It was early one recent Christmas morning, high atop the cloudpiercing pinnacle of trimp Tower.
SadMan, the cuckhold of Maralago, sat snuffling with all three illegitimate spalpeen: Udeh, Cuedeh, and Hootchie Cootchay. As was their wont in every season, they were all together merrily defrauding their way through a shady game of MoneyPlay laid shiftily out on a warped and crooked board.
SadMan, the cuckhold of Maralago, sat snuffling with all three illegitimate spalpeen: Udeh, Cuedeh, and Hootchie Cootchay. As was their wont in every season, they were all together merrily defrauding their way through a shady game of MoneyPlay laid shiftily out on a warped and crooked board.
Hootchie Cootchay whooped and clapped with glee, bouncing giddily up and down on her gilded Louie Quartorze. "Papa (as if)," she crowed. "Choove stumbled onto der Boardvalk again. Und now choo mus pay der vent!"
Her long slender fingers smoothly hoovered more colored counterfeits from the short stubby digits of her presumptive pater who gripped the gamegelt tightly with gritty stumpy pads that were never no match for the goldenhaired girlchild who, steely eyed, reminded him, "Vremember Papa (as if), Vhatever I Vonk, I Getz!"
"Das eez true," agreed the unpaternal old skinflint as he leered down her unfamiliar décolletage. Then indignantly, he grabbed a tightly wrapped roll of the hated Times, soaked overnight in chilled Napoleon Brandy, and smartly smacked the chortling pates of both da boyz, each of whom were still too drunk to duck. "Ref any von's gonna date your seizeter, let eet be me!
"Yavohl mein Daddy-O (as if)" replied the two dumkuffs numbly in practiced unison. But emergently, Cuedeh, out of some sullen pique, just had to mutter outloud, "Too Badz on choo, ders no vey to declare der bankruptcy een deese game o' skill, eh Daddy-O (as if)?"
The Dunvald of Downtown Grift cooly transfixed the miscreant spawn (of some unknown interloper) with his best Mussolini glare. "Jest don't forget who's da electored vun here!", he growled Himmleresque.
But before the smirk could wither on the japing juvenile's (delinquent) face, and even after the caitiff had downcast his watery eyes, the orange tufted twit of a tycoon had a start of a stuporous kind. Why did chinless Cuedeh look (si all of a suddenly) so much like Vlad?
It didn't help when all three krazy kidz grabbed top hats and canes and pranced into their well worn musical routine "Putin on der Reetz".
"Ah vell," sighed old Sadman trimp. "I vunder vhat Pense duz weed heez leetle basturds?"
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