Bible Study with Donald Trump

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donald-trump-750x455Hey, I’m an author. Did you know I was an author? Well, I am, and I’ve written the second greatest book out there, The Art of the Deal. If you haven’t read the book, you need to grab a copy because it’s tremendous; there’s a tremendous amount of wisdom in that book, but you know what, there’s even a better book out there, and that’s the Bible. Nothing beats the Bible. It’s my favorite book. And this might surprise you, but the Bible is an excellent textbook when it comes to showing you how to make a deal. Let me tell you, the God of Hosts was no slouch when it came to making a deal.

Ever heard the story of Dinah and Shechem? You can find it in the 34th Genesis. Now this is the kind of story they skip over in Sunday school because it’s not politically correct, but you know what? I’m sick of political correctness. I’m going to share this neglected story with you because it’s one of the greatest deals ever made in the history of the world.

Okay, Dinah’s the daughter of Jacob and Leah, and on her way to visit some women, Hamar’s son Shechem sees her, finds her attractive, and rapes her. Now, I’m against rape because I love women. I cherish them. Unless they’re whores like Jezebel or bitches like Noah’s wife or pigs like Roseanne Barr. Anyway, that’s not the norm. Most women are wonderful, and anyway, rape’s a terrible thing.

But get this. This rapist Shechem falls in love with this Dinah, the babe he’s raped, and his old man Hamar approaches Jacob with a deal. I’ll go ahead and quote from the Contemporary English Version. It’s much better. None of those thees and thous and smiteths and all those archaic words that irritate the hell out of you. You agree, right? Of course, you do. Archaic words have no place in the modern world. Anyway, here’s the scoop: Here’s what Hamor says to Jacob:

My son Shechem really loves Dinah. Please let him marry her. Why don’t you start letting your families marry into our families and ours marry into yours? You can share this land with us. Move freely about until you find the property you want; then buy it and settle down here.

Shechem’s right there with his old man. The gall of these people, asking favors from the father of a daughter you’ve just raped. It’s terrible. Even Bill Clinton wouldn’t do something like that. Anyway, Shechem adds, ““Do this favor for me, and I’ll give whatever you want,  anything, no matter how expensive. I’ll do anything, just let me marry Dinah.”

Okay, guys, if you’re ever trying to make a deal, never say you’ll do anything. Makes you look weak. It’s pathetic. You gonna get took. Just watch and see. Here’s what Jacob’s sons say:

You’re not circumcised. It would be a disgrace for us to let you marry Dinah now. But we will let you marry her, if you and the other men in your tribe get circumcised. Then your families can marry into ours, and ours can marry into yours, and we can live together like one nation.  But if you don’t agree to get circumcised, we’ll take Dinah and leave this place.

Well, Hamor and Shechem swallow the bait hook, line, and sinker. They decide to talk all the men of the tribe in getting circumcised so they all can intermarry with the Israelites, thinking they could get access to their crops and flocks, to create a merger so to speak.

But here how it goes down. Again, I’ll let Moses do the talking.

Three days later the men who had been circumcised were still weak from pain. So Simeon and Levi, two of Dinah’s brothers, attacked with their swords and killed every man in town, including Hamor and Shechem. Then they took Dinah and left.  Jacob’s other sons came and took everything they wanted. All this was done because of the horrible thing that had happened to their sister. They took sheep, goats, donkeys, and everything else that was in the town or the fields.  After taking everything of value from the houses, they dragged away the wives and children of their victims.

Now that’s what I call one great deal. Not a lousy 50/50 proposition. Not an eye for an eye, but a village complete with farms and widows and slave children for a hymen. Like I say, I’m not for rape, but you have to admit the compensation for this deal was out-of-sight.  Maybe if we had some deal makers like Jacob’s sons in Washington we wouldn’t be getting taken to the cleaners by China and Mexico.  It’s a disgrace.

