Donald Trump, Jr., who has often been overheard muttering to himself, “I wish I could come across as venal and self-serving as my father,” took a giant step in that direction with the publication of a book someone else wrote for him called “Triggered—More Bullshit that My Father Will Tweet About.”
Or something like that. The book had actually been out for over a week before somebody bothered to read it—most copies were purchased by people to impress visitors to their meth labs. When somebody finally did, they noted that Trump the Lesser had devoted a passage to his family’s visit to Arlington National Cemetery, which made the younger Trump compare the sacrifices of the war dead buried there to his family’s supposed business losses incurred as a result of Russia promoting his dad for the Presidency in 2016.
“In that moment, I also thought of all the attacks we’d already suffered as a family, and about all the sacrifices we’d have to make to help my father succeed — voluntarily giving up a huge chunk of our business and all international deals to avoid the appearance that we were ‘profiting off the office,’” Trump Jr. wrote. Even though it was “a sacrifice we were more than happy and willing to make,” Trump Jr. lamented that “we didn’t get any credit whatsoever from the mainstream media, which now does not surprise me at all.”
This column always goes right to the source, so we grabbed a flight to Dulles with a Ouija board packed in our carry-on, went out to the cemetery on the night of the full moon, and started interviewing some of the souls there. Here are their thoughts:
“Sure, I was pierced by about a hundred metal fragments when I threw myself on a grenade to save the rest of my company, and while it didn’t take me long to die, the pain was really intense—it felt like I was covered in bone spurs. But I can’t imagine the agony of being unable to build Trump Towers Taipei because my sister already has a pocketbook deal with mainland China. God, that must hurt.”
“I was riddled with bullets when my unit attempted to assault a machine gun nest. The rest of the men were driven away, so it took me hours to die alone on the battlefield. My suffering was so intense that an enemy soldier walked up to put an end to my misery, but his commander stopped him from taking the mercy shot—he said to save the ammunition for other Americans. But I’d rather endure that all over again than not be able to build another golf course in Portugal.”
“Who the fuck was this twerp’s editor? Who listened to this spoiled little pissant ramble on about sacrifice when he was standing over the graves of American heroes and thought, “My God, that needs to go in his book? Get me his ghostwriter on the phone!” That guy needs to get a job he can handle, like licking the oil out of Trump’s tanning bed when he’s done baking in it.”
The rest of the cemetery’s inhabitants were too busy turning over in their graves to comment.
Or something like that. The book had actually been out for over a week before somebody bothered to read it—most copies were purchased by people to impress visitors to their meth labs. When somebody finally did, they noted that Trump the Lesser had devoted a passage to his family’s visit to Arlington National Cemetery, which made the younger Trump compare the sacrifices of the war dead buried there to his family’s supposed business losses incurred as a result of Russia promoting his dad for the Presidency in 2016.
“In that moment, I also thought of all the attacks we’d already suffered as a family, and about all the sacrifices we’d have to make to help my father succeed — voluntarily giving up a huge chunk of our business and all international deals to avoid the appearance that we were ‘profiting off the office,’” Trump Jr. wrote. Even though it was “a sacrifice we were more than happy and willing to make,” Trump Jr. lamented that “we didn’t get any credit whatsoever from the mainstream media, which now does not surprise me at all.”
This column always goes right to the source, so we grabbed a flight to Dulles with a Ouija board packed in our carry-on, went out to the cemetery on the night of the full moon, and started interviewing some of the souls there. Here are their thoughts:
“Sure, I was pierced by about a hundred metal fragments when I threw myself on a grenade to save the rest of my company, and while it didn’t take me long to die, the pain was really intense—it felt like I was covered in bone spurs. But I can’t imagine the agony of being unable to build Trump Towers Taipei because my sister already has a pocketbook deal with mainland China. God, that must hurt.”
“I was riddled with bullets when my unit attempted to assault a machine gun nest. The rest of the men were driven away, so it took me hours to die alone on the battlefield. My suffering was so intense that an enemy soldier walked up to put an end to my misery, but his commander stopped him from taking the mercy shot—he said to save the ammunition for other Americans. But I’d rather endure that all over again than not be able to build another golf course in Portugal.”
“Who the fuck was this twerp’s editor? Who listened to this spoiled little pissant ramble on about sacrifice when he was standing over the graves of American heroes and thought, “My God, that needs to go in his book? Get me his ghostwriter on the phone!” That guy needs to get a job he can handle, like licking the oil out of Trump’s tanning bed when he’s done baking in it.”
The rest of the cemetery’s inhabitants were too busy turning over in their graves to comment.
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