The Trump Faire

 

It has been a very long time since my daughter and I visited the Renaissance Faire held outside of town during  the Summer months. We used to go every year when she was young and we got to know the regulars who really got into character. We never dressed up and pretended we were back there, in Tudor times. Who we kidding? I read and I know things. First, our Faire always smelled lovely, with incense and Dior Sauvage wafting through the grounds. I cannot recall ever using the bathrooms there, but I'm assuming the burgesses did not piss in buckets. There was jousting with handsome knights and no blood was shed. Roasted turkey legs were damn fine eating, then and now. 

But, truly, there was nothing romantic about the Elizabethan era, although it certainly had a glow up from the Dark Ages where just going outside could kill you. There really is no way to replicate that past faithfully because it sucked. I will also never quite understand the interest in Civil War reenactments. You can pretend fight, then go home and open a brewski with all your limbs intact. I'm not suggesting we make these entertaining shenanigans more realistic. No one would want to entertain the masses who enjoy bloody sport spurts. Having a leg severed with a rusty saw and no anesthesia sounds like a deal breaker. 

So how do you figure Trump's era will be told in the future? Will people dress up in red shirts, socks with sandals, the MAGA cap and play ICE vs. Dumocrat games? Will they hunt down brown people and lock them up with live alligators? Will faux King Donald and Queen Melania make an appearance? You know there will be stories, handed down from one generation to the next until nothing is real. 

Once upon a time~~~~~~

There was a moderately handsome, powerful influencer who was married to a woman from a foreign land. They had oodles of gold, so much gold, yet, there was never enough to make the King happy. Nothing made the King happy unless you bestowed upon him a trinket, preferably in gold, but anything would do. The peasants would come to him seeking asylum which he granted if the price was right. The Queen remained in her quarters tending to their son, who some say was a giant. The King had so many children he couldn't remember their names or what they looked like. Miffany, Charlie, is that you? 

Oh how the King loved to go off to war to show the entire realm who was boss. He himself had never seen as much as a scuffle due to his bone spurs and cankles. He sent the children of his admirers off to the far end of the flat earth where they ate beans and one fish stick for dinner whilst the King gorged on French cuisine which came from a place called McDonald's. But this man was a true hero. He rose from the dead after being shot in the ear with podium shrapnel. Time after time men tried to murder him. They were angry former magas who couldn't shoot worth a damn. What a brave man. So every June 14th, some honor his memory by cutting a slice off an ear, then sharing a can of diet Coke. Then the celebrators pray for his second coming. They say he died bravely, alone, as he was seen running towards the ruins of the East Wing after the giant got loose. He was killed because he had no ballroom to protect him. Always the hero. One day, America will be great again - when real men manipulated the market, grabbed women by the *ussies and stormed the Capitol.

They say there was no other like him. He sailed through life unscathed until the incident with the giant. Unfortunately, he didn't get to see the biggest damn block party heard round the world. Some have forgotten his name because his name was banned from history books and was forbidden to be uttered ever again. But, history has a way of taking the really shitty parts out and replacing them with good time memories that make internment camps, measles, screw worms, swatting, grifting and protecting the overlords who raped children sound nostalgic and worthy of an annual remake.

Covfefe.