Bedtime for bigots

Ever been stuck with your elders? Your extreme elders? Like great-grandpa and great-grandma?

More and more people these days provide care for their parents, grandparents or other aged friends or relatives, some of whom are, well — there’s no way to sugarcoat this — selfish pigs mired in bigoted opinions from years ago.

They revel in sharing them, loudly. That’s especially grating when, not being a 1 percenter, you get home after a long, hard day at work. You need them to just shut up, right?

So, whaddyagonna do? I have a solution. It’s called politically incorrect bedtime stories for bigots. Try one of these. They’ll help you lull these crotchety oldsters into smug, satiated slumber. 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 gramps or grammy comfy, feed em a tablespoon of bourbon and speak in a soothing voice, like Charlton Heston in Ben Hur. Here’s an example:

Once upon a time, after winning all the wars and building the industrial complex, the Greatest Generation finally got a well-deserved rest. But tension remained, a new unease. a new threat.

In the mountains rising from the quiet retirement beaches … in the woods behind the RV parks … in the kitchens of the all-you-can-eat buffets, a great evil festered. Many thought it dead years ago.

But they were wrong as a translator who needs hearing aids. The threat was back. Young people, likely infected by Communist sympathizers, were spreading crazy, dangerous ideas again: Mind-altering drugs, 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 remained great but, man, after all those years, everyone was just plain tuckered out. They needed a champion.

Enter a brash new character, super-rich, super-cocky and super-angry. Yes, an American hero. Donald Trump, known for his success in business and with pretty women, would fix everything.

Word spread quickly, like when Viagra was invented.  Everyone paid attention, ignoring even The Price is Right.

Trump mocked Obama. Trump tossed people out of his rallies he didn’t like, no matter if they were black. One bit of popular lore had Trump himself grabbing three protesters by the dreadlocks, and, in a super-Judo move, spinning them in the air so fast their handmade signs blurred into a pinwheel. And guess what color it was? Yup, red, white and blue!

Everyone cheered and coughed, and spit out phlegm.

Trump was braver than 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 — and other nether regions. “I guarantee you there’s no problem. I guarantee.”

He was the greatest, promising the greatest. He was the cat’s pajamas and the kit and caboodle, with hair that never turned 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 the overwhelming voter support from those old, weary warriors from the Greatest Generation.

Once in power,  he got rid of all the dirty Mexicans, cowed the Europeans, called on men to be men, for women to be sexy. He put a coal mine in every backyard.

Millions now pay homage. Every night, even as adult children sing themselves to sleep.

Hush you seniors, time to relax.

Trump’s gonna cut your income tax.

And if that tax cut is too small,

Trump’s gonna build you a shopping mall.

And if that mall should fall apart,

Trump’s gonna buy you a new golf cart.

And if that cart don’t run no more,

Trump’s gonna start a brand new war.

And if that war just can’t be won,

Trump will  start another one.

And if that war kills too many people,

Trump will build you a new church steeple.

And if that steeple comes tumbling down,

You’ll still be the greatest generation in town.

Author: David Iseman

Longtime newsguy. Retired. Tinkering with words. Lemme know what you think.

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