Okay, that’s it for today. I got to go out and make America great again.  But join me next week, and we’ll talk some more Bible. King Nebuchadnezzar. He was rich. Maybe not as rich as me but rich. I’ll talk all about him next time.

Simeon Levi

Offing People from Off, Donald Trump Style

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Your Modest Author

Your Modest Author

What the success of Donald Trump’s presidential candidacy has eloquently demonstrated is that Americans crave simple, no nonsense solutions to our problems.

Take his plan to cleanse the country of the infestation of illegals, those predatory, pick-pocketing, often pregnant, anchor-casting Mexicans slipping through that porous sieve of a shitty excuse of a wall that fails to protect us from their nefarious plots to mow our lawns and frame our houses.

As soon as their pregnistas start dilating, they dog paddle across the Rio Grande, and the next thing you know, they’ve given birth to a US citizen, who eventually ends up hogging space in an emergency room, getting sewn up after his gangland knife fight, all on Uncle Sam’s dime.

Not to mention that once they’re established, they vote for the Democrat party.

Certainly, a country that has put men on the moon can set up a system to identify criminals who have entered our country illegally and deport all 11 million of them.

Although Candidate Trump hasn’t exactly worked out the details, he’s smart, rich, and successful, so don’t be surprised if for PR purposes he opts for Greyhounds instead of boxcars.

pmc12_0413_ortiz_03mt-300x270

All of this has gotten me to thinking about similar problems we face in coastal South Carolina. Nowadays, getting a parking space in downtown Charleston within a mile of your desired destination is as unlikely as drawing a royal straight flush.

As I inch my way homeward each afternoon down Folly Road, like a blood cell squeezing along a clogged artery, I’ve noticed a proliferation of license plates that don’t feature palmettos trees or crescent moons. Each day, more and more cars appear; new stop lights are popping up like mushrooms, all because of an unsustainable influx of outsiders.

No, these people impeding my progress aren’t foreigners in the multi-national sense, but the majority of them are not natives of South Carolina. They don’t sound like us, they don’t think like us, and they don’t pull for the Gamecocks or Clemson. In other words, they don’t belong here. They’re taking over, I tell you, and mark my words, as Bruce Springsteen once sang, “Soon everything we’ve known will all be swept away.”

Today the Confederate flag, tomorrow octoroon Klansmen. Don’t be surprised, fellow native South Carolinians, if your grandchildren say “you guys” instead of “y’all.”

Thanks to Donald Trump, I’ve come up with a plan to take back our South Carolina, i.e., rid the Palmetto State of people-from-off. I’ve sent a letter to my state representatives demanding that they introduce legislation to implement my two-step plan to restore South Carolina to its pre-influx purity. I promise you, fellow natives, getting a parking space downtown will not be a problem if this plan is implemented.

It has two parts. The first step, of course, is to secure our borders. I suggest we construct a massive combination of Hadrian’s Wall and a tollbooth that wraps around our pie-shaped state. Anyone entering the state will have to pay a hundred dollar toll. What about people flying in you ask? Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. I’m very smart.

And, hey people, I’m getting Ohio to pay for the wall!

The second part is simply to invite non-natives to self-deport, and if they refuse, to utilize the National Guard to forcibly remove them.

Of course, this change will result in some short-term inconveniences (empty condo complexes, mass bankruptcies, the closing of the Air Force Base), but we eventually conquered Reconstruction, didn’t we? We need to take the long, not the short view. We’re talking about our way of life.

Sure, things might get a little lonely down here on the lane where I live. My next door neighbor Jim will have to go, and Bobby and Nina, also Claudia, who lives two houses down, and the Weimanns and their two beautiful daughters, and of course, Chico Feo will have to close, and the Jack of Cups.

Oh yeah, and my wife, Judy Birdsong, she was born in Georgia.

That leaves me, and only me.

Come to think of it, xenophobia might not be such a great idea in a nation of immigrants.

