There have been a bunch of them, but here's the first. Even without pictures, I still think it's pretty funny.
"THE DISTRESS-CALL"
I had a bad feeling about the distress signal that my pilot received as my luxurious private G-6 winged its way over Central Asia.
This is how irritating adventures generally begin.
Nevertheless, it would be caddish to ignore a cry for help, so I reluctantly gave the order to alter course and see who the hell was in trouble this time.
One makes sacrifices in order to be a Selfless Defender of the Republic.
My pilot informed me that the distress call was coming from Uighur-Abad in Kyrgyzstan.
Uighur-Abad? For some reason, that rang a bell. I hurriedly flipped through the card-file in my Mind-Palace. A wave of the most ominous, shadowy dread washed over my soul. I couldn't remember any halfway decent hotel-bars, restaurants, or tailors in that part of the world.
On the other hand, I thought, there may very well be a hidden stash of my favorite vodka, "Ol' One-Eyed Ivan's Blood of the Imperialist Capitalist Exploiters." They stopped making it in '93, and worldwide stocks are dwindling. But you never know. There might be a case or seven hidden in one of those old Soviet outposts. The trip may not be a total loss.
My luxurious G-6 private plane touched down at Osh Airport in a howling blizzard. I checked my very sophisticated GPS distance satellite-map thingies, and my eagle-eyes narrowed as I looked at all the blinky-blinky lights.
It was ten miles from Osh to Uighurabad, from whence the distress signal emanates.
"Ten miles in this part of the world could take a day or more," I mused to myself, as I lit a hand-rolled Cuban Cohiba with my grandfather's antique sliver lighter, "and that's in optimal driving conditions. I wonder how long it would take me by... another form of transportation."
Having been fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of a Kyrgyz fur-trader over a few glasses of "Uncle Genghis's Top-Notch Koumiss" in the airport bar, I was now properly insulated against the Central Asian blizzards. I'd bartered my way into a smashing ensemble: a floor-length coat of snow-leopard fur with matching shapka* and gloves.
"No reason why we can't look good--and, dare I say it, damned good--while answering a distress signal in the wilds of Central Asia," I thought to myself, catching sight of my own reflection in a shop-window, and preening just a tad.
Checking my GPS satellite blinky thing, I clambered atop a Bactrian camel and took a quick mental inventory. "Ten miles to Uighurabad on a camel in a blizzard, three Cohibas, a hip-flask of 'Auld Blechaintoshan,' scotch, a slight buzz from that koumiss, an Amex platinum card, a fully-loaded .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, and I'm wearing sunglasses," I thought. Not optimal, but I've been in worse situations. "Avanti."
But it wasn't long before I found myself in a tight spot.
The raging blizzard through which I was struggling on my way from Osh to Uighurabad suddenly took a turn for the worse. Howling winds whipped the skirts of my newly-acquired floor-length snow-leopard coat... ice and snow rent my flesh like knives.
Tragically, I was forced to go full "Han Solo and the Taun-Taun" on my Bactrian camel, gut the thing, and crawl inside its rib-cage.
Morosely, I fired up a Cohiba, took a swig of "Auld MacBlechaintochan 18-year," peered out from his makeshift dead camel shelter, and wondered, for the thousandth time, who's been sending that distress signal from Uighurabad.
The blizzard blew itself out, and, slightly footsore and smelling vaguely of camel-innards, but still looking absolutely smashing, I sidled into the town of Uighurabad in the former Soviet Republic of Kyrgyzstan, from whence the distress signal came.
It's a mighty depressing place. There are a few Soviet-era concrete monstrosities still clawing the Central Asian sky... a few tired-looking and poorly-stocked shops... a run-down mosque... a few old men huddled around the statue of Josef Stalin shaking hands with Manas, the legendary Kyrgyz national hero, in the town square.
I checked my GPS beepy blinky thing. The distress signal, whoever was sending it, appeared to be coming from behind a low ridge of hills just west of town.
"Off we go," I muttered to myself. "In the service of God, country, and my fellow-man, forward the battalions."
