President Trump Declares War on Canada

A Nightmare Come True

Satire | Nick Sirio | March 22, 2016 SATIRE

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I tried to fall asleep last night with Ruby-O tears raining heavily on my conscience, bar graphs of Trump’s mounting delegates punching my temples, and Hillary’s meh-ness swallowing up the Democratic nomination (and my hope) like a parasitic vine.  I tried laughing, yeah, that usually works.

But no.  Nope.  This isn’t funny anymore, America.

I throw water on my face.  I collapse on the pillows.  I even do the Inception chair-fall thing, but I’m not dreaming.  I give up and go back to bed.           

Does the man with the #Drumpf hair know what he’s saying?  I wonder.

Wake up, America! Wake up!  I plead desperately to no one.

[Falling asleep]  The eye, the tanning-lotion orange eye of Sauron!…



Now that he’s sworn in, there are massive billboards everywhere of every Trump product he’s ever peddled.

He’s followed up on his promise and built President Obama a golf course on the National Mall, along with a WWE Smackdown arena in front of Lincoln’s Monument’s mournful eyes.  When world leaders visit, he invites them to jetski on the Potomac.

He built the wall.  And it put people to work.  It’s epic.  He must’ve consulted George R.R. Martin cause there’s everything from golden handguns to heavy artillery up there.  In response, a group of vigilante, Canadian, ex-tree-hugging mothertruckers started a massive movement of underground smuggling via pontoon boats up the Pacific Coast, easily slipping immigrants into North Dakota. It’s an illusion—Trump knows the economy needs dirt-wage jobs.

But Fox commentators started calling him weak on immigration and foreign policy.  A huge hurricane had razed Houston like a kick from Nature right in America’s nuts, and some of the religious crazies were saying, “That right there’s a sign to impeach Trump.”

So he finally got to addressing the country.

He doesn’t address us from the Oval Office, which he’s made look more like the inside of Versailles—but with lasers and smoke and mini waterfalls and even more servants (only minorities and near-miss Miss Americas).

No, not in the office.  He’s up on the White House roof, tanning and sipping TRUMP tequila, very Putin-esque: shirtless.  The little umbrellas in the glasses say TRUMP.  He’s got those dumb, white, plastic-slat sunglasses on, and guess what they say on them.

Every once in a while, he walks to the balcony and sling-shots T-shirts, Yankees-game-style, at the protesters that always line the gates.

“Freedom of speech doesn’t apply tuh stupids.  Enough of it!” he says.  “Yuh know, we get the point.” He pumps his palms as if trying to calm the situation while he starts rabble-rousing against the pro-immigration movement.

“Mexicanas, Latinos, Hispanyolas—whatever you wanna call ’em— they’re like whac-uh-moles,” he says, classically, unapologetically, with a pretend mallet in his hand.

Slowly upping the ante, he gives an idiot’s guide to history where whac-a-moles were the cause of the Plague. QED, he calls immigrants carriers. He says they’re eating away at our moral cheese and lighting bags of poop on fire and leaving them on patios.

“It’s ah successful cuntry, but we’re no longa rispected.” He spits the word “respect” a little, kind of like a gangster.

“Do you know why America was once reeespeckted?” He jabs a nubby, pink finger at the camera, angsty and contemptuous.

“Because of our might, arr military might.”


Woah, now my ears are awake. What’s he suggesting?


He segues, and walks inside, handing the black sling-shot to a black man in a black suit and a black tie and black sunglasses.

“I trust these guys with the simple, physical things,” he says, clearly not talking about the suit.

He rambles about power, makes some vague metaphor about lions and artichokes. He accuses the Mexicans of being in cahoots with ISIS and then lumps the Canadian mothertruckers right in with them too.

“Even closuh to home, right above our heads some of our closest ‘friends’ are plotting against ussss. They want to destroy everything America stands for.  All this greatness, this freedom, and money and success and brilyance and joy and beauty and luuhhve!

“Manifest Destiny, that’s what I say. America needs to expand to be Great Again. America needs to demonstrate to the world that we will not be trampled! crushed! squishy squashed!!! Like baby chicklets under a roaring semitrailer!!!!!!” He smashes one stubby-fingered, ham fist into the other stubby-fingered, ham-hand.

#Drumpf continues striding through plushy-carpeted White House halls.  Big cat skins hang like prayer flags from the walls. He grabs one to wear.

“And that is why, too-day, as of this very moment, I make my doodie,”  he says,  “I make my doodie—as President Donald Trump of the United States of This Soon to be Great Again Country America—I make it my weighty doodie to declare war on Canada.”