Trump's Unauthorized Autobiography, Chapter 1 (an excerpt)

Funny story written by Chris Dahl

Monday, 17 February 2020

image for Trump's Unauthorized Autobiography, Chapter 1 (an excerpt)

I Was Born
Now available on Amazon
I have an attention span as long as it needs to be.
Donald J. Trump
(By the way, I always quote myself since I really love my quotes. You’re gonna see they’re really good quotes. I think you’ll really like them, but, hey, we’ll see, who knows?)

I was born in 1946, June 14th, you know? Which is a shame, am I right? Cuz if I was born when my sister, Liz, was, in 1937, or even my brother, Fred, in 1938, I feel like I could have worked a deal and ended the war, you know the Big War with the Krauts (well, I guess that’s not “politically correct” as they say now a days, and I guess I am German, so they tell me, but being a White Christian male I’m not really German, I’m actually American – a true-blooded, dyed-in-the-wool American, like the people who founded this country and no I don’t wanna hear about Pocahontas and all them, but that’s for later). I mean, I feel like I could have made a deal with the Germans and ended that war a little earlier than the other politicians did, cuz, see, and tell me if I’m wrong, cuz I’m not wrong here, but these guys in Washington (I mean the one by Virginia, the DC one, not the one up by Canada ((who by the way, I hate, I mean I friggen hate Canada, you know, like who can understand what they’re saying?))) they don’t know how to make a deal. Me? I would’ve had that deal done in a day, like the first day I was born. So, yeah, let’s say I was born when my oldest sis, Maryanne was born, 1937, right? So, Hitler’s been in power since like 1933, so that’s like 2 maybe 3 years head start he’s got, but boom, I got him. He’s brand new, this Hitler guy. He doesn’t know it, but I would’ve cut a deal so fast that stupid little moustache of his would’ve fallen off. But it wasn’t meant to be, and America had to suffer through that horrible war because that Democrat, Lib, Socialist with all his hand-outs and entitlements, Roosevelt, dragged us into that war. I mean, and tell me if I’m wrong here, but even if I was born when my older brother Fred was born in 1938, I could have nipped that Hitler thing in the bud, like the first day I was around. But, you know, Fred was born in that time slot instead and he was no use. He was an alcoholic, so he didn’t really know the score most of the time. Even my older sister, Elizabeth, who came around in 1942, could have done something, but, you know, broads aren’t really cut out for politics, at least not the big-time politics like dealing with Hitler. The only one who gets a pass on this one is my kid brother Robert who was born in 1948. I mean, maybe he could have done something about Korea, but, hey, he’s a good kid, you know?
As you’ll notice, I didn’t come out last, cuz I never come out last. I know, I know what you’re about to say. You think cuz I came out fourth that I didn’t come out in first place. Well, first of all, see I kinda blame my mother, see? Not that she did it cuz she was a bad person. I’m sure my mother would’ve let me win and come out first, but she was always into that stuff about bettering other people, like the retarded people (sorry, mom, I know, she used to call them “intellectually disabled,” but me I couldn’t get two words out of her, but these retards she gave everything to, anyway) and people who can’t walk good, and people who can’t see, like with the canes and the dark glasses and the selling the pencils out of the tin cups and that whole scam. I mean, she was all into these hospitals and there was a pavilion in this one hospital that’s even named after her (which I don’t get how a pavilion is in a hospital for cryin’ out loud), and she spent all this time on people who were gonna die anyway. I mean, God bless her, my mother was as close to a saint as ever walked this earth, and we’re talkin’ about the same earth, you know, that guys like Jesus and Peter and Ghandi and Elvis even walked, but in the back of my mind, I’m always thinking, I’m thinking, “Ma, these people are gonna die. I mean, look at them with the tubes going in and out of everywhere, and you’re just throwing money at them.” I never got that, but, hey, it was my mom, you know, and it was her money, so, hey, what am I gonna say?
