A Word on Drumpf

If you’re like me, you’re sick nearly to death of hearing about him. You’ve a right to be tired, damn it. But this battle isn’t over yet. That’s why I’ve decided to load and fire another bullet. Small as it may be.

Below, you’ll find the short story I published on Amazon in September of 2015. Basically everyone knew what Drumpf was by then, but I felt I could add a little levity, a little humor, to a rather alarming situation. (Present day: multiply the “alarming” variable by a factor of 10.)

Because I don’t feel comfortable making even a penny off of Drumpf anymore, even though this story, “Trumpscendent,” fairly thoroughly mocks him in a variety of ways, I’m offering the content up to you, here, for free. A Bilander blog exclusive.

Consider it my dark gift to you, my Geese.

My only regret is that I didn’t render the “man” Drumpf viler within these pages. I did my best; there’s just no real way to quantify that certain je ne sais quoi, fils de pute that Drumpf embodies. Fully instilling his cartoon-villain+Gestapo-esque quality within a short story… some tasks are beyond mortal minds. Still, this is meant to be amusing, and hopefully of some solace to those who still possess a shred of sanity.

I used a bunch of his (at the time) worst quotes as a jumping-off point. Of course, since then he’s said much more and, often, much worse.

Scroll down for the full story. The formatting is a little off, but whatevs.

Trumpscendent Cover v1.jpg


Dedicated to the hair specialist(s) who coif Donald Trump

every day


By God, you’re doing your darnedest

War. Famine. Obamacare. Rape. Mexicans. America, this is a dangerous time. And we’ve got losers in public office, mucking around, turning this country into a resort for brown illegals. Not like one of my classy resorts, though. No, this country is going to be a dump, filled with the trash rejects from Mexican jails and Chinese assembly lines.

What now? The world is shrinking, huddling down to listen to words of truth being spoken by a single, solitary voice: me, my voice. Why am I, Donald Trump, speaking for America? Why should I, Donald Trump, want to be President of These United States? You wanna have a talk about my credentials? Sit down, dummy.

The beauty of me is that I’m very rich. That rag Forbes says I’m worth four billion dollars this year, but can you measure success as big as mine? I’m big, bigger than big. I’m huge. Yoodge. I hold the world in the palm of my hand. You can see my name from New York, to Istandbul and Mumbai. Wherever that is. Who gives a shit? I’m the star. I’m yoodge. Those places are only real because I put my mark on them. Always in solid gold. Classy.

The Trump Organization is the world’s only global luxury real estate super-brand, and is responsible for many of the world’s most recognized developments.

You like that? Of course you do, it comes from my website, which is the greatest website in the industry. In any industry. Not like all those other websites. The rest of the websites are garbage run by low-energy hacks and bums. They don’t shine anything like my stuff. You can tell because my name’s all over all of it. In gold, like I said.

Everything I do is solid gold.

Trump Entertainment brings you the best in casinos, from Atlantic City to Dubai. Play the odds, and keep an ace up your sleeve with my Trump One Card. The Trump One Card, your key to a world of luxury and excitement at the one and only (of my several) Trump Taj Mahals.

You want big, you get big. Only the classiest appreciate what I’m doing, here. Of course, I don’t need to gamble. I got all the money. Hey, if you don’t yet, that’s okay. Like I, Donald Trump, am always saying, quote:

“Money was never a big motivation for me, except as a way to keep score.

The real excitement is playing the game.”

Struggling to make ends meet? You just aren’t as rich as me, that’s all. Don’t act desperate. That’s for ugly, useless types. That color doesn’t look good on anybody—unlike my signature line of business suits. Try one on: get rich, like I did. You wanna go your own way? How’s that working out for you, lately? If you don’t want to go my way, you’re just lazy. You wanna end up some dirty hobo? Fine. Hey, okay. Winning isn’t for everybody.