My crack security/extraction-team--an accessory no self-respecting international gentleman of fortune and intrigue should ever be without--seemed unavoidably delayed, so bravely on I forged.
I tracked the distress signal on my beepy blinky GPS thingy out of Uighurabad, over the low ridge of rocky escarpment west of Uighurabad to a jagged crack in the stones. It appeared to lead to a cave.
Cautiously, I stuck my head into the cave. A thick, musty odor of rot and decay filled my nostrils... a sound like muffled weeping tickled his ears. Who--or what--could possibly be inside???
Squinting into the darkness of the cave, I saw a huge, shaggy form curled into the fetal position on the rough stone floor. Its body trembled, racked with sobs. The stench was well-nigh overpowering--my eyes began to water.
Suddenly, the thing, sensing my presence, leapt to its feet and spun around, and I saw its horrible visage:
A hulking, brutish, simian form; a broad, flat face; a feral, snarling mouth; tiny, beady eyes, glittering with tears, under a heavy, jutting brow; a thick coat of shaggy, filthy, matted orange fur.
"Donald?" I said, recognizing my fellow filthy-rich plutocrat. "Good God's urge, this is the first time I've ever been disappointed that it WASN'T a yeti. What in the name of common sense are you doing here?"
I recoiled bit as the Trump-beast lumbered toward me. Don't laugh, you would too. The stench of unwashed Trump could give the average burning landfill a run for its money.
"Donald, what are you doing here?" I repeated, holding my lilac-scented, monogrammed linen handkerchief to my aristocratic nostrils as Trump, sobbing, embraced me. "Aren't you supposed to be blowharding your way through a Republican debate tonight?"
"Yeah, that's why I've been hiding out in a cave in Kyrgyzstan!" the Trump-thing wailed. "I've been hiding out here wishing the whole thing would just... go away! JP, I don't want to be President! I never did! I'm a complete buffoon, and I know it! But it's outta my control now. You gotta help me, man! You gotta figure some way to get me OUT of this thing!"
I reluctantly handed the shaggy, stinking Trump my last Cohiba and my hip-flask. I detest the man, but there's solidarity among One Percenters.
"It started as a gag," Trump muttered. "I was drinking with Barry Diller and David Geffen at the last Palmerwood hunting-party and I got lit up and they dared me to run for President. What the hell, I said. Sounds like a gas.
"But God help me... I started WINNING. JP, I've done everything to get out of it. I've said I'm gonna keep Mexicans out with a giant wall. I said Megyn Kelly was mean to me because she was on her period. I made fun of a handicapped reporter. I made fun of John McCain. I got Sarah Palin to endorse me, for Chryssakes. THAT should have been the kiss of death right there."
He turned to me, desperation in his piggy little eyes.
"But NOTHING WORKS," he moaned. "I keep rising in the polls! America the Stupid just eats up all my kooky with a spoon! The loonier I act, the more of a jerkoff I am, the bigger the total assclown I act like, this stupid country can't get enough of me! Hell, I even said I could shoot somebody and not lose supporters, AND I GOT A FIVE PERCENT BUMP IN IOWA!!!! What the HELL do I have to do to get out of this race, fellate ISIS on 'America's Got Talent'?! I'll do it if you think it'll work. Don't think I won't."
I couldn't help but feel a sneaking sympathy for The Donald.
"I get it," I commiserated. "Good God's urge, the outrageous, offensive stuff I post on Facebook about politics, Ann Coulter, religion, football, you--great zounds, I tick myself off, and I think I've been unfriended twice. And a lot of my friends are from Indiana. Some of them are in the clergy. Many of them are deeply conservative. Trust me, I get it."
"Yeah, good for you," the matted, reeking Trump-beast growled. "But what am I supposed to do?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I pulled out my mobile, opened up the CNN app, and the two of us anxiously watched the results of the Iowa Caucus now coming in.
"So what's happening?" Donald rasped. "What's going on?!?"
"Well, good news and bad news," JP says. "Good news is Bernie's closing the gap on Slick Hilly."