How to Talk Cool Like Zora Neale Hurston

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zora-hatA while back, I posted a lament about a few endangered locutions of the Lowcountry of South Carolina, my native neck of the woods (and marshes, clay pits, swamps and beaches).

Some of the words I feared were kaput included swunny (as in I swear or I declare), reckon (as in I conjecture), right (as in it’s right hot), and whatchasaybo (as in hello, brother). The first three of these words my long dead grandmama used on a daily basis, but it’s been a coon’s age since I’ve heard somebody say, “I reckon it’s right hot.”[1]

The homogenization of the language is, of course, inevitable, but do lawdy I hate to see these old words and phrases go. They add Tabasco to the day-to-day saltine of cliché after cliché – awesome, dude, this guy, that time, etc.

What brings all this to mind is that I just finished rereading Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God for school, and I can’t think of another novel besides Huck Finn that makes such exquisite use of American vernacular, so I thought I’d share with you some of her locutions, no doubt rooted in the early 20th Century black vernacular of central Florida. Of course, I encourage you to start using these phrases in your daily dealings, especially with the Man.

Monstropolous – no definition needed here. Cf., Camille, Hugo, Katrina. In TEWWG, the sentence “The Monstropolous beast had left his bed” describes the hurricane that rips through “the Muck,” i.e., the Everglades, putting a tragic end to the idyllics.

Mouth-Almighty – a noun describing a know-it-all that won’t shut the fuck up[2].  You know, Donald Trump, Chris Matthews.

Protolapsis uh de cutinary linin“  – Oscar Scott uses this phrase to describe Jane’s second husband, Joe Stark, the mayor of Eatonville. Oscar says that “you kin feel the switch in his hand when he’s talking’ to yuh [ . .] Dat chastisin feelin’ he totes sorter gives you the protolapsis uh de cutinary linin’,” i.e., an unsettling feeling in your stomach.

The go-long – a phrase suggesting a long lasting relationship in the Al Green sense of “Let’s Stay Together”: “You got me in the go-long,” Tea Cake says to Janie.

Combunction – I suspect this is a combination of combustion and gumption, a positive word denoting bad-assedness. In TEWWG, Tea Cake declares himself “ a son of Combunction.”

Cuttin’ the Monkey – from its context, I suspect cuttin’ the monkey means playing “the Sambo” for white folks, engaging in self-deprecating minstrelsy to curry favor with overlords. It’s a term of derision.

In TEWWG coon dick means bootleg whiskey, but according to the Urban Dictionary, it now is “a term used for yelling insults or obscenities at pedestrians from moving vehicles “ as in let’s “go coondicking after the movies” or “Brandon is one hell of a clever coondicker.” The Urban Dictionary does credit the term to Hurston’s novel and identifies its new denotation as having been coined in Kendall, NY, by a group of teenagers.

Tsk tsk.

Well, gotta go. Hope you enjoyed this monstropolous post from the original mouth-almighty, one crazy combunnctious curator of cool-sounding colloquial jive.

z-drum

[1] A coon’s age dates from the early 1800’s when folks considered raccoons to be long-lived animals.

[2] The consonant t-sounds and the three successive assonate u-sounds mandate the use of this phrase rather than the effete runs his or her mouth.

I Blame It All on the Old Man’s Lullabies

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Anyone who regularly reads this blog knows that it’s rife with typos, misspellings, and undiscovered auto-corrects.

Who’s Whose fault is this you ask?

Not mine, damn it. I proofread several times.

Why then all the errors?

It’s because I’m almost as auditory as Ray Charles (minus the musical talent). I don’t see words, I hear them, and after a couple proof-readings, they completely disappear.

So you possess visual detail perceptual differences?

Yes, I’m a ducking imbecilic moronic retread when it comes to detecting typographic details, and I blame my father for this.

82

So you’re blaming your dead father for your own inability to focus on the arrangement of the Roman alphabet to insure its sequencing conforms to standard usage? Genetics are to blame then?