But, oh yeah, I forget to mention this. This is what I wanted to say. I was born in Queens – friggen “Queens.” Try growing up with that in school. “Where you from?” I’m asked. “Queens,” I tell ‘em. “Haha,” they says, “you must be a queen from Queens.” Yeah, so, like I guess I always kinda held that against my parents, having to say I was from Queens. It wasn’t like my grandfather, when he moved here from Germany. He moved to the Bronx, or Brooklyn, Kings County, somewhere. Now that has class, right? Someone says, “Where you from?” You says, “Da Bronx. Or Brooklyn, Kings County.” And that guy moves on, you know, but, no, me, I have to tell people I’m from some fruity borough out on the island, Queens. Geez, they probably expected me to show up in some dress or something. I guess that’s how I always knew I’d end up in Manhattan. And another thing that I thought was messed up, and I don’t mean to complain about my childhood cuz it was pretty great, you know, but I was born in Jamaica Medical Hospital. What the hell? They don’t think that could mess a kid up, like confuse the hell out of him? Seriously, think about it, am I wrong? I mean, I come out of the womb and they say, “Hey, welcome to Jamaica.” So, I’m like, “Okay, where’s the Rasta guys and the drums and stuff? Like are they gonna start handin’ out daiquiris (except I’d never take one cuz my older brother, Fred, he hit the sauce too hard and he told me, he said, “Never drink”). But seriously, it might not be politically correct, but should they really be naming hospitals after foreign countries, especially those shithole countries like Jamaica where all they do is smoke drugs and stuff and don’t work? Geez, I mean, for a second there I thought I was gonna end up working on a sugar cane plantation. I mean, no offense, but thank God, you know?
And here’s another thing, you know? Why would we name places in this beautiful country after such shithole countries, am I right? Am I right? I mean, no, you know what I mean. All of a sudden, these people living in these grass huts, they see maybe something in some book of maps or something, or maybe they have a TV in their village, who knows what they have these days, or maybe they have the old wise lady of the village or something, and they put down their spliffs, you know that dope they like to smoke over there, and they pull away the dreds from in front of their faces like this and they see on some map that there’s a place called “Jamaica” in the Good Old U.S. of A – well, of course, they’re gonna come running over here with their spliffs and their dreadlocks and their three wives and fifteen kids like when you leave a banana out too long and them fruit flies come around. You ever tried to get rid of fruit flies? They don’t go the hell away, excuse my French, even though I hate French. (I don’t really like the French. I think it’s the way they talk, but, even worse than the French, I hate the Canadians. I mean, they say they have bacon, but it’s just ham – really salty ham. Any country that cannot tell the difference between really salty ham and bacon is no sort of country to me.) Think about it folks. Why couldn’t we name that part of Queens something else? Anyway, it should be named Kings like I said before, or at least Princes or Dukes, yeah that would be cool, “Dukes” sounds cool, like “duking it out” in the streets, you know? Am I right? Yeah, sure. Maybe, if we had to, we could name it Norway or Finland or even Iceland, although it never gets that cold for too long in New York, and I don’t think anyone actually does that ice-fishing stuff over here anymore, not sine the old days in the ‘20’s anyway. But, see my point, this way, if someone from, like, Norway or someplace like that wakes up one day and sees “Norway, New York,” they’ll be like, “Oh, yeah, let’s go there. It’s got the same name. Let’s check it out.” See, and then we’d get people from nice places, like those nice countries up there in Europe with the nice rosy cheeks. To be honest, I have no idea what the hell they’re saying most of the time, but they seem nice enough.
