Last week, 2016 Republican Presidential Hopeful #3,215 — known also as Donald Trump — made major headlines after retailers and other large corporations that Trump had done business with in the past started severing ties with the business tycoon. The reason for the fallout between Trump and companies like NBC and Macy’s was a stinging set of racially-charged slurs Trump made about Mexican people, starting with his official campaign announcement, and continuing through the ensuing days and weeks.
While the backlash against Trump was understandably swift and harsh from the various Hispanic and Latino communities in America, it was not limited to only those groups. “He’s like the Confederate Flag of human beings,” said Father Gary O’Riley of St. Mary of The Mountain Top Parish in the small mountain town of Grizzly Bear, Minnesota. Father O’Riley said that like the Confederate Flag, Trump is “totally racist and representative of terrible economic ideas.” The 43 year old Catholic priest further said, “one of those economic ideas is slavery and the other is Trickle Down Economics, so the Confederate Flag is still technically douchier than Trump, but he’s a close goddamned second, I’ll tell you that much.”
Dr. Helen Shapiro, Trump’s long time dentist even said she was “disgusted” by his comments. Dr. Shapiro said that she has “always felt more like a proctologist every time” she worked on Trump’s mouth because “only pure, unfiltered shit comes out of that hole” but that when she heard him saying that the people Mexico is “sending” to the United States are criminals and rapists she decided to no longer work on Trump’s teeth. “My husband is from El Salvador, and our children are all therefore all Hispanic themselves, and I can’t foresee treating him, much less voting for the smarmy bastard.”
While The Donald has a well-established reputation for simply shrugging off any criticism he receives, sources close to him say they’ve seen some major cracks in his stiff emotional facade. The Political Garbage Chute caught up with Donald on the campaign trail in Green Hills, New Hampshire. Our reporter found him alone in his hotel suite, standing in front of the large window facing out into the town, naked with only a specially-designed thong that helps “keep [his] ass looking damn good” according to Trump. However, even his “miracle undies,” has he describes them, he cannot shake the enormous feeling of sorrow he feels in his heart.
“I just don’t get it,” Trump told our reporter, “I’ve been doing the same schtick for years. Loudly bellowing my opinions out into the ether as if a) people give a shit and b) what I’m saying is in any way, shape, or form coherent political ideology. I’ve been an obnoxious, boisterous, pedantic asshole for decades and it never stopped me from being a pop culture icon or landing TV deals.” Trump stroked his chin, the motion causing his left buttock to quiver just slightly, as a stream of tears stared slowly rolling out of both eyes.
Trump took a deep breath and turned to our reporter, “So why come all of a sudden I make a couple of remarks about Mexicans and I’m losing money because of it? It just makes no sense. I don’t run for president, say really dumb and offensive shit, and I almost get rewarded by it,” Donald moaned, “but as soon as I say I want to be the leader of a country of more than 300 million people — with one of the most rapidly growing demographics within that 300 million being made up of the very people I’m insulting — and I start losing TV contracts for it? This isn’t America anymore!”
“If I can’t, as a super-white, super-wealthy, super-dicky old guy talk shit on brown people,” Trump said as the tears started coming down faster, his breath shortening. “Then-we-don’t-live-in-America…any…more,” he was shouting now, his voice cracking. “I’m just so confused. What kind of place is this if not an oligarchy wherein I can say stuff like I live in a bubble and just smooth it over with some sweet, sweet cashola?” Trump collapsed in a heap on the floor now, sobbing as the wetness of his tears started to melt the wisps of orange cotton candy he calls hair from the top his pate.
With the sobs now coming full force, Trump looked up at our reporter in agony. “Why does everyone hate me now? What took them so long? They lulled me into a false sense of security by never calling me on my racist, jingoistic, nonsensical pabulum before,” Trump was dabbing away tears with hundred dollar bills. “After decades of being the most obnoxious asshole in the room, I figured everyone loved that about me and it would be strongest asset in the election. I’d say some offensive and racist shit, the Republican base would go crazy for me, I’d win the election, slap ‘Trump’s White House’ on the top of that, well, big white house I’d be living in, and call it macaroni. But now, oh now I’m just a racist bastard who doesn’t deserve the fame attention he gets. I can’t win with you people!”
Summoning all his strength and courage, Trump hauled his limp, corpulent body up from the floor. He put on his $3000 slacks, an undershirt, a crisp new dress shirt designed for him personally by a fashion designer who only works with the richest of the rich, a new tie, and a sport coat. He winced, grimaced, then stood motionless for twenty seconds. Then an enormous and loud fart bellowed forth from his pants, and a smile crept across his face.
“Ya-fired,” Trump said, and then disappeared into a cloud of putrid green smoke.