"Did I ever tell you about the threeway I had with Hilly and Donna Shalala?" the Trump beasts mused. "Boy, you talk about feeling like a third wheel. It was almost like they wished I wasn't there. What's the bad news?"
"Bad news is it looks like you might win," JP says. "But I think I have a plan anyhow."
My crack security/extraction-team--an accessory no self-respecting international gentleman of fortune and intrigue should ever be without--seemed unavoidably delayed, so bravely on I forged.
I tracked the distress signal on my beepy blinky GPS thingy out of Uighurabad, over the low ridge of rocky escarpment west of Uighurabad to a jagged crack in the stones. It appeared to lead to a cave.
Cautiously, I stuck my head into the cave. A thick, musty odor of rot and decay filled my nostrils... a sound like muffled weeping tickled his ears. Who--or what--could possibly be inside???
Squinting into the darkness of the cave, I saw a huge, shaggy form curled into the fetal position on the rough stone floor. Its body trembled, racked with sobs. The stench was well-nigh overpowering--my eyes began to water.
Suddenly, the thing, sensing my presence, leapt to its feet and spun around, and I saw its horrible visage:
A hulking, brutish, simian form; a broad, flat face; a feral, snarling mouth; tiny, beady eyes, glittering with tears, under a heavy, jutting brow; a thick coat of shaggy, filthy, matted orange fur.
"Donald?" I said, recognizing my fellow filthy-rich plutocrat. "Good God's urge, this is the first time I've ever been disappointed that it WASN'T a yeti. What in the name of common sense are you doing here?"
I recoiled bit as the Trump-beast lumbered toward me. Don't laugh, you would too. The stench of unwashed Trump could give the average burning landfill a run for its money.
"Donald, what are you doing here?" I repeated, holding my lilac-scented, monogrammed linen handkerchief to my aristocratic nostrils as Trump, sobbing, embraced me. "Aren't you supposed to be blowharding your way through a Republican debate tonight?"
"Yeah, that's why I've been hiding out in a cave in Kyrgyzstan!" the Trump-thing wailed. "I've been hiding out here wishing the whole thing would just... go away! JP, I don't want to be President! I never did! I'm a complete buffoon, and I know it! But it's outta my control now. You gotta help me, man! You gotta figure some way to get me OUT of this thing!"
I reluctantly handed the shaggy, stinking Trump my last Cohiba and my hip-flask. I detest the man, but there's solidarity among One Percenters.
"It started as a gag," Trump muttered. "I was drinking with Barry Diller and David Geffen at the last Palmerwood hunting-party and I got lit up and they dared me to run for President. What the hell, I said. Sounds like a gas.
"But God help me... I started WINNING. JP, I've done everything to get out of it. I've said I'm gonna keep Mexicans out with a giant wall. I said Megyn Kelly was mean to me because she was on her period. I made fun of a handicapped reporter. I made fun of John McCain. I got Sarah Palin to endorse me, for Chryssakes. THAT should have been the kiss of death right there."
He turned to me, desperation in his piggy little eyes.
"But NOTHING WORKS," he moaned. "I keep rising in the polls! America the Stupid just eats up all my kooky with a spoon! The loonier I act, the more of a jerkoff I am, the bigger the total assclown I act like, this stupid country can't get enough of me! Hell, I even said I could shoot somebody and not lose supporters, AND I GOT A FIVE PERCENT BUMP IN IOWA!!!! What the HELL do I have to do to get out of this race, fellate ISIS on 'America's Got Talent'?! I'll do it if you think it'll work. Don't think I won't."
I couldn't help but feel a sneaking sympathy for The Donald.
"I get it," I commiserated. "Good God's urge, the outrageous, offensive stuff I post on Facebook about politics, Ann Coulter, religion, football, you--great zounds, I tick myself off, and I think I've been unfriended twice. And a lot of my friends are from Indiana. Some of them are in the clergy. Many of them are deeply conservative. Trust me, I get it."
