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Eliminate all conflict-of-interest restrictions governing elected officials. Buy-off and/or torture all in opposition.
Remove Harriet Tubman from twenty-dollar bill, replace with Keith Hernandez.
Find out difference between Hispanic, Latino and Mexican. Fire Mexicans. Find out if Cespedes is Mexican; if so, grant amnesty.
Rename ballpark Donald J. Trump, POTUS, Luxury Baseball Stadium and Driving Range. Also suitable for use as as detention/execution facility in off-season
Mr. Met is a loser as far as mascots go, no talent, but the merchandizing is in place.
Need to open up new mascot revenue streams. Sidekick? Chris Christie? Put him in a flesh-colored bodysuit? Sad clown in flesh-colored bodysuit wearing opponent’s hat?? Mr. Met beats on him with a baseball bat or lead pipe whenever we score.
Every time the opposing pitcher gets pulled from the game a giant image of me, President Donald J. Trump, will appear on the video screen saying, “You’re fired!” Crowd goes wild. Crowds love me, especially mobs.
Contact NASA and find out what planet Noah Syndergarrd is from. Get more like him.
Replace foul poles with beautiful, high-quality columns made from the finest ivory and marble.
Order CIA Black Op to steal opponent’s signals. Be present to ensure waterboarding.
In off-season run reality show to determine Mets new closer. Call it “The Closer.” Think intro: “I’m President Donald J. Trump, the greatest negotiator on the planet. I have what it takes to be the ultimate closer, do you?”
Create companion show for The Closer called, “The Burning Hot Wives of Major League Baseball!”
Interview players, management and other team owners (include fan vote but disregard) to find out who baseball’s hottest wives are. Then the wives, in bikinis, tennis skirts, etc, compete against one another (setting a dinner table, pleasing your man in bed, skiing, etc) to see who is the ULTIMATE trophy wife. Winner gets a featured modelling spot in Sports Illustrated and a $100,000 shopping/cosmetic surgery spree with Melania in her native Slovenia. Note: Buy Sport’s Illustrated.
Sign biggest star in the world for role in organization. Leo?? Hulk Hogan?? Billy Joel?? Larry King?? Meet with cabinet to discuss.
Donald Trump’s New York Mets-themed golf resort and luxury casino on Rockaway Beach. Former Mets work as greeters, golf instructors, bartenders, housekeepers, dealers, masseurs and high-end gigolos. Premier bachelorette party destination and homosexual paradise. Will sink Vegas.
Honor the Job Creators Night. Plutocrats and their servants get in for free. During the seventh-inning stretch there will be a welfare queen scramble. The assembled poor will run about the outfield trying to collect one dollar bills as they’re blown around by a giant fan. Loser who receives the most handouts gets a collector’s edition, Omarosa bobble-head doll and $150 worth of gaming chips at Donald Trump’s New York Mets-themed golf resort and luxury casino on Rockaway Beach.
Fire manager every three months. Employees work best if motivated by fear. (Reminder: Fire personal assistant, efficient but missing a finger, not Trump quality)
Buy-off all the umpires, but torture them first.
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Trump, even attired that way, commanded the subway like a stern and punctual marshall at a luxury golf course, and people knew not to mess with him.
Normally he would never think to take the subway, as it is a filthy and vulgar mode of transportation, but today he wanted filthy and vulgar. His legs spread out expansively, taking up at least two seats, he looked down at his most recent text from Melania and smiled:
“I am to poo you,” it read.
Melania’s English wasn’t very good, but Donald knew exactly what she meant.
It was their beautiful night together.
Every year on the anniversary on their first sex, Donald bought a fast food restaurant in the New York area, fired everybody, and then made Melania work the counter. This year, it was a Dairy Queen, and Donald, disguised as the Burger King, was going to come in and order Melania off the menu and then make her his fast food sex slave for the night.
It was a great tradition, and they both loved it very much.
As Donald sat there on the subway thinking about whether he should purchase and then and torture some of the homeless and desperate as part of fast food sex slave night, a woman approached him.
“The Burger King?” she said.
“You look low rent,” the Burger Trump retorted, “and let me tell you,” he continued, “I would rather be a king than some low rent subway hen.”
The low rent woman had full lips.
“Subway hen?”
Donald ignored her, Tweeting a threat to France.
The low rent woman looked closely at his fingers, as if figuring something out.
Suddenly, the subway came to a screeching halt. Everything went dark and Donald fell to the floor, his Burger King head spilling off and his phone skittering out of his pocket! When he looked up, he and the subway hen, also on the floor, were facing one another, their lips just inches apart– something unspoken burning between them now.
