God And Trump Battle For ‘Greatest’ Title and All-Knowing Patriarch Championship
While both were training for the Kona Ironman championship, God and Donald Trump were witnessed smacking down one another with clever insults, lightning bolt slams, and some language (apparently in tongues) that came out as gibberish.
God revealed that having created the 100 billion galaxies each with 100 billion known stars, he had little to fear from Donnie taking the title.
“I made the stars. I made you.” God said, lifting five hundred pounds with his left pinkie finger.
“When you’re a star they let you do it…” DT interrupted.
“Do what?”
“You know the lady parts — for me to make life and stuff — Have you met my daughter?”
“I created BOTH of your daughters’ you ninny. Ivanka and T…”
Shrugging it off, Donald interrupted again, “Yeah. Ivanka. I made her. Not only made her. Would do her. She’s hot, right?”
Frowning, God stepped up to the SoulCycle and spun the wheels like they were hurling comets.
“Look. Dude,” God began. “That’s so inappropriate. You can’t just say stuff like that.”
Donald lay back against the weight bench in his lounge robe, looking in vain for the half pound weight, or anything, maybe a towel, he could lift.
“Now, you look, beardy boy,” DT jabbed a half-eaten, baby carrot sized, forefinger at God, “I just told you I am a star so I can get away with anything. I do. I do.”
“You do?” God stopped cycling and sat back trying to remain calm, forgiving and merciful while DT continued.
“I make stuff too, I made the word “FAKE” did you know that? When haters gonna hate, I just tell everyone it’s fake news. It’s so good. The best. It’s the best word. I have the best words.”
“But,” began the all-knowing, all seeing, Lord of the Universe, “In the beginning was the word and the word was with God and I am the word, and…”
Donald Trump began blowing out a raspberry, stood up and squared his shoulders.
“No, wait. Wait God. Watch this.” Donald Trump held out both arms and flexed his muscles, which although sagging, were of considerable size when compared to his hands, which dangled like two tiny peppercorns on ropey vines big enough to support pumpkins.
“Now, Donald. You better settle down and listen for a moment, to tell the truth I only agreed to this meeting because I thought it might offer a relaxed atmosphere to talk.”
“Yeah. Locker room talk! I really impress the ladies with it. They can’t resist me. They all voted for me. Even Hillary! Especially Hillary. I think that’s how I won, I slay the ladies.”
God frowned, but at looking at Donnie trying to make a muscle from the limp flesh so reminiscent of old and moldy apricots, his heart again filled with pity.
“Now. Donnie, this is something we need to discuss. Your ways with the ladies…”
Those slutty Russian ladies lied!” Yelled Donald Trump, out of nowhere.
“Maybe I may have wet the bed a tiny bit. Or lemonade? Or it was the bellboy!! Yes, FAKE NEWS!” Donnie wailed.
God shook his head slowly, beginning again:
“Your ways with the ladies have come under scrutiny, and I must say there is good cause to be concerned. Now, let’s take healthcare, for example…”
“Healthcare!” Donnie exclaimed. “Obama care is a disgrace. A Yuge flop. It stinks. We’re gonna have so much better, like, let’s say only a ten can get pregnant, and if she gains weight, BAM. She goes to jail for trying to get an abortion. And children. Little parasites. They aren’t dreamers, or sick kids. They don’t even let ’em dig coal anymore. And, coal, by the way, I am bringing back coal jobs. And getting rid of all the “give me fresh air and clean water” hippy dippy types. Stupid Chinese Climate Change hoax Hollywood Bigwig special effects!”
God stood up, “Calm down, Donnie. Now Harvey in Texas? or Harvey from Hollywood? This is something I’ve been waiting to talk to you about and you brought it up, so let’s begin.”
But, Trump was still sailed on with his diatribe like a roll of paper towels bopping survivors and storm refugees ducking for cover.
“…And no flag, anthem, sport dis-respectors, either. Or inner city thugs waving hands in the air like they just don’t care, disrespecting our cops. We’re taken back America, and guns, and girls, and nukes… and Daisy Dukes, and little Rocket man, and little pocket, rocket man protection…”
Seeing that Trump was working his way into a sweaty lather of profanity, piffle and petulant toddler tantrum, God thought of throwing in the towel himself.
“Donald. Stop. Just STOP. Now I gave you life and I can take it back. Sometimes I think that creating free will was my worst blunder since I inadvertently created Patriarchy, or that whole dinosaur killing asteroid. Now. Sit down.”
For one brief moment, Donald Trump sat, but then he imagined a mink and leopard skin lined gym robe thrown over a solid gold throne and his eyes lit up like a successful casino. Imagined. Of course. He looked up, suddenly realized this God, guy, was speaking.
Crazy, long hair hippie sandals loser, thought Trump.
“I created free will, and now I have to live with the nightmare reality show, horror show circus every night, but I gave others free will too, and if they use it, they will get you some help while at the same time helping out the world.”
“Does this mean I win?” Donald Trump whined.
God rolled his eyes. He had infinite time and wisdom, but not infinite gladness, nor patience, to suffer fools.
“Sure. Yes. Whatever. You win. You’re the best, Donnie. Devil Damn it!”
“Do I win the Kona Ironman? and the big, BIG trophy, and the chocolate cake!? And the undying adoration? and the hottest babes, and the best statues,”
“Sure. Donnie.” God began to turn to go, while Donnie foamed on like orange sherbet going rancid in a fetid, undrained, summer swamp. Like one in Florida, after flooding, in fact.
“…and the Pope ceiling, and the evangelicals, and the dim crats, and the big trucks…”
“HOLD UP.” God shouted.
“Are you talking about the Sistine Chapel ceiling, by Michaelangelo? NO! You don’t get that.
“Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh boy,” clapped Donnie, completely ignoring the Almighty.
Then making the sputtering sounds of some imagined fire truck tricked out into a bling blinding Pope-mobile in some unholy, unregulated souped-up hot mess of a vehicle, Donald Trump chugged out of the health club.