No, not genetics. By rocking me to sleep each night until I was pushing three, my father rewired my brain so that auditory images have stunted my capacity to process visual imagery. I’m a throwback to the Homeric ages, to the Skops of the Anglo-Saxons. I can recite poetry from memory like an iTunes playlist but can’t manage sometimes to find words like “initiatives” in a dictionary.

You poor man.

Oresteia -ChorusThere’s more. Not only did my father stunt my ability to process visual keys, his choice of lullabies created in me a tragic view of the world. We’re talking a heavy dose of Stephen Foster and a host of cowboy songs that are about as upbeat as your typical Greek chorus.

Here are few examples of Daddy’s standards.

He might start off with something like Stephen Foster’s “Hard Times Come Again No More”:

There’s a pale drooping maiden who toils her life away,

With a worn heart whose better days are o’er:

Though her voice would be merry, ’tis sighing all the day,

Oh! Hard times come again no more.

‘Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,

‘Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore

‘Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave

Oh! Hard times come again no more.

jeanieAt least we don’t know the “pale, drooping maiden’s name” or the color of her hair, unlike in the plaintive “I Dream of Jeannie.”

Her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown,

Flitting like the dreams that have cheered us and gone.

Now the nodding wild flowers may wither on the shore

While her gentle fingers will cull them not more:

Oh! I sigh for Jeanie with the light brown hair,

Floating like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

Then there was the “Streets of Laredo”

“Then swing your rope slowly and rattle your spurs lowly,

And give a wild whoop as you carry me along;

And in the grave throw me and roll the sod o’er me.

For I’m a young cowboy and I know I’ve done wrong.”

“Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water.

To cool my parched lips”, the cowboy then said.

Before I returned, his soul had departed,

And gone to the round up – the cowboy was dead.

We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly,

And bitterly wept as we bore him along.

For we loved our comrade, so brave, young and handsome,

We all loved our comrade, although he’d done wrong.

49-311094

However, the song I remember that most haunted me was the pathetic and cruel “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie.”

“I’ve always wished to be laid when I died

In a little churchyard on the green hillside

By my father’s grave, there let me be,

O bury me not on the lone prairie.”

“I wish to lie where a mother’s prayer

And a sister’s tear will mingle there.

Where friends can come and weep o’er me.

O bury me not on the lone prairie.”

“For there’s another whose tears will shed.

For the one who lies in a prairie bed.

It breaks my heart to think of her now,

She has curled these locks, she has kissed this brow.”

“O bury me not…” And his voice failed there.

But they took no heed to his dying prayer.

In a narrow grave, just six by three

They buried him there on the lone prairie.

And the cowboys now as they roam the plain,

For they marked the spot where his bones were lain[1],

Fling a handful o’ roses o’er his grave

With a prayer to God his soul to save.

By the way, any idea how you spell yippy-i-ti-aya?

[1] Not my fault, dammit: sic!

Excitable Jack Horner

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another  from A Child’s Meth Lab of Verses

 

meth lab of verse

 

Excitable Jack Horner

Excitable Jack Horner

sat in a corner

eating his curds and whey.

 

He put in his thumb

and pulled out a crumb

and like an ass began to bray.

 

littlejackhorner-national

 

from A Child’s Meth Lab of Verses

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meth lab of verse

 

 

 

Bad Choices

 

In Nashville, Mississippi,

not far from the Rio Grande,

there lived a French Canadian trapper

named Hedrick Eckelmann.

 

He wrote a short novella

about the Second World War.

It ran ten-thousand pages;

he called it Less Is More.

 

He married a gal named Betty Sue,

who gave him two fine sons,

but she died a virgin at 44

cleaning one of his guns.

 

Terribly devastated,

he remarried within a week,

and lived happily ever after

until he choked on a steak

 

right outside of Nashville

in the heart of the Lone Star State,

right across the river from Canada.

