NOTE: The below piece is satire and is based upon The Aristocrats which is “a taboo-defying off-color joke that has been told by numerous stand-up comedians since the vaudeville era. It relates the story of a family trying to get an agent to book their stage act, which is revealed to be remarkably vulgar and offensive in nature, with the punch line revealing that they incongruously bill themselves as the Aristocrats. When told to audiences who know the punch line, the joke’s humor depends on the described outrageousness [with incest as its central theme] of the family act.
“Because the objective of the joke is its transgressive content, it is most often told privately, but it came to wider public attention when it was told by Gilbert Gottfried during the Friars Club roast of Hugh Hefner, a few days after the 9/11 terrorist attacks in 2001. It was the subject of a 2005 documentary film of the same name by Paul Provenza and Penn Jillette” (source: “The Aristocrats.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation).
Dateline: Washington, DC, and parts unknown and unnamed. Photo credit: unknown, but what is known is that the photographer disappeared without a trace immediately after being fired via a late-night tweet composed while its author was sitting on a gold-plated toilet seat in the cellar of the White House while reading this article and incessantly screaming, “THE PICTURE WAS RIGGED. IT’S BEEN PHOTOSHOPPED. THE STORY IS A FRAUD. IT’S A HOAX—NOTHING BUT FAKE NEWS!”
Nevertheless, multimedia giant Hunting For Thompson.com stands by the investigative journalist who filed the following Pulitzer Prize–worthy Gonzo-esque story before being rapidly dispatched on another cloak-and-dagger and extremely dangerous assignment, which holds the potential of exposing revelations so great in nature that if our newshound digs his nose deep enough into the sewage-filled swamp and is able to ferret out the complete story and confirm it with the same high-standard, deep-seated research by being embedded in the muck and mire in order to win the hearts and souls of similarly impeachable, impeccable, utterly reliable, and fair-and-balanced entrenched sources used to confirm the following article, well then, the Christian holiday known as Easter will be forevermore canceled. Forget the Holy Grail; we’re searching for the body itself. Film at eleven. But first . . .
by John R. Hall
Members of the Trump family have been whispering to their confidants about the family’s forthcoming entertainment dynasty.
I have the lowdown on what the first family Trump will be doing after they begrudgingly vacate 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. To be sure, it will be a family affair: an all-hands-on-deck maneuver, a family bonding experience, an entertainment extravaganza of such distinction that after its star-studded opening night premiere comics will be reduced to hysterically crying in the theater’s aisles and in Broadway’s gutters. Once all the jesters’ tears and terrible visions have been shed, the afore-funny people will abandon all hope and head for the Bowery to join the languishing ranks of its inebriated and despondent inhabitants. There they will be forced to jettison all notions of adding their two bits to the underground fantasy and farcical bit that Gilbert Gottfried shot into America’s post-9/11 zeitgeist, which occurred simply enough. It was just a happy accident due to Gottfried’s recollection and observation of his inability to get a direct flight to the Friars Club roast of the now-late Hugh Heffner a few days after the 9/11 attacks.
“Some people say”—to quote Donald Trump—“that The Trumpocrats will be bigger than The Aristocrats.” Bigger in the number of family participants, bigger in its offerings of gesticulations, bigger in its portion of positions, bigger rear ends, and bigger in the number of literal and figurative assholes on stage—but smaller between the male performers’ lower limbs in length and girth. Although, and as a crack journalist I have this on the record from numerous anonymous groups of some of Trump’s people, a plethora of huge “colored” latex and plastic “apparati” will be used to enhance the audience’s view and enjoyment. (“Apparati,” as my sources, who are deeply devoted members of the Donald’s poorly educated base, explained, is their preferred word choice.) “I love the original Latin’s normal-clature,” they all proudly proclaimed while speaking of The Trumpocrats production’s capacious usage of myth-confirming and African-colored phalli props.
Somebody else who is extremely and inescapably deeply connected to the Trumps’ imminent spectacle told me that The Trumpocrats’ usage of priapic auxiliary aids is not due to any (ahem) shortcomings . . . but rather “to show support for the Americans with Disabilities Act and respect for Black Lives Matter.”
“After all,” my source continued, “nobody’s done more for African American communities and journalists with disabilities than Donald J. Trump. And he plans to continue to do so in all of his future ventures.”
God better bless America was this atheist’s singular thought while investigating this story.
You may be wondering just who these some people are of which I refer and defer. That’s a fair and balanced inquiry. I assume that they are the same some people that the Donald so often—and with complete faith—refers to. And, as a good patriotic American like yourself, who am I to question the US president’s cloaked and Klan-destine sources.
Like you, I initially dismissed the insidious and incestuous randy rumblings of a post–White House triumphant sexcapades act performed by the first family Trump. But then I remembered something about an Access Hollywood bus, a Bush (pun intended), and a statement that drove the demand for pink knitting yarn to an all-time high: “Grab ’em by the pussy.”
