DELBY MEETS DONNY (TRUMP THAT IS)
Dear Donald. As you know, or at least we hope you know, our two countries have been good neighbours for a long time, and I think it incumbent upon us to keep it that way. Oh sure, there was that one rough patch when your women’s hockey team beat ours, and our goalie after several vodka coolers set out to poison your nation’s water supply, but hey, that was just girls being girls.
As we know, good relationships demand good communications, especially between heads of state, but unfortunately there are just too many differences between you and “Two Shoes” (first name Goodie) Trudeau for this to happen. Instead, I have been brought out of mothballs to fill in for Justin while he’s off saving the world.
The two of us however have very much in common. Not only are we of the same vintage, we both have similar and equally goofy names, you being Donald, me being Delbert, to friends and family Donny and Delby. To top it off, we both look stupid in ball caps, you because of your hair, me because of large ears, which earned me the grade three nick name Flop Ears.
Rather than the two of us having a formal diplomatic relationship, I envision something much more relaxed, like a couple of guys getting together for beers or in your case a stiff tomato juice, you being a non drinker, a fact that the world is eternally grateful for. Gatherings where we both share experiences and help each other out. Real men working together to solve real problems. After all, two heads are better than one. Especially if one of those heads is yours.
You’ve done an admirable job back east, making America great again. The buggy whip manufacturers are back in business, the K cars are rolling off the production line again, and in Detroit’s Plaza of Planned Obsolescence, the bird crap has been scraped off the statue of fellow Asian basher Lee Iacocca, motto: Rust it and they shall come.
But out west, once you’re past the Rockies, it’s one seething mass of pinkos. Never mind the Mexicans, it’s the states of Washington, Oregon and California you have to worry about, Mad Hillary’s the lot, many of them smelling of what was thought to be sulphur, but turned out to be the mothballs in my sweater.
In fact, the closest thing you’ve got to a right wing government on the whole Pacific Coast is in British Columbia. Oh sure, they call themselves the Liberals, but that’s
just to get elected.
If I were you I’d forget building the wall along the Mexican border and build it on top of the Rocky Mountains. Your whole Pacific flank has been taken over by the Flaming Hillary’s who aren’t wasting any time preparing for the next election.
They now know what it takes to win the Presidency, A unique hair-do, in your case the Trumpador. Hollywood hair stylists are working 24/7 on a new power-do for Hillary. It’s been a close comb off, but the Kookie Burns (Kookie, Kookie. Lend me your comb.) Has been the upset favourite thanks to just the right degree of insouciance. In second place, but falling back quickly, is The Elvis, which was judged too butch and a little greasy.
And Donny, more threatening yet is they’ve hired Tommy Vu, undisputed king of the fraudulent infomercial, “You like this boat, you want these girls?” to train Hillary how to lie with complete and utter sincerity. They figure within six to nine months her fabricated stories will be even better than yours. How scary is that?
They’re also working on outrageous conspiracies, the latest being that your hair dresser—who no one has ever seen, by the way– is actually an alien with access to your brain via a trap door in your head, South East of your bald spot. Since many of your ideas sound as if the came from outer space, this will be hard to defend against.
But I’m getting ahead of myself; first let me establish my credentials. My hometown Nanaimo leans solidly right. We have the Island’s first Cabala’s where you can get all the stuff you’ll need to make America great again; guns, ammo, camo PJ’s, and in the event you should snag a brontosaurus, a hemi powered meat grinder.
And what’s a right wing community without a fort. And ours is a beauty, it’s called the Bastion, a heavily timbered Octagon shaped building with gun slits instead of windows. We call it a Smart Fort, because rather than building a long expensive wall to keep people of colour out, we built a small structure to keep the white guys in.
You see, every so often the local aboriginals get uppity and want the land we stole from them back. When this happens we sound the alarm and run to the Bastion from where we hurl epithets out the gun slits. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but lawyers will never hurt me.” That kind of thing. After a while their legal expenses mount up, they back off, and out we come.
Not that Bastions don’t have glitches. They work well in the wet winter months but in dry summers are highly susceptible to flaming arrows, which is why if you order one, we strongly suggest ticking the overhead sprinkler option box.
But enough about that, let’s look at your first responsibility, establishing yourself as Leader of the Free World. As we all know, the biggest threat to humanity is North Korean strongman Kim Von Fat Cheeks. Make him a deal he can’t refuse. All his nuclear weapons for Dennis Rodman. How could he resist?
The next issue I’d like to bring up is a personal matter. What’s with all the long ties? You’re not a seven foot two inch NBA player; you don’t need a 40 ft tie. Shopping at Mr. Big and Tall is not a good idea. Long fingers, long penis is plausible. Long tie, long penis, no one is buying.
The problem, to put it indelicately, is long ties and urinals don’t mix. Accidents do happen. Millions of people didn’t vote for you because they thought your politics stunk. Actually it was just the tie.
slightlycorkedandmore 