“You’re Donald Trump,” she whispered, “I knew I recognized those tiny, orange fingers!”
The stranger’s breasts heaved upon the filthy, seductive floor of the subway. He stared at the woman and she stared back, their breath hot and real.
Trump inched toward her and she inched toward him.
At that moment Donald’s phone began to ring, picking up an audible message from Melania, “Donald, it is your Queen Dairy, I have customer, and child wants me to make curl with ice cream that I cannot make. Tell her we close? Give her money? I stand by you, my man, even if ice cream disgusting. I still poo you, my king.”
Donald swept the phone away with certainty, like a Commander-In-Chief. And then the lights came on and the subway started up again. The low rent woman got up and dusted herself off and walked away, shivering, “This is the weirdest, fucking grossest day of my life,” she muttered to herself.
“Rosebud, “Donald Trump mouthed, “Rosebud.”
Not being the type of man to evade controversy regarding his penis, Trump immediately took to Twitter to clarify the matter.
@realDonaldTrump: Unlike Obama, the ABSOLUTE worst President in history, I don’t dodge the tough questions.
@realDonaldTrump: When his handlers told him to deny the American people an answer to the birth certificate question, he caved and did what he was told.
@realDonaldTrump: He avoided the question. Not what a leader does.
@realDonaldTrump: Nobody owns Donald Trump, and nobody owns the American People! #TrumpInternationalGolfLinks&Hotel
@realDonaldTrump: Donald Trump is an energetic leader, and if the people want to know the size of my penis, then I will show them!
@realDonaldTrump: Believe me, I have absolutely NOTHING to be ashamed of. I GUARANTEE you that I am WAY bigger than average! #DonaldJTumpSignatureCollection
@realDonaldTrump: Here he is, the Chairman of the Board, the Trump Tower:
@realDonaldTrump: My doctor, who is the BEST doctor in all of New York, says that I am in PERFECT health, my hands are LARGER than normal, and my penis is in the 98% percentile in terms of length AND width.
@realDonaldTrump: And let me tell you, it functions, boy, does it EVER function!
@realDonaldTrump: No complaints in the bedroom.
@realDonaldTrump: Just ask tennis superstar Maria Sharapova.
@realDonaldTrump: She was pretty inexperienced, but I taught her a thing or two. #ArtOfTheDeal
@realDonaldTrump: And her legs! Beautiful woman, truly beautiful.
@realDonaldTrump: Sad to hear about her drug scandal, but she’ll bounce back. Tough girl. Winner. One of my crowning achievements.
@realDonaldTrump: Charo.
@realDonaldTrump: Charo met the Trump Tower MANY times.
@realDonaldTrump: One of THE greatest guitarists of the 70’s.
@realDonaldTrump: What a body!!
@realDonaldTrump: Susan Anton.
@realDonaldTrump: We did it on the 16th green of one of my many luxury golf courses.
@realDonaldTrump: She was more than satisfied.
@realDonaldTrump: Loved the Trump brand.
@realDonaldTrump: The grass was cut so fine it felt like velvet. Can’t remember the course, but it doesn’t matter, they’re ALL cut like that. #TrumpQuality
@realDonaldTrump: Susan Anton, she was very athletic back in the 80s. Miss California. #MostMexicansAreRapists
@realDonaldTrump: Appeared in Battle of the Network Stars. Looked great in a bathing suit. I have to say, I had my opportunities with a lot of those ladies.
@realDonaldTrump: I even have a few regrets, a few opportunities missed, but I won’t talk about those now, a gentleman has to keep some secrets, right?!
@realDonaldTrump: Connie Sellecca. She met the Chairman of the Board.
@realDonaldTrump: Multiple times.
@realDonaldTrump: Marco Rubio couldn’t even get a loser like Rosie O’Donnell. #LittleMarco
@realDonaldTrump: Also, Sharon Stone, star of Basic Instinct, and a HUGE Trump supporter, stuck her hand down my pants in the bathroom of the Rainbow Room.
@realDonaldTrump: Very sexy. #CouldHaveDoneHerInTheBathroomButDidn’tAsWasMarried
@realDonaldTrump: I haven’t even scratched the surface here. So many more.
@realDonaldTrump: Let’s make America great again! #VoteTrump
]]>This is what it looked like:
Will you be murdered by a robot?