My refreshed memory of a great moment in an American president’s backstory and history triggered another vertigo-inducing MAGA remembrance. Trump said on TV’s The View: “If Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I would be dating her.” Maybe The Trumpocrats has been percolating in America’s stable genius of a president’s mind for eons, which I misconstrued as just your run-of-the-mill all-American daddy-daughter dangerous fantasy. In a 2004 interview with Howard Stern, Donald Trump said, “My daughter is beautiful, Ivanka.”
To which Stern interjected, “By the way, your daughter . . .”
Trump finished Stern’s sentence by repeating, “She’s beautiful.”
Then Stern interjected again: “Can I say this? A piece of ass.”
“Yeah,” Trump replied.
A few years later Trump returned to Stern’s den of derogation. The two men were no longer concerned with Ivanka’s ass, because her upper dress choices had taken a noticeable change in a gravity-defying direction, or in non-elite speak: upwardly perky. Stern wanted to talk about Ivanka’s breasts, and the Donald did not object. After all, once your daughter is reduced to a piece of ass in your presence, “nice tits” is simply a friendly compliment among shrewd men.
Stern asked Trump with bated breath, “Did your daughter get breast implants?”
“No, she didn’t,” Trump answered. “I mean, I would know if she did. The answer is no. Why?” the Donald quickly queried with an excitement that matched Stern’s bated breath. “Did she look a little more stacked?”
“Trump was just joking,” his sycophants asserted when Trump’s preoccupation with his daughter’s breasts popped up. But, in hindsight, I now believe that the upcoming The Trumpocrats was why the Donald took such a keen interest in Ivanka’s (and more recently in Tiffany’s) sex appeal.
Maybe the Donald was always counting on his daughters if all else failed. And on January 20, 2021, that will be the case: the Trump brand’s continuing failures will be on display for the whole world to witness (unless, of course, we are inconvenienced beforehand by a presidential decree of martial law to protect the integrity of the 2020 election, which, strangely enough and consequently, would also be beneficial to all Americans by finally addressing the pandemic elephant stomping across our nation).
Just how does one recover from a worldwide spectacular failure such as a one-term American presidency even though over seventy-three million votes were cast for a second term. There’s no hiding from that. Trump could build houses for humanity to repair his image, but good old boy Jimmy Carter beat Trump to the punch. Plus, just the thought of nonwhites living in houses that the Donald built would be enough to end such nonsensical talk before it could begin. But the notion of starring as the family’s patriarch in a Broadway show, well, that would appeal even to the least narcissistic among us.
That is why I am forced to report on the whisperings, of which I have been privy to, by some people who are murmuring that The Trumpocrats has been green-lit by none other than the Senate’s (as rumor has it) sexually impotent Mitch McConnell and Trump’s fellow “grab ’em by the pussy” justice Kavanaugh (Brett’s excessive beer drinking and insatiable pussy grabbing is reflected in Kavanaugh’s congressional confirmation hearings).
Well, why not The Trumpocrats? It makes perfect sense. It would seem that—at least for father Donald and golden daughter Ivanka—the Trumps have The Aristocrats’ act down pat.
In deep and dark circles where everyone is off the record, it is now common knowledge that the former Aflac duck and The Aristocrats’ torchbearer Gilbert Gottfried is currently in “final negotiations” to direct the Trumps’ sultry show. Little Gilbert has a big charge: get all the Trump family into the act, including all former wives. It is being said that Gottfried has secured Melania Trump’s participation. “I very much and long enjoy be told about the America vaudeville,” she allegedly said in her best broken English. “Me love perform long time,” she supposedly continued before asking, “Have you see model pictures for me I make?”
While it was not a deal breaker, it was shared that the current Mrs. Trump was a bit disheartened when she was informed that blackface performing has fallen out of vogue. I was told that the Donald’s most recent immigrant wife was desperately searching the entire White House for her favorite coat, the one with the bold white painted lettering on the back declaring: “I really don’t care. Do U?”
Some people have, albeit anonymously, gone on the record and stated that “dimwitted Eric and little Donny Junior” have been privately practicing The Aristocrats’ act on one another for years—and more recently with their women in tow—in hopes of enjoying the same attention that daddy Trump dispenses upon sister Ivanka. And that their not-so-little half sis Tiffany Trump has been busy dieting after her stint sitting for many years in Georgetown while waiting on being bequeathed a Juris Doctor degree so that Daddy might refer to her as “a piece of ass” too.
Broadway could use a fresh approach after going dark due to COVID-19. The Great White Way will be in dire need of a family-bonding collaboration, a good God-fearing and moral majority–approved production, a Republican Party–sanctioned show, a Bubba-promoted and endearing red, white, and especially blue family act reflecting how hardworking Americans enjoy family time while snuggling around and upon the kitchen table.