Damn, he could’ve had a V-8.

A Sub-Literate, Sorrowful Not-Walt-Whitman Hitching

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walt hitching

I missed a bus in Baltimore, and with no place to stay, restless, desperate, running low, I thought I’d try to hitch a ride.

I should have known. Ain’t no decent man gonna pick up a hoary-headed hobo nowadays.

I stood on the shoulder, stuck out my thumb, squinting down the highway through the afternoon exhaust, hoping that some good Samaritan might stop.

Eight hours later, round about one or so, a jacked-up pick-up pulled over, one of them monster pick-ups, black, four-door, with a stunted back seat of sorts.

“Hop in, old man,” the driver snarled. “Let’s go. Ain’t got all night.”

I slung my bag into the bed, climbed my way way up, and slammed the door.

The passenger rolled up his window, the driver grabbed the wheel, put the pedal to the metal, war-hooped a holler, laid some rubber, and we was on our way.

The two of them wore their baseball caps backwards, nothing but kids, white, maybe twenty or so, but right off I could see their eyes lacked light, like they was lost.

(And I could’ve been sleeping in that depot waiting for the morrow).

“How much you plan pay us for this ride?” the driver drawled. “We ain’t no commies, ain’t got no use for no freeloaders.”

I told them I was bust broke, that if I had me some money, I wouldn’t be standing on the side of a highway at one a.m. in the morning.

The passenger punched me in the chest, slapped my face, and while I was wallowing, jacked my wallet.

The driver pulled over, hopped out, slung me to the ground, climbed back in, then drove off with my bag in the back rattling around in the bed of the truck.

That was a month ago. I’m back in Mayo now writing these so-called adventures on scraps of paper.

I keep them on my person, in the pocket where my wallet used to be, so on the day they find me dead, they’ll know a bit about me.

A Review of Punditry re. the Republican Debate

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Jimmy Carter, one of the Right’s favorite punching bags, commented recently that the United States was no longer a democracy but an oligarchy. Although perhaps hyperbolic, Carter’s comments do highlight some uncomfortable facts. For example, according to the New York Times, “fewer than four hundred families are responsible for almost half the money raised in the 2016 presidential campaign, a concentration of political donors that is unprecedented in the modern era.”

Not surprisingly, one of the most pressing issues for these donor families is the abolition of estate taxes.   How many family estates pay taxes, you might wonder? In 2015, 1.2% of the population paid “death taxes” as the Koch brothers call them, or the “Paris Hilton tax” as EJ Dionne of the Washington Post labels them.

Of course, loopholes large enough for not only camels, but also elephants and asteroids to pass through are there for the exploitation, so when you get down to it, the effective tax rate for the estates of this 1.2% of the population boils down to a paltry 16.6% on average. And get this, according to the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, only “20 [that’s 4 x 5 = 20] small business and farm estates nationwide owed any estate taxes in 2013.”

So does repealing the estate tax make any sense for a government that spends in excess of 600 billion dollars a year on defense alone?

You betcha, if you’re one the Koch brothers or the other 400 families who have raised half of the money flowing into these so-called super PACs.

Next question. How many of the Republican presidential candidates are for the abolishment of estate taxes?

[cue sarcastic laughter]

Which brings me to last Thursday’s presidential debate, which I sort of watched while checking out tweets. (Given my delicate sensibility, my enduring such a grotesque circus is tantamount to drinking that rancid pre-colonoscopy concoction).

More to my taste is reading the pundits’ “takeaways.” Who were the winners and losers?

Well, here’s Hoodoo’s run-down of the conventional wisdom.

