Trump’s Eugenics Plan Used to Weed Out Extraterrestrials
Letter from Llanaber
...Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...
I was having a little nap in my office yesterday afternoon when the door crashed open.
Standing there was the boss of the parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim. She glared at me.
“No time for your post prandial zizz,” she barked, “Read this!”
She threw a string of news feed ticker tape at me, wrapped around a heavy paperweight. I caught it as it bounced off my head and read the news article on the tape. The story was about the cheese-ball headed comb-over and self-declared Braniac Donald Trump. Apparently at another one of his rallies (I think this one was either Montana or Nuremberg) the blondie-bonced genius ‘called out’ Senator Elizabeth Warren to prove she has Native American ancestry, challenging the lady to take a DNA test. Apparently the comb-over king said ‘to the fake Pocahontas I won’t apologise’ then apologised, then repeated the insult. He concluded by offering her $1 million to take the test.
“So what?” I naively asked.
“It’s pure genius!” shouted Mrs. T, “The man is a living God.”
I couldn’t see it and told her so.
“Numbskull! It’s the start of his eugenics movement over there. Anyone with a different opinion to his will have to prove their racial purity through DNA testing before they can be taken seriously. It’ll crush all opposition to his administration in a single reverse back-shafting shuffle. Brilliant!”
I put forward several reasons why a strategy such as this would not work in America. They were as follows:
Firstly, America is a melting pot of people from each and every race. It’s a hotchpotch of racial inter-mingling and racial tolerance.
Secondly, America is a strong democracy and a program of eugenics would never be tolerated.
Lastly, there’s the second paragraph of the United States Declaration of Independence. I pulled a reference book from the bookshelf behind me, blew off the dust, found the correct page and read to her. It was as follows:
‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.’
Mrs. T glared at me. Then the grimace on her lips turned slowly to a wicked smile.
“It doesn’t mention women though does it?”
I read the passage again. She was right.
In a flash I could see where this was leading.
She barked out her orders at me whilst cackling like a deranged hyena.
I was instructed to get hold of a single DNA testing kit. Then I had to go to the village clink and somehow get a blood or saliva sample from old Mrs. Clinton (the lady that runs the card shop in the high street and had the nerve to stand against Mrs. T in the 2016 election). I wasn’t to waste my time with the inconvenience of the results, but to just write up a news story in the village newsletter.
It was to have the following headline:
‘DNA test proves beyond any doubt Mrs. Clinton is an extra-terrestrial!’
Then I was instructed to have Mateo the Knife, the head of the village ‘Protection from Extra-Terrestrials Service (PETS),’ to have her arrested and thrown into the village clink.
I was told to ‘embellish’ the story.
“Say that during the sample taking stage Mrs. Clinton was found to have green scaly skin and tentacles,” the crazy old bat ranted on, “… and a stomach like a television set that sent signals to her pals in a flying saucer hidden behind the moon, waiting for her to give them the nod that it was time to strike at Llanaber with their death rays…”
Mrs. T rambled on for half an hour in this vein, her eyes glazed over and dribbling from the mouth.
I said nothing.
There were many flaws in this cock-eyed, half-baked vindictive plot, not least of which was that Mrs. Clinton was already in jail and had been since Mrs. ‘ousted’ her as a leftie fifth columnist in an’ Arkady Babchenco style’ sting.
Assuming that my esteemed leader would continue her rant for another couple of hours, I started to slip out of the room. However, she caught my arm and pulled me back.
“I’m not finished with you yet,” she barked, “What preparations have you made for Trump’s meeting with Theresa May?”
It was news to me that the meeting between these two ‘saviors of the planet’ had anything to do with Llanaber.
“They’re meeting in London,” I said, prepared for another paperweight thrashing.
She grabbed me by the short hairs on the back of my neck and marched me up to the news feed ticker tape room. There she pulled a string of tape from the waste bin and thrust it under my nose. It was reporting a headline from a UK newspaper. I reproduce it for you below verbatim:
‘Donald Trump to almost entirely avoid London during UK visit.’
“It doesn’t mean they will have their meeting in Llanaber,” I said meekly.
“It doesn’t mean they won’t!” she countered.
She went on to point out that the lanky streak of piss that calls herself the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, Northern Ireland and all the Queen’s other territories often runs away from London to hide in the hill-caves near here and scream when she can’t cope.