Anyway, so Queens, even though I hated the name was a pretty nice place to grow up, you know what I mean? I went to the Kew-Forest School, a private school, but nothing was really private about it. I mean the teachers were always up in your business and there were all these kids all around you all the time, so I never really got why it was called “private” school when every time you did something “private” you got in trouble, you know? Okay, so like, Kew-Forest was supposed to be a “progressive” school, you know, like all the teachers were supposed to be like, really, ahead of the curve with how they taught you and stuff, but, me, I was a little rambunctious, I’ll admit, and they maybe didn’t know how to handle me. But, okay, so Kindergarten starts and I’m like bored out of my mind. The numbers, the colors, the letters, friggen nap time – who has time for naps for crying out loud! – I got things I gotta do and these broads are telling me I gotta lay down on a friggen mat in the middle of the play area and nap. Come on! But what I was saying was, since all these teachers were supposed to be so like innovative and whatnot, like really smart people, we had this class pet, Franklin the guinea pig. You know, we were all supposed to take care of it and share responsibilities and what not, but I was like, “What? Now I’m a friggen farmer taking care of animals? Come on.” By the way, I could see why they named the thing Franklin cuz it was black like the one black kid in the Charlie Brown comics, Franklin. I got that part, but I thought it was pretty racialist or something, whatever word you wanna use, to call him a “guinea” pig, and in front of a classroom of little kids if you think about it. I mean, first of all, who knows if the thing was I-talian at all to begin with, and then, like, was he black like Franklin, or was he I-talian like the greaseballs up in the Bronx? Either way, I didn’t wanna have anything to do with him, right? Cuz I’m no hick. Do I look like I’m from Poughkeepsie or something? So there I am, Little Donnie Trump, and it’s my day to take of this animal, don’t know if it’s black or white or I-talian or what. One thing I do know is that I’m not shoveling out the poop and changing the wood chips and feeding this thing that should’ve been quarantined at Ellis Island before it was allowed into this country. But the teacher, I forget the broad’s name now. I mean, she was nice enough but you could kinda tell life had passed her by, you know. She talked a lot about her cat and the knitting that she did and how much she loved her church group, but you know she was really looking for a good man and all she had was this lousy teacher’s job and this stupid guinea pig named after a black cartoon character. So, I knew I had to get this cage cleaned, right, and the thing fed and what not, but I wasn’t gonna do it.
So my best pal, Mikey, and I was playing blocks one day, building this nice big beautiful wall with the blocks. Yeah, that’s something Mikey and me used to do all the time. We’d sit in our corner of the play rug and we’d take as many of the blocks as we could and we’d just build a wall so no one else could play with us, but on this day, we had a problem: Who was gonna clean out the guinea pig’s cage? Mikey was kind of a farm boy, I guess, cuz he had moved in from out in Indiana, like real cowboy country. He actually had a farm behind his house where they used to grow stuff and they had pigs and stuff, so I figured, you know, since he was my best pal and all, I’d ask how he got stuff done around the farm.
“Well,” Mikey told me, “the people who own the farm don’t actually do the work on the farm.”
Then, I thought, yeah, that makes sense. Why should someone who owns the place actually do the work when they could get someone else to do it. Then I asked how they got other people to do their work and how they paid them.
“Oh,” Mikey said. He was kind of one of them like bashful, country types who never wanted to say what was on his mind, but me, I always said I would tell it like it is, you know, but Mikey, he was my friend, but he had a problem with doing that, you know, just saying what was on his mind. But I finally got it out of him. “Well, Donnie,” Mikey started saying, and he never just said what the hell was on his mind. He was too damned polite, you know? That’s how those country-type kids are. They’re all nicy-nice and all polite. Like, it’s what people would later call “politically correct.” What kind of shit is that, “politically correct?” What does that even mean? All that means to me, and it did back then when Mikey was trying to friggen’ stammer out something he just wanted to say, was that there was something you wanted to say, and that people wanted to hear, but for some God-awful reason, you weren’t supposed to say it, which made no sense to me then or now. I mean, if it has to be said, then why can’t I just say it for cryin’ out loud? So, I says to Mikey, “Hey, Mikey, you’re my best pal. No one builds walls like us. I mean, look at this big, beautiful wall we built together. Come on! If you got something to tell me, just say it.”