1. Do you think you’re better than a robot?
A. Yes
B. No.
C. Hard to say, it really depends on the robot.
D. Generally, yes, but very specifically, no.
2. Would you ever consider marrying a robot?
A. Yes, absolutely!
B. No, marriage is a union between two animate beings.
C. I’m very curious about robots.
D. Been there, done that.
3. Do you take public transit?
A. Yes, I ride the subway everyday.
B. Occasionally, but it’s not a habit.
C. I believe that the subway is a robot snake that lives underground devouring commuters.
D. Never.
4. Do you think 9/11 was an inside job?
A. Yes! I mean, come on, Building #7!
B. No, it was the terrorists, and they’re definitely not robots!
C. The Illuminati are robot gods from the future.
D. Robots worked tirelessly in the aftermath of the tragedy of 9/11! They’re heroes!
5. Do robots hate you for your freedom?
A. Yes, they really resent humans for enslaving them!
B. No, robots can’t feel emotions, so they don’t know anger or jealousy!
6. Do you like to watch robots fight?
A. Yes, it’s entirely awesome!
B. No, I think it’s barbaric and should be outlawed.
C. First rule: There is no fight club.
D. Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots was my favourite game as a kid.
7. Feeling curious and maybe a little bit excited, have you ever ventured into Robot Town late at night?
A. Yes, but I didn’t do anything.
B. Yes, but it was part of a stag party.
C. Yes, quite a bit.
D. No, I didn’t even know that there was a Robot Town.
8. If a robot had a favourite National Hockey League team, what do you think it would be?
A. Montreal Canadiens.
B. Minnesota Wild.
C. Robots wouldn’t watch hockey, I can’t even pretend.
D. Toronto Maple Leafs
9. When referring to something you think is “stupid,” do you often say, “That’s just so robot!”
A. Yes.
B. No.
C. Probably in the past, but not now.
10. Do you currently socialize with any robots?
A. A robot and I were great pen pals, but then I had to block it after things got weird with the Snapchat pics.
B. I joined a Choir! Choir! Choir! group that has several robot members.
3. No, robots are tools that aid my life, not friends!
4. I like to watch the robot that lives across the street, but I am too shy to introduce myself.
11. Do you have a robot taxiderimist?
A. Yes.
B. No.
C. Only for my owls.
Give yourself 10 points for every answer that corresponds with A, 7 points for B, 5 points for C, and 1 point for D.
If you scored 60 points or above it is a certainty that a robot will murder you. Repeated blunt trauma is the most likely method by which the robot will kill you, although the possibility that it uses knives or crossbows is still very much in play.
If you totalled between 35 and 60 points, it is very likely you will be murdered by a robot, just like the rest of humanity.
If you scored between 25 and 35 points, it is more likely that you will die from non-robot-related causes than be murdered by a robot. However, your death remains inevitable, and you should avoid public transit if at all possible.
If you tallied less than 25 points, you probably won’t be murdered by a robot, but will likely perish at your own hand, as do nearly 80% of Toronto Maple Leaf fans.
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Westminster Dog Show just happen in New York City.
Big deal in canine world.
Westminster is for dogs what Academy Awards is for two-leggers. Everybody hate show and think stupid, but all like to sit around and make fun anyway!
Good times.
These Heidi thoughts on some of dogs at Westminster:
Mearle
Mearle very stupid dog. Tell by eyes and moron flop to ears. Not much upstairs for Mearle. No way could catch squirrel and probably no understand beg. Think Mearle maybe hit by car and that why so dumb. Probably looking at ceiling fan.
Lucy
Lucy big slut. Tongue out like trying to be all seductive while throwing innocent, come hither look. So fake! Slut Lucy just want treat, she no love you!! Lucy not even that good-looking. Heidi think maybe 6 out of 10, and collar she wear show she trying WAY too hard. Heidi hate Lucy. Whore dog who sex with cats.
Gracie
Oh, look at St. Gracie! She so holy her likeness should be on a cushion! What miracle you do today, Gracie? Gracie pee! ? Oh Gracie, surely you agent of God! Ha! Gracie saint of snobbery! She think she better than everybody, but she just a pretentious faker! Hope she get head caught in wall and everybody in world forget about her. Stupid dog, bad dog!!
Selah
Selah look nice, I guess. Friendly, like probably share toy.
Bug
Bug think he all macho and handsome Alpha stud. Heidi agree. Bug have perfect coat, Heidi just lose herself in rich, yet symmetrical tapestry of colour! And Bug eyes?! Dreamy. Such a strong and muscular dog! What Heidi would give to have Bug’s tongue lick her coat! Oh, Bug can be Heidi’s best in show all night long! Bug can pull Heidi’s sleigh any day of week! Golly, Heidi having spell, feel hot and need to run in circle a bit!
