I was on my way to a Macy's sale. It was a 25% off non-sale items, 15% off sale items, and negotiable besides. My wife had loaned me her gold Macy's credit card, and God knows what that would be worth.
I needed a blue Glen plaid tie to go with my blue, pink, and orange striped blazer, and the sales person said they had only one left, having sold 3,000 this morning alone. My cell rang and it was from one of my cohorts at the East Clairborne's non-denominational cemetery on Fifth and Furth.
"What's up, Klondike," I asked.
"Guess, what, Wilmar?" I was passing by Donald Trump's gravesite, and found he was half-in and half-out."
"What do you mean? I didn't know he was dead," I answered.
"Oh, yes. It was after those Atlantic City bankruptcies. I heard they couldn't find him. There were rumors he had committed suicide, and his double was taking over from him to keep all the real estate together. It was a tax planning thing."
"How was it he got buried in East Clairborne." I asked.
"It was top secret. We're as inconspicuous as it can get. Now he's got his left leg in the ground and the rest of him is out. He's upset this double up there is stealing his thunder and he's out to get him. He says this clown is making him look bad. I been watching him get out. First, I saw his head about two months ago, then his neck, and then the upper part of the body. At this rate, he'll be out in a week. God help his double when the Donald get him."
"I knew," I said, "no one could really be that dumb."