“Okay,” my pal Mikey finally says. (I swear if he wasn’t my best pal, I would’ve swatted him in the back of the head a half a dozen times or so, but he was a good guy, so I didn’t.) “Donnie,” he finally says, “my dad used to get workers down at the construction store, you know where you get all the lumber and the paint and nails and stuff.”
“Wait, Mikey,” I was shocked. “You mean you could buy workers right there in the store along with all your boards and hammers and stuff?”
“Oh golly, Donnie,” Mikey said and he turned all red in the cheeks like he used to when he was saying something he didn’t want to say, like when I punched my music teacher for not knowing music real good and I turned around to Donnie and I was like, ‘Hey, you gotta take the fall for this one,’ so when the principal came in Mikey tuned all red and he says he done it and he had to sit in the corner during lunch and write “I will not hit teachers” until a whole notebook was full. Did I feel bad? Heck no. That’s what a good pal would do for another pal, am I right? Anyway, he finally tells me that you can’t actually buy these workers, but you can rent them. Yeah, they like hang out in the parking lot and they do all this stuff that regular people like me and Mikey don’t wanna do. They paint, clean, hammer, saw – you know all the dirty stuff no one wants to do. Even better, Mikey tells me you pay them like half, if you pay them at all. No joke, he says his uncle used to have them work all day and then sometimes he’s be like, “I’m calling immigration if you don’t get outta here.” Then, they’d run away, and he didn’t have to pay.
I know what you’se are thinking right about now. You’re thinking that now, all these years later, I feel bad about those workers what didn’t get paid, but since I’m here, and since we’re not being politically correct, I gotta say that I am not really sorry. It’s just kinda good business, right? I mean, the whole thing about business is about making money, like what your profit margin is, and paying your workers cuts into your profits. So, think about it. If you don’t pay your workers, then you have a nice, fat profit margin. You pay them, and you get screwed out of all that money. Now, really, what kind of idiot business man would screw himself out all that extra money? Who? An idiot, that’s who. So Mikey, me and definitely his uncle, we weren’t stupid. We needed this job done of cleaning this guinea pig cage out and we needed it done for basically nothing, ‘cause we didn’t really have much. I used to keep my milk money and then just take Bernie’s milk. (Bernie is what I would call a ‘bleeding heart’ now, you know? All I had to do was to walk up to him and tell him that my parents were having a rough time with money and I didn’t have lunch money or milk money and Bernie would be like, “Okay, here, take some of mine.” What a sucker! I got his milk and kept my nickel.) Mikey had his lunch money, but I told him that it made us kinda smart, you know, keeping our money and then drinking other people’s milk, right? I mean, if we can get away with it, why not? So, we had some money, but I didn’t figure we had any reason to pay the workers from the construction store a dime. All we had to do was to make them think we we’re gonna, get them to do the work and then tell them we would call their parents for leaving them when their parents would be all mad at them for leaving them at the store. After all, we’d probably only need one of them worker kids, at least for this job.
Though he was my best pal, Mikey was one of them goody-goody types, you know, the type who like goes home when his parents want him to and then they sit at the dinner table and say grace and talk about their day. So, he was a good guy, but he didn’t wanna get in trouble by coming with me down to the construction store to find one of them workers who would clean out that damned guinea pig cage. “No, Donnie,” he says like. “God is always watching, Donnie. Everywhere we go and everything we do, Donnie. God is watching. I cannot be a sinner in the eyes of the Lord. I will not.” I mean, Geez, Mikey sure seems scared of this guy who, like, wasn’t even there. It wasn’t like being cornered by the fifth graders and, you know, there’s a good chance you could get smacked around in that situation, but I was like, “Mikey, who the hell is this God guy you’re always worried about? I don’t see him. I ain’t afraid of him. Screw him. If he’s got something to say, he can come down and say it to my face.” I guess Mikey didn’t like what I said right then ‘cause he turned three shades of white and had this real scared look in his eyes. Then, he just, like, ran off and over his shoulder he yelled, “See you tomorrow, Donnie.” He started making the sign of the cross all over the place and looking up at the sky.
