Inside Don Jr's Education Through Pain Camp
A Legend in His Own Minefield exclusive!
In the week before Christmas, A Legend in His Own Minefield pulled a few strings, handed out a few bribes, and was able to spend 72 hours in the first of what Donald Trump Jr foresees as a national network of Education Through Pain camps intended to help campers better understand that Donald Trump not-Jr’s is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, and the best thing ever to happen to our continent, if not our hemisphere, if not our planet, if not our solar system, if not our universe.
I reported to White Shield, a census-designated — and appropriately named! — place lying within the boundaries of the [indigenous] Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara nations on Sunday evening in central North Dakota on the evening of December 19. I was immediately relieved of my fashionable clothing, subjected to a humiliating examination to ensure that I wasn’t smuggling anti-MAGA filth into the camp in my privatest part, unless you count the reproductive bits, and compelled to fill out a detailed questionnaire, on which brief (two- or three- word) essay questions alternated with multiple choice questions. The first three questions were:
Who is the greatest — wisest, most prescient, handsomest, most virile — political leader in world history? a. Donald Trump b. Donald Trump c. Donald Trump d. Donald Trump e. Donald Trump [I answered D.]
Why have I been sent to White Shield Re-education Camp? [I lied in my response: “Because I was overheard questioning Donald Trump’s incomparable suitability for the presidency.”]
Who is uniquely qualified to restore America’s greatness? a. Donald Trump b. Donald Trump c. Donald Trump d. Donald Trump e. Donald Trump [I answered B.]
Once one of the correctional officers — with a steroid abuser’s musculature, a Hulk Hogan mustache, and a Don’t Tread on Me tattoo on his neck, which was approximately the size of a 12-year-old boy’s waist — had awarded me a passing grade on the questionnaire, I was ushered naked into an unheated room, and left first to shiver (it was late December!), and then to beg for one of those foil-y space blankets the escaped convicts and mental patients get before swarming across our southern border, and then to be hosed down with very cold water until I lost consciousness.
I woke up in what appeared to be one of the many psychotherapy offices in which I’ve wasted time and treasure over the years, cozy and full of plants on which someone clearly doted, though it had a large portrait of President Trump where most such offices have Sigmund Freud or Jordan Peterson. I realized I wasn’t alone, and that I was naked. I tried to arrange myself so as to hide my naughty bits, which the cold had made tiny. A leggy blonde Fox News-type hottie (if you like that sort of thing) asked in a kind tone if I wanted some herbal tea. “After getting hosed down with frigid water?” I asked. “You bet I do!”
She ignored my affirmation, sipped her own chamomile, echinacea, or whatever, and said, “You seem ashamed of your genitalia. Do you know who isn’t, by virtue of nature having been very, very generous with him, but would never dream of raping anyone?”
I guessed President Trump, which inspired my interrogator to put down her chamomile, echinacea, or whatever, and clap her hands in delight like a nine-year-old girl at the sight of a pony, though I appreciate that may sound a little sexist. “Do you know what you’ve won with that correct answer?” she exulted, apparently rhetorically. “Not having to withstand what we call an intake massage, which commonly involves contusions, concussions, abrasions, lacerations, internal or external hemorrhages, and bone fractures.”
“Awesome,” I said. “But while we’re here, do you suppose I could get some striped pajamas or something?”
In the wink of an eye she turned in affect from Cindy Brady into Ilsa, Nazi She-Wolf. “So,” she snarled, “you want a government handout, do you? Do have any idea of how President Trump has had to work for everything his whole life, and how, regardless of the hardships involved, he has never asked anyone for anything? Well, do you?”
A part of me wanted to point out that, at the very least, he’d asked for (and in most cases received) the votes of the very stupid and gullible, but realized that my doing so might get me an appointment with the intake masseuse, and just looked sheepish.
[To be continued…]
The White House needs to be outfitted with black and white striped towels, sheets, and anything else suitable for the treatment. The incoming president needs gifts of striped ties and underwear--an unending stream of said gifts--to remind him of his sins. Not that I have an opinion or anything :D
John, the detention/re-education camp piece was humorous; but the plea to Joe Biden was the absolute soul of great writing.
House arrest seems much too lenient to me; but, sensibilities must be spared, I suppose. Thank you!