74-years-ago today, a homely Nazi couple in the lovely New York City borough of Queens, celebrated the birth of a rather large, butterscotch-colored bundle of misery that they named Donald John in honor of fellow big babies Donald Rumsfeld and John Wayne Gacy.
The family, being Nazis, did not appreciate people with brown skin, and they made certain that little DJ knew of his exalted place in this world, which belonged to the pale and tangerine-hued humans.
Always a handful, the parents sent their child to military school where Donald John majored in Bone Spurs. Not big on sports, DJ did manage to make the third string golf team, and to letter in pussy-grabbing, redefining forever the now reviled sport.
Later, he attended Wharton, where he received a B.S. degree in BS.
He married well and often, and his seed produced five charming, accomplished children, including a favored daughter who he professed a desire to fuck, and another daughter that was never heard from again. Two of his sons went on to become noted big game hunters with mannequin wives. We do not speak of the third son.
Something happened to DJ at some point in his privileged life. Not content with having his name in the papers and appearing on television, he snapped. It has been speculated that when a handsome, accomplished, Harvard-educated African-American lawyer made a joke about him at a gala dinner where DJ was in attendance, it sparked a rage that left DJ with no choice but to ruin everything on the planet and then light it on fire. His mother had always instilled in him the family motto:
“Revenge is tastier than money, but money is the crispy skin on the fried chicken of life.”