So, my pal Mikey wouldn’t come with me but my other pal, not my best pal but a pal nonetheless, said he would come with me. This was my pal Stevie. I kinda felt like Stevie was a charity case but I didn’t really believe in charity, you know? I mean, how stupid is charity, really? Think about it. You save up all your milk money, let’s say, and you connive a few nickels here and there and then someone turns around and says, “Hey, I don’t got any money. Or, my legs don’t work so I can’t get a job. Or, my kid’s a retard so I need a special thing in school, so I need your money.” That’s pretty dumb, right? I mean, my legs work. My kid won’t be a retard. I got my money fair and square – it ain’t my fault Bernie just wants to give me money, you know? Am I right? But a lot of kids called my other good pal, Steve, things like Sloppy Steve ‘cause of the way he dressed. Nothing seemed to fit him. His shirts always fell out of his waist. His pants were always baggy. He had this really bad skin and he always looked greasy, and for crying out loud he needed a haircut. Sometimes I swear he thought he was one of those free-love hippies out in San Francisco. But he was a good guy though, and the most important thing was that he believed everything, all the money and the snacks and everything like the blocks and the toys, the trays of milk at lunch, and the movies we watched on Fridays, all should stay right in our classroom. No one else was allowed in, Stevie always said. If we let in kids from other classrooms, or God forbid other neighborhoods, they would take all our milk, all our blocks – everything. Then what would we do? See, Steve had a way of explaining things to me and the one thing that he explained to me really good that afternoon, you know when I asked him if he wanted to go down to the construction store with me, was that I shouldn’t feel bad about it, you know, not paying the worker or whoever. “There are only two types of people in this world,” Stevie told me and when he told me I realized he was kinda gross ‘cause his breath smelled like bologna all the time and didn’t really care too much for brushing his teeth, you know? Anyway, I says, “What two types of people?” And he says, “People who would never clean out a guinea pig cage and people who would clean out a guinea pig cage.” I thought about that for a second and I was like, “Yeah, that’s really true, like really friggen true. Not just a little true, but really true, you know?”
Then, Stevie threw his arm over my shoulder and he leaned into to me and he got real serious, which was okay, but his breath was killing me, you know? He started telling me how there was a Natural Order to things, which I guess he learned about in his class ‘cause my class didn’t learn about any such thing. He was just like telling me there was a way things were supposed to be, and some people were supposed to clean cages and some people weren’t Some people were supposed to have milk and some weren’t, you know? I never really thought about it that way, you know? But I knew I wasn’t gonna be one of those people who cleaned guinea pig cages. Next thing you know, you’re in 1st grade and Mrs. Menzella has you cleaning up after the gerbils and then in 3rd grade Mrs. Boyle has you cleaning a friggen fish tank. Next thing you know you’re just another bum in the classroom and suddenly you’re standing there in the parking lot of some construction store waiting to get picked up by Stinky Steve to clean up his room or something. No, no, not me.
Although I did not appreciate his breath, I did appreciate that little lesson Stinky Stevie taught me that day before we went down to the construction store to get some workers. I carried it with me the rest of my life. Sure, some people got it a little more rough than others, and some will never have it good. But, that’s just the way things are, Stevie taught me, and it all made sense, really. As you’ll see over the course of this book, the Natural Order that Stevie educated me on is something I’ve tried to revive in this country, the natural way of doing things, ‘cause we’ve been out of whack for so long. Basically, I figured that since this Natural order was so good to me, I’d keep it in tact for everybody so that everyone gets exactly what they deserve. That’s why, in the long run, I got into politics. e-book now available on Amazon.

The funny story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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