Bedtime for bigots

Are you stuck taking care of your elders? Your extreme elders?

Like 90-year-old Grandpa Roland who will not stop repeating the same tired old racist joke about slow-running natives. Or Auntie Elaine who whispers over and over — and again —  about her ex-doctor’s cousin’s sister renting the house on the corner to Mexicans.

More and more people seem similarly plagued these days, caring for parents, grandparents or friends who are — there’s no way to sugarcoat this — bigots mired in misguided opinions from decades ago.

The worst are those who revel in sharing them, loudly. That’s especially grating when, not being a one-percenter, you try to relax at home after a long, hard day at work. You need them to shut up, to just shut up. Right?

So, whaddyagonna do? I have a solution. It’s called politically incorrect bedtime stories. Try one of these. They’ll help you lull these crotchety oldsters into quick, smug, slumber. Trust me, you’ll have them so satiated with revisionist history they’ll be out for hours.

You’ll be able to sneak out to the den to smoke some pot, head to the bar to listen to the latest Beatles tribute band or meet up with your buddies going to the Change.org party down the street.

Get your obstinate octogenarian comfy on his or her Mega Motion 6000 recliner, tuck in that Sensa Calm weighted blanket, feed em a tablespoon of Old Crow and speak in a soothing voice, like Charlton Heston going all contemplative in a scene from Ben Hur.

Then, let the bedtime story for bigots begin…

Once upon a time, after winning all the wars and building the industrial complex, the Greatest Generation finally got a well-deserved rest. But it was short-lived. A new unease was borne, a new threat surfaced.

In the woods behind those quiet beach towns … in the desert lapping at those RV campgrounds … in the kitchens of the all-you-can-eat buffets, a great evil festered. Many thought it dead years ago.

But they were as wrong as a legally deaf translator. The threat was back. Young people were spreading crazy, dangerous ideas again: Legal pot, protest, resistance, peace instead of war and Free Love 2.0 — even between people of the same sex!

Well, this simply would not fly. It had to be stopped. The Greatest Generation could have dusted off their bayonets and handled it. No question. But, after all those years and all those trials and tribulations, those brave men and their women were just plain tuckered out. They needed a champion. They needed a hero.

Enter a brash new character, super-rich, super-confident and super-angry. And telegenic to boot.

Donald Trump, the TV star, the Magnate, the man who knew how to make a dollar and make it with a doll. 

Word spread quickly.  Everyone paid attention. There was quite a furor. The Greatest Generation hadn’t been so abuzz since March 27, 1998, when the FDA finally approved Viagra.

ABC News

Donny mocked Obama. Donny tossed people out of his rallies. He didn’t care if they were white, black or crippled. One bit of popular lore had Donny himself grabbing three protesters by the dreadlocks and spinning them in the air so fast their handmade signs blurred into a beautiful pinwheel.

And guess the colors? Yup, red, white and blue!

Everyone cheered. They coughed. They spit out phlegm.

Donny was as tough as a one-legged ass kicker. He ridiculed uppity lesbians, weak-hearted peaceniks and a disabled guy cocky enough to think he could be a reporter.

This president-to-be even had the balls to brag about his, well, balls. Or, more specifically, his nether regions in general. “I guarantee you there’s no problem,” he said. “I guarantee.”

He was the greatest, promising the greatest. He was the cat’s pajamas and the kit and caboodle, with hair that wouldn’t gray.

His only weakness, and this certainly could be forgiven in a man with such a high calling, was a penchant for exaggeration. Sure, he told a whopper or two, but he lied with good intent: to befuddle the liberals.

And befuddle them he did. All the way to the Office of President of United States of America, with overwhelming support from those old, weary warriors from the Greatest Generation.

Once in power, he started working to get rid of all those sex-crazed Latinos, he cowed the Europeans and he called on men to be men and on women to be sexy. He promised a coal mine in every backyard.

Yup. You can rest easy you American heroes. Turn up the oxygen. Turn down Hannity. Ease into that heating pad. Things might seem a bit hectic but that’s fake news. Donny’s got it all under control. Lay back. Think about Vanna White. Breathe deep. And just listen.

Hush you heroes, time to relax.

Donny just cut your income tax.

And if that tax cut was too small,

Donny plans to build you a big long wall.

And if that wall should fall apart,

Donny will buy you a new golf cart.

And if that cart don’t run no more,

Donny will start a brand new war.

And if that war just can’t be won,

Donny will start another one.

And if our soldiers start to fade,

Donny will hold a big parade.

And if that parade would need more streamers,

Donny will round up all those dreamers.

And if the dreamers won’t go away,

Donny will build you a new highway.

And if that highway ever breaks down,

You’ll still be the greatest generation in town.

So hush you heroes, rest a’plenty,

Donny needs your vote in Twenty-Twenty.

Author: David Iseman

Longtime newsguy. Got some time off. Tinkering with words. Lemme know what you think.

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