“So she’s up every week,” said Mrs. Trim.
It was true, the ‘May cave screams’ are known throughout the village for waking the babies at night.
I had no choice but to agree.
I had to accept that Mrs. T had a point.
It’s perfectly possible that the two mega-brains could have their carousal in Llanaber. In an effort to curry favour with my esteemed leader I immediately toadied up to full height and started licking butt.
“Why not offer the room above your sweet shop? It’s perfect for them. Those nasty anti-Trump protesters wouldn’t be able to march up and down out front because of the massive sink hole full of garbage in the high street outside your shop. What’s more, with the perpetual fog, they’d never see the massive hideous gas bag.”
“Don’t you dare call President Trump that!” she snapped.
I pointed out that I was referring to the ‘Trump-Baby’ blimp the leftie-pinkos intend to float as part of their protest.
She calmed down.
The downside is that my emergency toadying has landed me the job of writing to Mrs. May to offer her the room for rent above Mrs. T’s sweet shop. I am to say it is available from 2pm for one hour on the day of President Trump’s visit. I am to insist upon a non-refundable deposit of £25 paid up front to secure the room.
This should kybosh the whole enterprise.
Mrs. May has virtually bankrupted the country with her austerity dogma, and tax cuts for the mega-rich. The tax revenues are virtually zero, and she would struggle to scrape the deposit together.
I hope so anyway.
The last thing Llanaber needs is those two narcissistic nincompoops spitting at each other in Mrs. T’s shop.
That’s it for now.
We've uncovered another Letter from Llanaber! Enjoy:
Trump Style ‘Lying Big’ Set to Become Political Norm
You may be aware that I am entitled to tackle the ‘all you can eat’ spaghetti buffet (it’s just spaghetti) for free for life after single-handedly stopping the boss of the parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trump, from imposing a 1,000,000% tariff on pasta product imports, a tax that would have ruined his business.
Yesterday I slipped out of the office at 10:00am and joined the long queue of half-starved villagers outside his restaurant, plates in hand, waiting for Trevor to ‘open up.’ In front of me happened to be the official village gossip, old Mrs. Winfrey. The moment she realised I was standing behind her she spun around and started vomiting her gossip all over me. The woman cannot tell a straight story. Whatever lies, rumours and general nonsense she spouts is a conflation of several stories. I had to concentrate hard to untangle her narrative and make sense of what she was telling me. I repeat the story she told me below verbatim:
“Did you hear Trump’s appointed a bloke called Andrew Wheeler to warm up the air inside a baby Trump blimp he’s going to get Pompeii to swap for Kim Jong Un’s nuclear bombs, but Trump had to lie about it eighteen times when he agreed not to visit London?”
My heart sank.
I lost my appetite. I slipped out of the line of hungry hopefuls and slouched back to my office.
I had failed, dear reader.
I had been up all night selectively censoring the stories that came through on the parish news room ticker tape, removing any stories I thought might be harmful if they got into the hands of my esteemed leader and fruit-bat, Mrs. Trim.
But word was already ‘on the street’ concerning four stories I had specifically nobbled that very morning. I will untangle Mrs. Winfrey’s garbage for you, and in turn tell you what each news story was about, pointing out the risks I associated with each, should they reach the ears of Mrs. Trim.
Number one: ‘Trump’s appointed a bloke called Andrew Wheeler to warm up the air.”
This concerns the appointment of the replacement for ‘Pruitt the Prat’ as administrator of the Environment Protection Agency in the US with a dwarf called Andrew Wheeler. He’s an ex-coal lobbyist. How insane is that?
I repeat – HOW INSANE IS THAT?
It ranks alongside putting a KKK arsonist in charge of an ‘African Americans only’ orphanage built from live matches.
Why would this appointment impinge on quiet village life here? (I hear you ask).
Let me fill you in.
Llanaber used to have a coal mine. It was owned by none other than the boss of the parish council herself, Mrs. Trim, and was, to use her phrase, ‘a nice little earner.’ However, it was forced to close down. The village has its own micro-climate and is blighted with a perpetual fog. Burning coal is forbidden in the village because the combination of the smoke from the fires and the thick fog used to cause the air to solidify. At its worst we had to drill holes in the air to breathe, and cut tunnels through the smog to get up and down the high street.