The scuttlebutt bouncing around New York City’s International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees Local One union hall lends credence to the common conjecture spreading like wildfire below the bright lights of Broadway’s marquees on the movers and shakers’ casting couches that The Honeymooners’ midfifties set (reflecting Eisenhower’s America) has been recommissioned for use in the live production of The Trumpocrats.
If that comes to fruition, I’d happily toss aside all journalistic ethics and foot the bill to produce The Trumpocrats. And then count myself lucky for the honor to pay double or triple—any price—to see it; just so long as there’s an oversize mastiff and a short-haired teacup chihuahua serving as costars. Toss in a few giant pythons, Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Stephen Miller, sisters in arms Kellyanne Conway and Kayleigh McEnany, a couple of rats, and a gerbil or two, all serving as extras to give the production some sense of additional pizzazz that’s so sorely missing from the live sex acts performing in Amsterdam’s red-light district at Casa Rosso, with its Republican-esque mascot of an elephant, and just maybe the show could become an international hit. Unlike the disastrous dog-and-pony show that’s been playing for far too long on the first floor of the White House.
Upstairs, in the residential quarters of the White House, I can easily imagine an urban legend was a Trump family-night tradition. It would make perfect sense and fit with the Trumps’ misguided attempts to degrade the Democrats. I can see it now: the Donald relaxing on satin Russian sheets while enjoying unabated warm golden showers and watching the Trump females reenact the famous, the infamous, Tijuana donkey show—ouch!
This might all seem farfetched, but once one ponders the merits and photographic evidence of Bill Maher’s Trump–orangutan mating ruminations, all bets are off.
A word to the wise: immediately retain the services of ticket scalpers in every major city to be on the lookout for front-row tickets to The Trumpocrats. You’ll want to see it up close and personal. It’ll be just like attending a Gallagher show from yore: front-row seating will require plastic rain ponchos to avoid being splashed by the performer’s sweat and other bodily fluids.
As my deadline for filing this CNN-worthy breaking news and earth-shattering story approached, I was frantically trying to confirm, by getting a second some people anonymous deep background source to remain off the record but substantiate that in fact Barron (the youngest) Trump was secretly asking everyone for Kellyanne Conway’s teenage daughter’s (Claudia’s) contact information. It seems that emancipation from one’s parents is a thing with Washington’s Republicans’ privileged, pampered, and now disillusioned teenage kids.
Just as I was moving my mouse toward Word’s close file “X,” my cell phone lit up and indicated that the incoming call was originating from a private number. I took the call. A muffled and gender-neutral voice whispered, “President Trump is leaning on officials at the Department of Labor. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s about a waiver for an underage boy to perform in a theatrical production referred to as The Trumpocrats.”
When I asked the whistleblower, “Is this Barron Trump?” the call was disconnected. My cell phone instantly lit up again, but this time a phone number was displayed: 202-456-1414. Anybody who knows anything knows that that is the White House’s main switchboard number.
I timidly placed my cell phone down, grabbed a hammer, and smashed the Android device into a thousand tiny pieces before fixing my gaze on my computer’s monitor while pondering the disturbing innuendo from the anonymous tipster with its predatory implications and immoral connotations. And while I understand that The Trumpocrats show would be tempted to pander to the Donald’s base with routines featuring pederasty, I could not—I would not—file my story with that unresolved, unanticipated, unauthenticated but believable revelation as its ending. I was in a jam of biblical proportions.
I finally understood how Hunter S. Thompson felt after his year-long run with the Hells Angels, when he was trying to sum it all up with original prose to reflect the hellish debauchery he witnessed, only to be stifled by writer’s block.
Like Hunter, I wanted something to reflect the terrible times I had persevered through to flush out this sordid story, but I was forced to end my reporting of this despicable (but absence of malice) account with Thompson’s ending and “the echo of Mistah Kurtz’ final words from the heart of darkness: ‘The horror! The horror! . . . Exterminate all the brutes!’”
Copyright © 2020 – Hunting For Thompson – All Rights Reserved
NOTE: The Aristocrats “is a taboo-defying off-color joke that has been told by numerous stand-up comedians since the vaudeville era. It relates the story of a family trying to get an agent to book their stage act, which is revealed to be remarkably vulgar and offensive in nature, with the punch line revealing that they incongruously bill themselves as the Aristocrats. When told to audiences who know the punch line, the joke’s humor depends on the described outrageousness of the family act.
“Because the objective of the joke is its transgressive content, it is most often told privately, but it came to wider public attention when it was told by Gilbert Gottfried during the Friars Club roast of Hugh Hefner, a few days after the 9/11 terrorist attacks in 2001. It was the subject of a 2005 documentary film of the same name by Paul Provenza and Penn Jillette.”
“The Aristocrats.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, August 30, 2020, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Aristocrats.
The Aristocrats (film), en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Aristocrats_(film)