I even make ties for those classy businessmen who really appreciate real luxury and style. Go on, tie a half-windsor with one of those bad boys. They range in colors. Some are as bright and top-shelf as my hair. Make another joke about my fabulous hair, you wannabes. If you weren’t so stupid, maybe you’d learn something. Sit down, scumbags. Actually, get the fuck outta my room.

You wish you had what I got. You wish. In your


And here’s looking at you, The Media. It really doesn’t matter what you bozos write about me. You want my credentials? I’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass. All the women on The Apprentice flirted with meconsciously or unconsciously. That’s to be expected. I’m drowning in it, baby.

As for those who bad-mouth Trump Tower—hey, fuck yoo if you think you should be able to see the park from your loft. You don’t need to see that low class park. You get to stare in awe at my gorgeous, classy tower every day. Lucky you, you know. The park is a dump. And you want to keep gawking at it. If you think that park is anything other than a dump, you need new glasses. What are you, an idiot? I lost a lot of respect for you.

Know what? I will be president of this country. That’s just how it’s going to go. I’ll run third party, if I have to. The people will vote for me, because I’m a businessman. I can wear trucker hats. I can be anything they want me to be, just as long as they want a classy guy with a killer personality. One of the key problems today is that politics is such a disgrace. Good people don’t go into government. But I’m a different breed. I’ll make America Great Again.


My theme song speaks for itself: straight from the end of the eighties and “rockin’ in the Free World.” Just like me. Yeah, it’s great to be in Trump Tower, it’s great to be in New York. Addressing all these fans who love me, Donald Trump. Nobody’s had a crowd like this. Everyone else is packing a dozen people into one, stuffy, hot, tiny room. Me? I got thousands of followers right here and millions from all over.

I feel so full of life and juice. I’m so high-energy,

you’d have to be really high

just to understand what I’m telling you.

The U.S. has become a dumping ground for everybody else’s problems.

Ugh, I love my voice. It’s so

goddamn powerful.

It’s gotta stop, and it’s gotta stop fast.

When Mexico sends its people, they’re sending sweaty losers that have lots of problems. They’re bringing drugs, crime. Some, I assume, are good people. But Mexico is sending us rapists. South and Latin America are filled with them. So is the Middle East. We have no protection and no competence in this country anymore. So, what am I going to do about it? Right out of the gate, President Trump will label every Mexican a Mexican’t. I will build a great wall — and nobody builds walls better than me, believe me —and I’ll build them very inexpensively. I will build a great, great wall on our southern border, and I will make Mexico pay for that wall. Mark my words. The wall will go up and Mexico will start behaving.

Wake up, America! I’m preaching, but are you hearing me? Wake. Up.

I’m giving you nothing but truth. I have the answers to the problems. But you call me a bully. Who the fuck are you, dummy? Listen, when people treat me unfairly, I don’t let them forget it, that’s all. And where did I get that? The Bible. It’s in there, somewhere, but I don’t have time to give you a history lesson. We have bigger things to talk about.

Like me.

The Bible is my favorite book, hands down.

Vote for me!

Yes, keep listening to me. Keep hearing me.

Ugh, I love that shit. Vote for me, baby.

Actually, you don’t really even have to. You can’t buy this kind of publicity. Everyone’s talking about Trump. All I can say is,

about time.

But, you know, lately I’ve been feeling a bit light. Not like those lightweight losers I’m running against. Just, uh, a little light on my feet. Yeah, that’s it. Not even bad.

Certainly a lot better than my competition. Can I even call them my competition, those irrelevant clowns? Better than you, too.

Are you gonna beat ISIS? I don’t fuckin’ think so.

God, sometimes I wish I could fuck myself. It is an honor, after all, to fuck me, Donald Trump.

Islamic terrorism has made people rich. I’m in competition with them. They built a hotel in Syria. Even I’d have trouble managing that. Though, of course, I’d manage.

Woah, there, Donnie. Maybe shouldn’t be comparing yourself to those dirtbag rag-heads. Some rag-heads are okay, because they make you money. But not those dirtbag rag-heads. Keep on-message, stick to the talking points.