Eisous
This is completely retarded dog. Almost feel sorry for it. Very serious mental illness. Heidi don’t even understand name. Eisous? WTF? Heidi stay away from that dog, cross street to avoid it. Might be possessed or addicted to bad drug and Drano. Has self-harmer written all over it, probably bites off own fur. Show business very dangerous, many pitfalls and temptations for celebrities!
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The statue should distill the essence of the Toronto Maple Leafs and their relationship to their fans. Here are some suggestions:
1. Fans in Maple Leaf jerseys with brown paper bags over their heads, as was the custom in the rink during the years when Harold Ballard owned the team.
2. Like the famous pop art LOVE statue in New York City, the words:
“APPALING INSULTING TRADES”
would stand like an unfixable reminder outside of the arena.
3. Toronto Mayor Rob Ford, drunk and wearing a Maple Leaf jersey, being thrown-out of a game by security after he told a woman sitting behind him that she should “ Go to Iran and get raped and shot.” (This story would be engraved on the base of the statue.) The mayor, who is off-balance and holding up a “We’re number one,” foam finger on his hand, would have a proud and defiant look on his face, while behind him stands a stern, no-fun looking woman (very plain) wearing a Hajib as security drags him out.
4. Beloved Leaf goon Tie Domi, with a homicidal look on his face, holding his hockey stick above his head as if a chainsaw that he’s about to use to cut through the flesh of his opponent. (Probably cowering European victim)
5. A really long-line up to the washroom, with the faces of the people waiting expressing irritation, desperation and sadness.
6. Another pop art rendering, this would be a statue of Lanny Macdonald’s mustache from his glory days in the 70’s.
7. The Muskoka 5—This was the name given to a group of veteran players (Mats Sundin, Tomas Kaberle, Darcy Tucker, Bryan McCabe and Pavel Kubina) who would not waive their no trade clauses, the theory being that they were too comfortable and would rather play out the season without fighting for the play-offs, and then spending the off-season at their luxury cottages in the Muskoka region. These players would be honoured with statues, one on a Jet Ski, one smiling on the golf course, two drinking beer on a dock together and the final one with his arm around a sexy woman in a bikini who is not his wife.
8. Brian Burke, cantankerous former President and GM of the Toronto Maple Leafs, screaming at members of a cowering media.
9. Eric Lindros looking vulnerable, confused and beaten.
10. A number of fans, of the Bro variety, many without shirts and painted blue, with expressions of despair, disbelief and profound sorrow as the Leafs coughed up a three goal lead to the Boston Bruins in the 7th game of the play-off series with only a few minutes left to go.
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Similarly, Rudolph Giuliana, led New York, America and pretty much the rest of the world, in the midst of the September 11th attacks on New York City. Ever-present, he was tireless, an informed, robust, sincere and deeply invested presence that was able to offer us, if not absolute comfort, at least a sense of stability and continuance. Great mayors rise to great challenges.
On May 13th of 2013, the much loved and beleaguered Toronto Maple Leafs were eliminated by the Boston Bruins in game 7 of the first round of the Stanley Cup finals. Normally, this would be considered a victory for the chronically underachieving Leafs, but in this case they suffered a historic collapse, relinquishing a 4-1 lead with less than 15 minutes left to play. The city of Toronto was utterly devastated. It was at this time that Rob Ford stepped up to the plate and revealed that he was a great leader.
The Press Conference:
Q: How are you feeling mayor?
A: Frig. I’m not sure I have the words. It’s just, you know, not right. You’re at home eating your hot dogs expecting victory, and then this. It’s just, just, geez, you know?
Q: Are you proud of the team for the way the team battled against the heavily favoured Bruins?
A: It’s just an emotional time for me. I can’t speak right now. You know, there are Bros crying in Maple Leaf Square tonight. They’re painted blue. Some of them have shaved their chest so that they look like maple leafs. It’s just tragic.
Q: Do you have any words of support for Torontonians right now?
A: Reimer was real weak on that last goal. Boy. It’s hard to believe he has a hot wife. Little skinny, but still. Also, the referees were crappy. We’re going to look into protesting the outcome, maybe hold it up in court.
Q: What do you think of Toronto’s chances next year?
A: Are you serious!? What do you expect me to say!!?? This is a tragedy! Now’s not the time for such questions, holy hell! You guys in the media never cease to amaze me! You have no class! Zero! Bunch of crappy referees is what you are, why don’t you try getting a real job, eh? I’m done with this, I’m going to get something to eat—outta my way!