The BIG WINNERS according to the pundits:

Carly Fiorina

WASHINGTON, DC - DECEMBER 18: Carly Fiorina, former CEO of the Hewlett-Packard Company, speaks at the Heritage Foundation December 18, 2014 in Washington, DC. Fiorina joined a panel discussion on the topic of

As far as biography goes, Ms Fiorina, the daughter of a law school professor, dean, and federal judge father and a portrait/abstract artist mother has the advantage of growing up in relative poverty, despite the fact that her parents gave her a grand piano as a wedding gift. She touts her career arc as rising “from secretary to CEO,” and it’s no lie.

During summers while attending Stanford, she worked at Kelley services, and after dropping out of UCLA’s School of Law, she served time as a receptionist at the real estate firm Marcus and Millichap. Later, she earned an MBA from Maryland and a Masters in Management from the Sloan School of Management at MIT.

Obviously, she ain’t no dummy, and besides that, she’s articulate and quick on her feet, attributes she displayed Thursday night and a rare commodity among most of the other “contestants” on the stage of what seemed more like a gameshow than a debate.

So I agree with the CW on Fiorina. Don’t be surprised if she ends up being a vice presidential choice, despite her first ex-husband Todd Bartlem’s accusation that during their marriage she had an affair with her soon-to-be second and later ex-husband, Frank Fiorina, a senior executive at ATT. Obviously bitter, Bartlem told that paragon of journalistic excellence the Daily Mail that Fiorina “los[t] her humanity” in a “pathological” pursuit of power.

In her memoir Tough Choices, she describes the marriage’s dissolution this way: “While we were married, we weren’t peers.”

Ouch!

Marco Rubio

rubio_perplexed_master_0Like Carly Fiona, Rubio was also lucky enough not to be a beneficiary of great wealth. (Some people have all the luck; sorry, Jeb). In fact, Rubio’s father worked as a bartender, as Marco likes to boast.

CW went gaga over Rubio’s performance. He took on Hillary’s claim of “living from paycheck to paycheck” to great applause and spoke of the 100K of student loans he racked up and repaid in full, though he wisely didn’t mention the $80,000 boat he purchased while paying off his loans, his liquidating a $68,000 retirement account, nor did he mention his failure to make mortgage payments on his home for five months, nor the fact that he had a lease of $50,000 on a 2015 Audi Q7.

Now that’s what I call living from paycheck to paycheck in style!

I disagree with the CW that Rubio was a big winner because of his statement that he doesn’t believe in abortions even if the mother’s life is at stake.

Not to mention rape and incest.

I can see the Hillary commercial now. Female voiceover, pregnant mother with damaged fetus that threatens her life makes the excruciating decision to abort. Cut to subsequently born happy white children skipping towards a swing set to be pushed by surviving, smiling mother.

Or, how about a couple of shots of the baby in David Lynch’s Eraser Head?

John Kasich

pic_related_111014_SM_John-KasichOnce again Kasich is fortunate to come from modest means; his father was a mail carrier.

During the debate, I agree he was very effective. His response to why he had expanded Medicaid was superb, essentially, “duh,” who in her right mind wouldn’t?

Though the pundits universally adored it, I was less impressed with his non-answer on how he would explain to his hypothetically gay daughter why he doesn’t support marriage equality. Rather than saying, “because the Bible tells me so” or “I believe that sexual orientation is a choice,” he dodged the question and boasted that he had recently attended a gay wedding and added, “If one of my daughters were that, of course, I would love them.” (my italics)

Well, duh, who in his right mind wouldn’t?

Still, if you’re a rational Republican willing to compromise on your contempt for the poor, Kasich strikes me as eminently electable.

THE SO-SO WATER TREADERS

Jeb Bush

I actually think Jeb was a loser and agree with Frank Rich’s assessment that Bush speaks “with all the conviction of a robo-call.” He needed to create some sparks and didn’t.

Plus the poor bastard is a scion of one of the 1.2% of the families who will have to pay some estate taxes when #41 passes from, in Richard Wilbur’s words, “this rotten/Taxable world to a higher standard of living.”

