Facebook -- Joseph Sohm -- Andrew Cline
Dads, Bros. Where would we be without our dads? Offering us some of their rolling papers when we don’t have any, hooking it up with a decent price on an ounce if we give them the cash up front, ignoring our calls when we’re really in need of a fix–
No. Wait. Those aren’t dads. Those are drug dealers. Drug dealers are great, but they’ve got nothing on those lovable goofs we call our dads. Quick with a corny joke, there to offer advice when you need it, always understanding of the screw ups we make that leave mom infuriated; dads are an indispensable part of any Bros’ life.
My dad is now retired after 30 some odd years of working, which leaves him with a lot of free time. He spends most of it golfing, as any good retired dad would, but sometimes he spends his time concocting fanfic about a secret meeting he stumbled on between Bill Clinton, Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, and Ted Cruz’s wife.
Hey! You provide for society for long enough, you’re pretty much allowed to do whatever you want. I can’t wait for my retirement.
But anyways, here’s his story, presented in full, about how the 2016 primary season was fixed from the get go.
It’s titled, “The 2016 Clinton/Trump Affair.”
I did not start out as a believer in conspiracies. Certainly not political conspiracies. No, I adhered to the conventional wisdom. No Castro led, or CiA led, or Mafia led plot to gun down JFK at Dealey Plaza. No, the Warren Report all the way. One gun man, activated by brother, RFK, to enhance his chances of running successfully for President in 1968. (Bobby, it looked like that backfired.)
I stumbled on this one. On a solitary walk one day along the banks of the Potomac River, after parking my car on an off ramp from the GW Parkway in Northern Virginia — a stone’s throw or a George Washington silver dollar heave from the District.
A bright sunny day in April 2015. Mid afternoon, the sun streaming its bursts of light brightening the river as I entered Fort Marcy Park. I walk there often. It is quiet and peaceful. Almost, always inhabited. Until that day.
As I walk, my calm is interrupted by three voices — two booming and one quiet. I recognize two, but not the third. First, a big baritone Southern drawl. Could it be, yes, Bill Clinton. The second, a brash, staccato New York burst. Yes, Donald Trump. The third, a woman’s much quieter but firm voice, saying, “why are we here. I told you there was a quiet place at the Goldman Sachs offices in DC.” Trump, countering, “we could have been at Mara Lago or in Trump National in DC.” (Having played golf there, I knew that Trump National is actually another 35 miles down the Potomac in Leesburg VA, but geography was never a strong point for the Donald.) Hee, hee, the third voice tittered. “”this is the place. Ground zero, I can show you where Hilary buried the gun.”
They then walked quietly down the path, Bill leading them to an opening where they opened a bottle of Trump cabernet and toasted their relationship and then proceeded to consummate their relationship. If only, I had my iPhone and could have quietly videoed the scene. It was raunchy, it was loud. Paula Jones was right, and the Donald did have big hands. The woman was willing and compliant and in certain times, took the lead. Who knows what Gawker would have paid for the video, but alas my solitary walks are solitary and intended to free me from the intrusions of today’s world.
Once done, another bottle of cabernet was opened and the talk turned to politics. Bill pointed out the obvious; Hilary would be announcing her candidacy and would be the 2016 Democratic nominee. But, he pondered whether the bitch would be electable. Her approval rating was in the mid forties and that was among Democrats. Perhaps, yes if running against a clown. A clown whom she would appoint as ambassador to any country of his choosing after the election. The Donald, rising to the bait, was game. The post would be Cuba, what a country ripe for real estate development, but did it have good bankruptcy laws, if a deal went bad? Bill then piped in, “you need to bring me cigars in case I run in to Monica.”
But the question loomed, how could Donald secure the Republican nomination. The woman called Heidi, finally chimed in.
“My husband has an ego perhaps larger than the Donald, but smaller hands. I can convince him to run. Between the two of them, they can chase out any other aspirants. In a two person race, the Donald will cruz to the nomination. “ I do this for what lyin’ Ted has done to me, but I am a Goldman Sachs banker, so what’s in it for me.” The Donald and Bill just smiled…
TRUSTED, before you adopt the Donald’s position on restricting the First Amendment, please note that this is satire. No Cruz women were actually ravaged in the making of this story.
Whatta ya think, Bros?
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