"Yeah, good for you," the matted, reeking Trump-beast growled. "But what am I supposed to do?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I pulled out my mobile, opened up the CNN app, and the two of us anxiously watched the results of the Iowa Caucus now coming in.
"So what's happening?" Donald rasped. "What's going on?!?"
"Well, good news and bad news," JP says. "Good news is Bernie's closing the gap on Slick Hilly."
"Did I ever tell you about the threeway I had with Hilly and Donna Shalala?" the Trump beasts mused. "Boy, you talk about feeling like a third wheel. It was almost like they wished I wasn't there. What's the bad news?"
"Bad news is it looks like you might win," JP says. "But I think I have a plan anyhow."
I mulled it over. "You know what..." I said, "Yes.... yes, I think... you know, it's so crazy that it just... might... WORK."
I turned my attention back to the results of the Iowa Caucus coming on my mobile and snorted scornfully as I read the morning's headlines.
"What? What now?" Trump grunted from underneath the layer of crusted grime coating his shaggy bulk. "Did I win?"
"Nope, you came in second to Ted Crazed," I said. "I'm just laughing about this headline: 'Hillary Breathes "Huge Sigh of Relief" After Tie in Iowa.'"
"What's she got to be relieved about?" Trump wondered, scratching his chest absently and dislodging a chunk of calcified filth.
"Presumably, she's relieved at being able to leave Iowa untarred, unfeathered, and not on a rail," I answered. "But hold on.... I'm just about to put my idea into motion."
I tapped on my mobile, hit "send," and smiled up at Trump, who glared back at me.
"What are you doing on that stupid phone, Palmer?" he grunted, and scratched his rump, dislodging the few shreds of his trousers which remained there. "I came in second in Iowa, but I'm still in the race, and Huckabee, Santorum, and Rand Paul all dropped out today! You're supposed to be getting me OUT of this thing, not playing Angry Birds or looking at FoxNewsGirlsGoneWild.com or whatever it is you're doing!"
"Calm yourself, Donald," I replied, in my soothing baritone voice. God, is it soothing, that voice of mine. Feels like someone pouring warm syrup on your bare flesh. Next to me, Barry White sounds like Fran Drescher with emphysema. "Taken care of. You'll be toast in no time."
"What?" Trump bellowed, jumping up and down in a manner oddly redolent of an orangutan having a seizure. "What? How? What did you do???"
"I just nominated you for the Nobel Peace Prize," I grinned, folding my arms in satisfaction. "Texted a few friends in Sweden, called in some favors. It's in. You've been nominated. Heck, you might even win. If Henry Kissinger can win it after wiping Cambodia off the map, you've got a real shot at it."
Trump, dumfounded, suddenly burst out laughing, "You're KIDDING!" he bellows. "It.. it's GENIUS!"
I hate to look immodest, but I had to agree. In a political party whose entire foreign policy boils down to "bomb everything until it stops moving," winning the Nobel Peace Prize could have been the kiss of death for the Donald's campaign.
I checked my beepy-blinky satellite GPS thingy, which had suddenly begun going off like a string of firecrackers. Well, what do you know. My crack security-team had finally shaken off their hangovers, and decided to come looking for me, after a week or so. I resolved to have a stern chat with Mssrs. Dailey and Miller. Once I'd had a few drinks himself. It gets thirsty in Central Asia.
"Coming, Trump-Brute?" I asked. "I'm going to call for my plane and then continue on to Switzerland, which is where I was going when I got your distress signal. I need to drop some watches off at La Chaux-de-Fonds to get serviced. Come on, we'll stop in Monaco, get you cleaned up, pop into Le Saint-Benoit and grab a steak, what do you say? You've been living on raw cave-rats for two weeks now."
"Nah, you go on," the Trump-beast said. "I'm gonna wait until my poll-numbers drop some more. Also I'm gonna sue Cruz for screwing me in Iowa. No way I lost to that jagoff."
My eyes shot open in bewilderment, but I decided not to press the issue. I had done what I could to get Trump out of the race. The rest... was up to fate.
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