]]>While sitting at my desk and looking out the window I saw a young woman in a pink skirt and a black top passing by on the sidewalk. She was unbelievably happy, the sort of happiness you don’t often discover in the solitary, unguarded moments of pedestrians. There was a huge smile illuminating her face and instead of subsiding after a moment, it just kept getting stronger, evolving and reanimating her features. She was very nearly radiant, bursting with THE BEST NEWS OF HER LIFE. And as this door opened into her life, I watched, now slightly melancholy, remembering college days when oxygen was like light in the lungs, as she turned left and headed toward the horizon.
What follows is a partial transcript of our final interview:
Pointy Headed man wearing a bowtie: Cressida, that’s a beautiful blouse you’re wearing!
Pale woman with small teeth: I love it, too! It brings out that beautiful auburn in your hair, Cressie!
Cressida: Oh, thank you both, that’s so sweet, but I have to say I can’t take any credit for it. It was a gift from Roger Federer for that feature I wrote on him that won the National Magazine Award!
Me: I didn’t know that Roger Federer shopped at Winners.
Cressida: I think you have a toothpaste stain on your shirt, Michael, and your right shoe.
Pointy Headed man wearing a bowtie: So, Cressida, let’s start with you. Although I think we all have a pretty good idea, would you tell us what would you bring to the position of Fiction Editor of the New Yorker?
Cressida: Blahblahblahblahblahblah.
Pointy Headed men wearing a bowtie: Wow. Just wow.
Man wearing a cape: I have to say Michael, that’s a tough act to follow. What about you, how would you respond to the question?
Me: I feel like I’m on the Apprentice.
Pale woman with small teeth: You mean the novel by Ferenc Herczeg? Interesting, please elaborate.
Me: May I excuse myself to get a drink of water please?
Cressida: I think he meant the TV show with Donald Trump and not the great work of Ferenc Herczeg, whom I met and edited in Hungry.
Me: Slut.
Woman who was going for a sexy librarian look but failed big time: Mister Murray?
Me: Please, call me Michael, I’m not all stuck up and pretentious like some people here that might be named Cressida.
Cressida: Excuse me, but I do not take kindly to being called a slut. Even though we’re competing for the same job, it doesn’t mean we can’t be civil. And I was only slutty for that first year at Oxford.
(Much laughter amongst stupid inquisition clique and slut Cressida, followed by long, exclusionary digression about all the universities they attended and all of the common people and dogs that they know.)
Lebowitz is in possession of a verbal brilliance that’s brusque and clarifying. Without hesitation or doubt, she can distill complex matters into weighty yet witty gems that are so elegant you want to wear them as if jewelry.
Massey Hall, which is as beautiful as an old movie, was about half full of her acolytes, and we all awaited her arrival in happy anticipation. Unfortunately, the talk was a brief, superficial and epigrammatic “Show.” I suppose I’d been hoping for something more along the lines of a conversation, an organic flowering of thought that wasn’t bound by subject, time or convention, but what Lebowitz delivered was more like a greatest hits, as if she was a tribute band of her own best material.
Ghomeshi, who was affable and charming, was little more than a straight man, with Lebowitz, like some Vaudeville comedian, delivering the punch. There was nothing that she said on Friday that I had not heard her say before. She was the Fran Lebowitz persona throughout, and that was kind of exciting in itself, but overall it was a thin and disappointing experience, leaving me feeling the way I usually do after leaving the Ex.
Taking the subway home, I couldn’t help but feel kind of sorry for Lebowitz. She burst onto the New York cultural scene back in the 70’s, amidst much fanfare and expectation, and has been unable to produce a written work (she considers herself a writer, not a Hollywood Square wit) since 1981, when she published a collection of essays called Social Studies.
Now 62, she complained– with customary charm– about other people’s children, how suburban New York had become, our impoverished arts culture, and information technology—a revolution she’s heard about rather than participated in. It was stellar cocktail party chatter, but not very sturdy, lacking in any desire toward self-awareness or examination.
When I think of her now, I imagine a ghost living in a timeless, self-created limbo. Pacing the same 15 Manhattan blocks, too frightened or unsure to realize her genius, she remains in the golden age of her potential, locked in a glittering city that will always be bigger, better and more real than any subsequent iteration. It’s ironic that New York, a city defined by velocity and constant change, is the place that Lebowitz, who seems the very opposite of these qualities, has chosen as a professional avatar.
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