Scott Walker

walker super durpThe conventional wisdom — too scripted — which maybe was a good thing. I can’t find to share the mean-spirited image flashing its way through cyberspace the night of the debate, a motion gif that makes Dukakis in that iconic attack ad featuring him in a tank look like Sean Connery’s James Bond in comparison.

So the picture above will have to do.

Mike Huckabee

An articulate spokesman for the 5th Century BCE, but will his message appeal to 21st Century voters?

Chris Christie, Rick Perry, et al

 Yawn.

BIG LOSERS

Rand Paul

Rand Paul

Though some have touted him a winner, most see Rand Paul as a loser, and I agree with the latter. To break out of this pack, you need charisma, and in Paul’s case, a new hairdresser.

And last but not least

Donald Trump.

ptbOh, where is HL Mencken when we need him?

Dead and gone to hell, according to all these men and woman of faith.

I so wish someone had asked Trump about his metaphysical beliefs. Perhaps he would have identified himself as the Messiah.

I would, though, if I were Fox News, not be so gung-ho in expelling him from Republic contention. As my favorite saint, Teresa of Avila, famously put it, “More tears have been shed over answered prayers than unanswered prayers.”

A Trump independent candidacy would doom the Republicans.

Bottom line: All these candidates seem to care about are rich folk and fetuses.

That may be enough if you have the 1.2% shoveling unlimited money your way. For as PT Barnum said and Donald Trump’s ascendency proves, “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

The Not-So-Official Donald Trump Campaign Theme Song

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Campaign theme songs go all the way back to Andrew Jackson’s “The Hunters of Kentucky” with these inspiring lyrics:

We are a hardy, free-born race,
Each man to fear a stranger;
Whate’er the game, we join in chase,
Despising toil and danger.
And if a daring foe annoys,
Whate’er his strength and forces,
We’ll show him that Kentucky boys
Are alligator horses.

Sometimes candidates choose already established tunes, like FDR’s appropriation of “Happy Days Are Here Again” and JFK’s employment of “High Hopes.”  Other times candidates commission original songs as Barry Goldwater did with the all but forgotten Tom McDonnell and Otis Clements number “Go with Goldwater.”  These songs are often flops. I seriously doubt that any of you codgers out there remember the ’68 election campaign song “Nixon’s the One.”

Nevertheless,  I can’t tell you how honored I am to have chosen myself to compose the theme song for Donald’s Trump 2015 campaign, which is entitled, appropriately enough,  “Donald Trump, We’re so Pumped.”  Let’s hope it ends up being more successful than the Republican candidate’s 1972 theme song “Nixon Now,” which you can experience for yourself here.

the donald

To be sung to the tune of “The Mickey Mouse Club Theme Song”

Ah, one, a two, sing:

Who’s the man in the GOP,

Whose best for our country?

D-O-N-A-L-D T-R-U-M-P!

*

Not Bush, Not Walker, Not Carson!

They’re as bland as they can be

D-O-N-A-L-D T-R-U-M-P!

*

Donald Trump!

We’re so pumped!

Donald Trump!

He’s on the stump!

*

Let’s raise a middle finger and fuck propriety:

D-O-N-A-L-D T-R-U-M-P!

*

Come along and join the throng

On the road to prosperity

D-O-N-A-L-D T-R-U-M-P!

He has a solution, embraces pollution,

Gets results, slings insults.

(Who cares if the rest of the world is retching?)

*

Who’s the alpha of the pack,

Who can heal our sick country?

D-O-N-A-L-D T-R-U-M-P!

*

Hey there! Hi there! Ho there!

He’s as angry as you and me,

D-O-N-A-L-D T-R-U-M-P!

Donald Trump!

We’re so pumped!

Donald Trump.

He’s on the stump!

*

Come along, let’s sing the song

And start a P-A-C

D-O-N-A-L-D T-R-U-M-P!

*

Yay Donald!

Yay Donald!

Yay Donald Trump!