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Weird dream.
I was in a classroom from my high school having a "computer class." People from DigiPen were there, too, though. The "computers" were these weird monitor looking things up on sticks or wires that were a hassle to use or to even just turn on. The teacher went around handing out yellow pieces of paper with an assignment written on them. When I looked at the paper, all I saw were nothing but illegible squiggles, but I was able to interpret it all the same. We had to write a parody story. Everyone else was complaining, but I knew what I was going to write.
All I remember from the dream itself were the terms "Ronald Dump" and "Bald the ImpPecker," but I'm feeling inspired at the moment so I'm going to take a stab at it for real. Here goes:
"Ronald Dump sat in his sun box, waiting for his orange skin to become even more orange. He really wished he was at his swamp resort Merry Lag, but the room he had installed here at the Beige House would have to do for now.
He didn't like his current job. He couldn't really remember what his job was supposed to be, because he was a pretty stupid guy, so he called himself the Press-don't. This also helped him remember that he really hated the press, too. Because the "press don't" tell the truth. Everything the press says about him is lies, even the stuff that's true. Especially the stuff that's true. At least, that's what his good buddy always told him.
His good buddy was the Press-don't of Rushya, named Baldymere Farting, also known as Bald the ImpPecker. Dump had never seen Baldymere's pecker, but he knows for sure that Baldymere has seen his tiny, mushroom-like weed, because one day in Rushya, when Dump was watching little Rushya girls pee on his bed, Bald the ImpPecker came in and took pictures of his tiny mushroom. For safe-keeping, Bald had said.
Dump really liked Farting. Farting was how Dump had gotten his job as Press-don't in the first place. It certainly wasn't because the people liked him. Most people hated him, mainly because the press lied the truth about him. And Dump hated the people, too. Anyone who wasn't orange like him, he hated.
The only people he liked were the red-faced people, the people who got really angry whenever he talked. He mainly liked them because they were even dumber than he was. The ImpPecker had helped convince these dumb, angry, red-faced people that Dump should be the Press-don't. And with their help, he just might be the Press-don't for four more terms, too.
Dump got out of the sun box. It was time for the orange paint to be sprayed on his face. Only not in his eyes. He really liked the way his pale eyelids shined out of his orange face like creepy headlights. And, after the last step of gluing his hair to his head so it wouldn't float away on the slightest breeze, he put on his misshapen, ill-fitting suit to cover his obese, corpulent body.
Finally, now that he was fully dressed, his wife Melanoma would deign to look at him. She hadn't touched him for over fourteen years, which made him sad, but that was okay. He still had his little Ivampa. She was still willing to sit in his lap and make kissy faces at him, which got his tiny mushroom really hard. Fortunately, she never noticed, since his mushroom was so tiny, or else she might stop.
But enough daydreams and fantasies. It was time to go out and ruin the lives of his people, just like ImpPecker told him to."
And that's pretty much it. It's a pretty shitty story. But then, it's a story about Trump, so it doesn't deserve to be any better. *shrug*
[1] - As of Thursday, October 22, I started on book 11 of that. I.e. over 2000 pages now. That's still kind of ridiculous when I really stop to think about it.