They don’t have to pay interest, but I do. Is that fair? ISIS has the oil, and what they don’t have, Iran has.

Forget about the Middle East. When did we beat Japan, at anything? They send their cars by the millions. When was the last time you saw a Chevrolet in Tokyo?

And we don’t have victories anymore. When was the last time anyone saw us beating China in a trade deal? Well, I’m here to tell you that I beat China all the time. Every morning, I have the designated member of my staff make me breakfast and then I Skype-call China (video chat enabled) and make it watch me teabag its pathetic attempts at competitive business. I do this right before I tell it to go fuck itself.

Everyone who has even the smallest amount of brains knows that the concept of global warming was created by and for the Chinese in order to make U.S. manufacturing non-competitive. Exporting goods to China, under President Trump? I can boil it down to one sentence: “Listen, you motherfucker, we’re going to tax you 25 percent!”

Someone’s buzzing in my ear that a lot of my classy Trump clothing line is made in China. Yeah, okay. Why don’t you back off. If MORE of my stuff was made in China, we’d all be doing great. More Trump means more America. Think about that before you

come at me with that garbage.

Hey, guess what, China, Mainstream Media, all you spineless, menopausal b-words: you’ve just been Trumped. Copyright, trademark, Donald J. Trump, 2015. FYI, you now owe me $1,000 in royalties.

I have lobbyists that can produce anything for me. They’re great. I’m always saying, if you can’t make money in politics, you’re a moron. And that’s just what I’m promising you, America. Money. The making of it, that sweet, sweet lubricant of industry. I’ll be taking a cut, of course. My fair share. What is this, communism? I’m a billionaire, a job-creator. If you cut off the spigot before I take a gulp, no one will be drinking from your tap anymore.

Just give me a little bit more, America. Ahh, yeahhh.



Our country needs a truly great leader. We need a leader that wrote The Art of the Deal, who can bring back our jobs, bring back our manufacturing, military, take care of our vets. We need a cheerleader.

That’s me, guys.

Obama? Obama’s not a cheerleader. Not even a leader. He’s the opposite. Our great African American President hasn’t exactly had a positive impact on the thugs who are so happily and openly destroying Baltimore! That’s just one example of the garbage he’s drowning this once-great country in. Mark my words, America will be a dump if we don’t act now. Today. By the way, Mr. Obama, a certificate of live birth is not the same thing by any stretch of the imagination as a birth certificate. Born in Hawaii, my ass, you big, fat phony.

Oh, fuck, yeah, Birthers. You like that shit? Yes, Tea Party, give it all to Daddy, Tea Party.

Listen, I have a great relationship with the blacks, but you’re not one of the good ones, Mr. Obama. I can’t wait to step into that Oval Office and tell you right to your face, “You’re fired.” Because you never should’ve been hired. Someone needs to take the Brand that is America and make it great again.

Alright, Donnie. You got ‘em lined up, now for the knock-out punch. This is what they’re all waiting for. And papa’s gonna feed you, baby birds.

I love my life. I have a wonderful family. They’re saying, “Dad, you’re going to do something that is so tough.” All my life, I’ve heard that someone truly successful can’t run for public office. But that’s exactly the kind of mindset that’s needed to make this country great. That’s why, ladies and gentlemen, I am announcing that I am officially running for President of the United States.

Cue the rock music. Yeah, baby, yeahhh.

I’m bobbing my head, because, just yeah.


alright, alright. Cut the music. That’s enough.

So many issues to deal with and we’re expecting a bunch of clowns in low-class suits to solve it all for us. Take the weapons we donated in conflicts. We always leave our good stuff behind after a conflict. We’re always leaving our best, gorgeous new stuff. I was the only one making the right predictions, from the beginning. With Iraq, with Saudi Arabia, Syria, Yemen. All blown up. Tell you what, I blow stuff up one day, at least I’m putting up good-looking stuff the next.

You, yelling in the crowd, agreeing with me: wise choice, thank you, darling.

