“You might not be able to stop progress,” Stacy Keach says in some movie where he is fat, grizzly, cranky and past his prime, “but you’re never too old to fight it.” The old man wasn’t fat but he had to concede the rest.
What would Andy Rooney say? Those eyebrows, independent feral creatures, must be spinning in his grave.
Trump is not my baby daddy.
I think I can do ninety, the old man thought. Plenty of time, twenty years. No, wait! Make it a score plus. Go for the century mark. One hundred.
100. Why the hell not? One-Oh-Oh.
As traditions are trampled daily these days, he hoped centurions would continue to receive congratulatory greetings from The White House.
Doubtlessly, The Gold House by then. Donald Trump Jr. in his fourth and final term. With Barron now ready to step in.
Turns out their dad sold the country – “A deal I couldn’t pass up!” – to Vlad The Inhaler Putin. Who, after running the country, this country, our country, into the ground, declared the USA bankrupt. A Third-World has-been.
The Trumps – “Just good business!” – bought back everything for pennies on the dollar. Except California and Palm Beach, the new location for Guantanamo prison.
Palm Beach now an island off the coast.