these diatribes the TV and press

Were made to sit in silence, witness the mess:

Five pages wandering with hazy notions

Through countless words the hapless visitors sat,

And gawped at each new shiny alternate fact,

Then sank at length, bewildered, in commotion;

And ’mid this tumult Donald heard from far

Journalist voices prophesying war!

   The shadow of the presidency

   Passed across the gathering;

   Nothing that was evidentiary

   Seemed to mean a single thing.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A White House pleasure-dome with caves of ice!


   A spokesman with a bone to pick,

   Sent out by the president:

   “We had two million. Period

   The multitudes were myriad!”

   Millions at the Capitol?

   Could I believe, within me,

   His rhetoric so strong?

   I knew the answer instantly:

Something here was very wrong.

I would put that Trump on air,

That White House dome! those caves of ice!

And all who watched should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His tiny hands, his stupid hair!

Beware this man who cleaves to power

And close your eyes with holy dread

For he on Russian treats hath fed,

And drunk a call girl’s golden shower.

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Don’t Panic! The Hitchhiker’s Guide To Donald J. Trump

With apologies to Douglas Adams


It has been remarked by members of a certain bipedal species that The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – despite being an indispensable repository of occasionally accurate knowledge for the intergalactic traveller – is somewhat terse on the subject of Planet Earth: “Mostly harmless” wrote the contribution’s author, Ford Prefect, after just fifteen years of research.

Seasoned observers of the Guide have commented that it’s what Ford Prefect did not say that is most illuminating – specifically, the unqualified exceptions to the word “mostly”.

Some scholars have suggested that, if only one knew where to look, the brusque entry would reveal hidden dimensions, containing a plethora of useful information about the types of harm one might encounter on Earth. Those more au fait with Ford Prefect’s work ethic consider that these scholars are misguided buffoons. Doctor Grizzlybald Spintlepook, Visiting Professor of Hyper-Cultural Awareness at Tau Ceti University, points out that Ford Prefect “could no more hide important information in a pan-dimensional footnote than he could paint a convincing forgery of da Vinci’s  La Giaconda with his rectum.”

Spintlepook, it should be noted, spent many of his formative graduate years sinking Pan-Galactic Gargleblasters in the company of Ford Prefect, so it is understandable that he developed a jaundiced view of his fellow student. Of his four livers, one alone survived the alcoholic onslaught – and only then by pretending to be a Rigelian sand weasel on vacation in Spintlepook’s renal system.

As it happens, both sides of the argument had it wrong. Ford Prefect had made extensive notes on how to have fun on Earth, with a lengthy side glance at some of the dangers. His editors, however,  who clearly favoured brevity as the soul of wit, pruned it back to just the two, albeit pithy, words.

Zarniwoop, one-time president of Megadodo Publications, reminisced in his autobiography, Megadodo Man, that his editors had striven to reduce it to just one word, but had failed to agree whether that word should be “mostly” or “harmless”. “In any event,” he observed, “the whole thing was rendered pointless when the Earth was demolished by Vogons, to make room for a hyperspace bypass.”

A series of shenanigans involving, among other things, the Infinite Improbability Drive led eventually to a restoration of Ford Prefect’s original work and the surprise appearance of another Earth. Insofar as the Guide was ever a truly accurate resource, it now remains the only link between the Earths, old and new. It may, or may not, contain useful insights into the human condition, and it may, or may not, throw new light through old windows. In a nutshell, it is business very much as usual for The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

It is in this spirit of uncertainty, therefore, that we delve once more into The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to see what it has to say on the subject of Donald J. Trump.


Trump, Donald J.

There are certain things that humans generally consider inexplicable: a complete theory of quantum mechanics; the true nature of God; the enduring popularity of American-style bacon.

Along with these imponderables must be included the continuing success of the life-form known as Donald J. Trump. With no discernible intelligence or ability, he has risen to unimagined heights: TV star, property magnate and plutocrat. Some have suggested that he might one day run for President of America and be successful, against all logic.

From a galactic perspective, these things are impenetrable to humans in much the same way that the success of humankind is impenetrable to more evolved and sensitive beings. It is an ironic fact that humans are generally considered the Donald J. Trumps of the universe. “How are they even still alive?” goes the whisper around the more erudite circles of galactic society. “How does a species so fundamentally stupid that it still thinks digital watches are a pretty neat idea even get out of bed in the morning without tripping over the dog and killing itself?”

A symposium was put together by some of the universe’s leading universities to contemplate this very question. Learned scientists – including some super-intelligent mice – put together a raft of virtual experiments. However, in each and every scenario, the virtual civilisation always destroyed itself in new and generally interesting ways. The researchers knew they were missing something important, but no one could put an appendage on what.

Then, one morning, the huge doors of the main debating chamber were thrown open to reveal an old, ragged man in old, ragged clothes. The scientists were in uproar at this unwanted intrusion, until someone recognised the man as one of their own, a scientist who had gone missing in the very early days of the symposium when an entire experimental Earth had literally vanished into the space-time continuum without so much as a by-your-leave. Now, as he staggered down the aisle amid his shocked colleagues, the chamber fell into an apprehensive silence.

Ranzelman Gnathobdel spoke.

“My friends and learned colleagues,” he quavered, “I am returned, miraculously, from the brink. As you know, I was lead researcher on the simulation known as Earth Eight.”

There was a hesitant stirring among the assembled scientists. The babel fishes in their ears were feeding back a horrid screech, beneath which it was difficult to pick out exactly what Gnatobdel was saying.

Here is what they heard:

“Greetings everyone! I am bigly pleased to be here! It’s been years since I went on holiday and I’ve had a blast!”

The untranslated Gnathobdel continued: “The last thing I remember was turning the dial of the Infinite Luck Generator to maximum before switching on the system…”

The scientists heard:

“I beg and implore you to send me back to Earth, where I am anxious to make it great again!”

“At that exact moment, it appears we intersected with some form of Improbability Drive and were transported clear across the universe. We should all have been killed, but I can only assume the Infinite Luck Generator kept us safe, for, no matter what happened after that – be it asteroid collisions, wars, plagues, the rise of idiot dictators, the proliferation of nuclear weapons – none of it made any difference. We kept on surviving. Ridiculously, but with absolute certainty! Ladies and gentlemen, friends and fellow scientists, I know without a scintilla of a doubt what happened to make humans so impervious to unkind fate. And, trust me, we have to find a way to stop them before it is too late! Please, somebody! Please help me! Help me stop them before they take over the entire universe with their wretched good fortune!”

“My name is Donald J. Trump and one day I will be President of the entire Universe!”

After much scratching of heads and great debate the symposium decided to abide by the avowed wishes of the weird man. The symposium itself was wound up as inconclusive and the budget it saved was turned over to Donald J. Trump’s travel and upkeep. He was sent back to Earth to continue his great work with the humans. No matter how he protested, all people heard was exactly what the luckiest man in the entire universe did not want them to hear.

He is still there, and doing very well, to his continuing despair.

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