Thursday, April 28, 2011

Like, this cat lost cabin pressure, 25,000 feet upside down

I wonder if Donald Trump's pompadour would come off if you flushed his head in the toilet.

Louie S. like to fight. He was a bandy-legged little Jewish cat from the upper east side. Maybe he was a bantam weight – on a good day. A real rooster, probably 130 pounds tops with the middle-aged spread factored in.

He had the ugliest belly you've ever seen. That's because he was a private investigator and one day while he was working a case in a rather unsavory neighborhood of Delray Beach, two black dudes walked up on him and demanded his digital camera.

It was a good one. A Canon with interchangeable lenses, all the doo dads and attachments.

They weren't concerned about the case, you see. Didn't care who Louie was taking pictures of or what it was all about. They just wanted the camera. Good for a couple of rocks, at least.

Louie was no fool, no stranger to the streets. He wasn't going to stand around waiting for something to happen. He tried to hit one of them in the face with the camera and got gut shot for his troubles.

Walked around with a colostomy bag for a couple of years before the surgeons figured out a way to repair his colon and let him take to the throne in a more normal posture.

But I digress.

Louie had the best Donald Trump story I've ever heard.

Somehow, some way, he made his father so angry at him – prior to his bar mitzvah, you understand – that the old man put him an exclusive military academy located somewhere in a charming little village located somewhere in Rip Van Winkle-country-on-the-Hudson.

The old man knew what he was doing.

This place was totally WASP-ola. One hundred percent goy. Not good for baby. No way.

So, Louie got his fair share of hazing.

Hey, I'm not saying I don't understand why. I mean, all you could do on a good day was let Louie be Louie – or just walk away, fly away, run away, but flee, cuz. We talkin' about flee, now.

Strong, y'all. Garlic sandwich, he was. Strong.

According to Louie, Mr. Trump was an upper classman in charge of bringing the bantam weight filibusters in line with the majority's way of thinking.

Order of the day. Flush the head in the toilet. Only way to make a lasting impression.

“They kept one stall totally clean and sanitary for the purpose,” Louie would always say. “Nobody ever used that one.”

Such a deal.

Anyway, he said Mr. Trump behaved as a total gentleman about the matter. He told Louie to relax, to just think of it as an experience, a trip to the shore to hear the sound of the ocean, etc.

But I could never listen to him tell that story without thinking of a trip to SS headquarters in the middle of the night, being made to stand on one leg naked – at attention – while some porky burgher in a stupid looking uniform shouts “Name of the pimp who fathered you!”

“Name of the whore who gave you birth!”

That was all about the birth certificate, too, remember?

Was your mama or your grandmother a Jewess? Yes, or no. Just answer the question. (K-vestion)

I can never look at that perch mouth, that pompadour, without wondering if the whole shebang would come off if you flushed it in the toilet.

Who knows? Maybe he has a special toilet over there on Palm Beach in that mansion of his, a special one reserved just for the purpose.

You're looking at a bully, a bully trained by bullies to do bully things.

He should show me his birth certificate. Maybe I have some k-vestions of my own, no?

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