Mmm. Your attention tastes



On the domestic front, just like I’ve built beautiful, gorgeous towers throughout the country, I’ll fill America with awesome jobs. Here’s a simple truth even the stupidest puke, I-want-a-hand-out socialist could understand: the greatest social program is a job. I will be the greatest (jobs President) that God ever created.

This feels great. Like heaven. Except, I’m starting to, what,

fade, or something. My hair, its

wispy tendrils are expanding outward like the rays of sun woven into a living Renaissance

tapestry. Every time I breathe, it comes out

all foggy and dissipates

out into the ether.

Well, I’m not finished yet.

Under President Trump, here’s what would happen: I’ll call the head of Ford about this new Mexican plant in Mexico. The head of Ford will call me back within an hour. Maybe play it cool, wait ‘til the next day. No mistake, though, he’ll call. I’ll tell him, “No interest.” I don’t need his money. I don’t need lobbyists.

(I mean, I have ‘em. I don’t need ‘em, though.)

I’m really rich. By the way,

I’m not saying it to brag. That’s the kind of mindset you need. That’s not crass.

No. No,


The voices. They’re telling me, what,

to go, or something. Hey, voices, what are you,

a bunch of fat pigs,

bleeding out of wherever, like that dog, Kelly? I said

I’m not done giving my speech.

After I’m called by all the special interests, donors to my various campaigns, and so on—and they have zero chance of convincing me, by the way—Ford will call me, and I’ll tell ‘em, “No interest in wheeling and dealing with you, Mr. F. Motor Company. You’re ouuutta heeeeere.” And they’ll put that new plant in the U.S., not in Mexico. Believe that.



They’re telling me to go now. It’s time I was on my way, they’re saying.

Bush? Weak on immigration, supports the Common Core. How the hell could you vote for this guy? You just can’t do it.

Something deep inside wells up.

Education has to be local. Rebuild the country’s infrastructure. Nobody can do that like me.

A stirring. Something old.

On time, on budget. Way faster and way lower cost than anybody would think.

Something powerful.

You come into LaGuardia airport—we are like a third-world country. I come in from China, Qatar, and they have some of the most amazing airports in the world.

Something beautiful

and clean

and pure

(though, let’s be real, still can’t touch the fabulous Trump Empire fragrance).

We have to rebuild our infrastructure.

It’s speaking to me, whatever

 it is.

Artificially low interest rates.

Telling me that it’s alright. That everything

is going to be alright.


But that my time is over. That I have

to go.

I’ll save us by making us rich again.


My bronzed skin is washed

clean from the inside out. I can feel grace

touching my soul.

This makes me deeply uncomfortable.

Get rid of the fraud. Get rid of the waste and the abuse.

What is this?

The American Dream is dead.

What are you talking about? But I can’t die!

But if I get elected President—

I’m not like those fat,

ugly slobs, like Rosie O’Donnell,

Arianna Huffington,

Hillary Clinton. I’m not unattractive inside and out! What cosmic injustice is this?

I will bring it back—

If you’re going to let me die now,

then, like Jesus Christ before me,

I will resurrect and become

more powerful than you can possibly imagine.

—bigger and better and stronger than ever before.

(Yeah, I got that from the Bible, too.)

So, spare me,

whoever you are,

angel, demon, God. I don’t deserve this abuse.

And we will make A-me­-rica great again!

Cue the uproarious applause.

                                                                        Why is no one applauding me?


                                                                        Hey, dummies!

The American dream is

Dead? I said that, didn’t I. I admitted

it myself. And, if America as we know and love it is

 dead, then I must be, too. After all,

how could America be without me? This has gotta be a dream. Was Trump trumped by the dream that is Trump? My God, have I been the dope, all along? Am I the dummy? Am I, Jesus, am I

the highly overrated one?

Well, it’s been a good life. No one was bigger

than me. And now I get to meet God, and have Him judge all my work and tell me what a classy guy I was. Maybe I could remodel the Pearly Gates? Get a Trump logo on there and it’ll be big. Yoodge, even.

