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May 29, 2012

What the fuck happened to Uncle Sam’s hair?

I’m usually the unluckiest person in the world.  I’m even more unlucky  than  the 7 Most Bizarrely Unlucky People Who Ever Lived.  Have any of them thrown up in a coffee cup that seconds before was being used by their boss?  I think not.

But today I know I’m going to win the best contest ever and get to dine with The Donald and Mitt in New York!  This contest is a fundraiser for Mitt Romney’s campaign, but I found the teeny-tiny link where you can enter without making a donation or even being a Romney supporter.  I will be voting for Obama, but I’ll always take a free trip to New York, even if I have to put up with Donald Trump’s hair for a few hours.

Here’s what is offered:

Airport transportation in the Trump vehicle.

• Stay at the Trump International Hotel & Tower New York.

• Tour of Trump Tower.

• Dine with Donald Trump and Mitt Romney.

There are some terms and conditions attached to this contest.  I didn’t read them.  Once I’m one of the winners, I have my own terms and conditions for Mr. Trump.

My dinner date will be Jeni Decker, co-author of Waiting for Karl Rove.  Jeni lives in Michigan and I live in Texas.  There will be none of that commercial airline crap for us.  I expect Trump’s 757 to be flown to Texas, and land as close to my house as possible to save me any airport-related inconvenience.

Since I won’t be going through any security measures at the airport, I will be bringing along a hammer, a screwdriver, and industrial strength scissors; the better to help myself to gold-plated seatbelts and anything else of value I can hock or sell on eBay once I return home.

By the time we reach Michigan to pick up Jeni, I’m hoping to find Trump’s favorite porn movies on his multiplex movie system with DVD direct storage of over a thousand movies.  Then Jeni and I can shoot a video of us being horrified at what a twisted pervert the Donald is.

I do intend to take a nap on his bed; the one with his family crest on the pillowcases.  Sounds like a lovely place to light up my two-buck-a-pack smokes after gorging on potato chips.   There Goes the Neighborhood.

Donald Trump’s High-Flying Flatulence

When we arrive in New York, the lackey-in-charge-of-driving should hand over the keys to one of Trump’s cars – preferably a Rolls-Royce.  Jeni will have to drive in the city, but I reserve the right to burn some fucking rubber on the airport tarmac.

Once we arrive at the Trump Tower, the white-gloved doorman will be our personal guest for the duration of our visit to New York – on the clock.  That’s right, Donald.  You’ll not only have to eat with him, you’ll be paying him as well.

Our room must be on the 17th floor overlooking Broadway.  This will get Jeni and me in the mood for our after-dinner entertainment – front row seats to Book of Mormon.  What will also get us in the mood is the mini-bar stocked with Slim Jims, dark chocolate and light beer.

It is imperative that fresh flowers adorn our luxury suite.  Jeni’s sunflowers and daisies should be in a Baccarat clear crystal spirale vase by Thomas Bastide; retail value $13,100.  My tulips should be artfully displayed in a Baccarat Mémoire 2011 vertical fish vase; retail value $15,500.  After we check out of the hotel, these vases are to be shipped in environmentally friendly packaging to our homes in Texas and Michigan.  I can sell mine on eBay for enough to buy a car that actually runs; and I’m certain Jeni can use her cash to buy a lifetime supply of hemorrhoid cream.

I’m assuming dinner will be at Jean Georges, the five-star restaurant located in the Trump Tower.  I checked out the menu online and even a rube from Texas knows that egg caviar is redundant.  I will be a most ungracious guest if I’m served crunchy rabbit, citrus-chili paste and soybean Purée.  I prefer my rabbit to be cute, cuddly and fucking alive, thank you very much.  If he’s capable of blasphemy, just tell the chef to make me a chicken-fried steak with cream gravy and mashed potatoes.

Donald, when it comes time to crack open a bottle of overpriced wine, just get out your checkbook instead and make the check payable to Kat Nove.  Wine gives me a migraine; much as your inane birther comments do.  I’ll be satisfied with a glass of iced tap water.

We expect to enjoy some scintillating conversation over dinner – with each other.  Truly, the two of you are as tiresome as a twelve-day menstrual cycle.

But I do have some questions that I hope you will truthfully answer.

Questions for Donald Trump:

Can Jeni touch your hair?

Do you have a trophy wife case in your house?

If you ran into someone in a dark alley who really believes Barack Obama wasn’t born in the United States, would you piss your pants?

Question for Mitt Romney:

Who are you again?

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