After considerable pressure from the villagers and the threat of legal action from the village cop, Robert ‘Robbie the Bobbie’ Muller, the mine was closed and sealed up. It has fallen into ruin, a consequence of which is the collapsing of its internal workings and tunnelling, resulting in an enormous sink hole forming in the middle of the high street.
Since then, even the mention of the word coal is anathema in the village.
However, if Mrs. Trump cottons on that the diminutive idiot Wheeler has made coal ‘de rigueur,’ and they’re burning the stuff like crazy in the US, she’ll open the bloody thing up again.
Number two: … ‘warm up the air inside a baby Trump blimp.’
We had an episode recently, a misunderstanding on my part, when I thought my esteemed leader wanted me to source a 20ft high blimp in the form of an effigy of Mrs. T as a baby. It turned out she only wanted a newspaper, but, once she’d got the idea in her head that it was feasible, it took me the best part of a day to persuade her it was not only a bad idea but a waste of the village hospital budget’s funds.
Number three: … ‘he’s going to get Pompeii to swap (it) for Kim Jong Un’s nuclear bombs.’
There is great danger in this ‘lip-slip’ from the fat old gossip.
Why? (I hear you ask).
Mrs. Trim has had thoughts of going to war with the failing village to our south, Spanibont. This village has recently held a ‘snap’ election and ousted the previous incumbent, the gangster Niente Niente, replacing him with a leftie-pinko-live-on-your-knees do-gooder, a nice old chap called Gabriel Alejandro Fredrico Facundo Emilio Ricardo Thiago Agustin Pablo Estrada (Gaffertape for short).
The ‘new kid on the block’ upstart has refused point blank to build at Spanibont’s own expense a 3ft high wooden border fence to separate our two parishes to prevent the Spanibont rowdies selling their recreational drugs here at discounted prices below those of our resident pusher, ‘Iolo the Dope.’
Gaffertape claims he’d rather spend village money on’ things that would benefit his villagers,’ the selfish prat.
What has this to do with the US boss of war’s clumsy visit to North Korea to bully them into hiding their nuclear weapons better? (I hear you ask again).
The Llanaber village armoury’s ‘heavy weaponry’ consists of one ancient catapult. Should war be declared we’d get hammered. The rowdies from Spanibont would kick seven shades of dottle out of our wheezy volunteer army, the ‘stick it to em’s,’ a weedy bunch of no-hopers that once watched a Bruce Lee film and now claim they can ‘bust all his moves.’
However, if Mrs. T believes she can swap an effigy of herself in the form of a 20ft high gas filled balloon for a nuclear weapon, then undoubtedly she would get me to commission the village magician, Beppo the Sad Faced Clown, to make one. Then she’d send me traipsing off to North Korea to do a trade with Chinaman Kim. I haven’t got a suitcase big enough to carry a thermo-nuclear device back in, let alone to take out a deflated blimp shaped like Mrs. T.
Number four: … ‘but Trump had to lie about it eighteen times when he agreed not to visit London.’
This refers to the cheese-ball headed Braniac and ‘king of the comb-over’ Donald Trump’s recent Nuremberg rally in Montana where he officially ‘lied’ at least eighteen times during a self-deprecating, modest reflection on his achievements since taking office. The truth resembled a Pretzel by the time he’d finished.
‘So, the chap’s a bare faced liar,’ I hear you cry, ‘So what? If his mouth’s moving and you hear noises coming out then he’s lying, right? It’s not exactly earth shattering news.’
Mrs. T idolizes Donald Trump. In her eyes the man can do no wrong, and if he did, then he has the power to pardon himself, so he couldn’t have ‘done wrong’ in the first place. Mrs. T tries her utmost to emulate the ‘living God’ that is Trump. If she finds out that lying ‘comes with the Trump territory’ we’ll never get another straight sentence from the mad old bat again. She’ll be lying through her teeth about anything and everything on principle. I can see it now:
Me: ‘Tea or coffee?’
Mrs. T: ‘Tea.’
Me : ‘There’s your tea.’
Mrs. T: ‘I asked for coffee.’
Me: ‘Do you want coffee then?’
Mrs. T: ‘No.’
It would be a nightmare!
That’s it for now.