Except, I don’t think that’s what’s happening. I look left, and my hot piece of ass is gone. I look to the right, and my kids are, poof, gone in a flash. Worst of all, my body hasn’t collapsed on stage, as you’d expect from a heart-attack, a meeting with your Maker. It’s just gone. Like it never was. What’s happening?

No, that’s impossible.

I was real. I am real. You can’t tell me I wasn’t or am not. You can’t tell me, Donald J. Trump, that there never was a me.  Tell that to all the Trump Towers, Trump Taj Mahals, Trump Worlds—

oh, they’re all gone.

Wait, I’ll do anything. Seriously, take all my money.


not all of it. Guy’s gotta have something to live off of, even if he’s unmade by the hand that wrought him. But I’ll do anything, short of giving you all my money.


The universe is cold and unforgiving. What am I, If not a man? Pierce my beautiful, tanned-to-perfection flesh: do I not bleed?

Don’t say this I was just a dream.

What’s the use? You’re not listening. You can’t hear something that isn’t alive,

that never lived. How could you pay attention to a mere dream self-realized? It’s like if you’re sleeping and you figure out nothing around you is real, do you stop to pay attention to the details, smell the roses, sip the Chardonnay (hopefully, straight from the Donald Trump Winery in Virginia)?

No, of course you don’t. Because it’s all


Alright, wise-ass. Well, who is the dreamer? Who’s the bum who had the balls to dream me up, rather than make me real? It wasn’t me. I don’t take half measures. I dream big when I dream. So, was it you, God?

Oh, that’s right. God can’t talk to the shadows of a dream.

I’m just a shade.

Then, who, who is my Maker? Who was there at

the Creation of Trump?

It was you, wasn’t it?

Yeah, you. Looking right at you.

Don’t stare at me, with your tongue hanging out, like an idiot, like I’m slinging some sort of trumped-up charges at you.

So, it turns out that I’m the product, a passing fancy, of a delusional underclass of greasy, sweaty-palmed, wide-eyed wackos. I was never real, because my campaigns, my businesses, my life, were only made possible by the cheers of the tread upon and the wild ululations of


For repayment of this betrayal,

I’ll kiss your babies no more.

I’m Donald Fucking Trump. Beautiful. Classy. High energy. I gave it all to you. Luxury, yeah. And this is how you repay me. By showing me the mirrors of yourselves and letting me see, letting us all see, that there’s

nothing there

but five letters, a comb-over, and a bag of wind. You can’t catch the wind, dummy. That’s why I’m not real. All that heat, that hot air I was feeding you with, and you thought you could catch it. You can’t cage the winds of change. You can only blow away with them, or take root.

I see now which road I’ll have to take.

Unlike my hair-plugs, I’ll never take root.

You can’t net the seas in storm.

I am a sweeping gale accompanied by cutting, choppy waves. I break apart all in my path and amalgamate the wreckage into a renewed battering ram, never stopping until there’s nothing left to break and reassemble into my body. I am a force of nature, but it was you who gave me a face, a persona.

And, very soon now, the winds will lose their biting voices. The storm at sea will calm. I can feel it all deflating.

The skin on my bones is sagging. My hair is gray. I’m graying out. Fading to white.

Thing about dreams: they end in waking, the dream lost. Then you realize the dream was nothing but a symbol, a symptom of a whole other ball game. I just hate that I, Donald Fucking Trump, was your guy,

your tool, your face.

O, you huddled masses yearning to make me, I can’t believe I believed I was real. Worse, though, I can’t believe you did. I was just a dream of a mad society. I couldn’t be expected to think, feel, emote, live.

But, you,

you were the dreamers.


END (hopefully not of everything)

Just to prove this book exists on Amazon.com, here’s the link.

If you want to use this work or any part of it, find me on Twitter, or Tumblr, or email me at jrtraas@gmail.com

All you have to do is promise nothing good will come of it.

Human decency must be defended.


A Word on Drumpf

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