Humor Fiction posted March 15, 2016


Exceptional
This work has reached the exceptional level
A comedic look at my attempt to see Donald Trump

My Frist Political Rally

by phild

The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
My First Political Rally

One day, as I minded my own business, my wife emailed me. Donald Trump was having a political rally in our town. Now, our town's population is a little over 50,000 people, so this was big news.

I'm not a Republican, Democrat, or member of the Tea Party. I think they all have their good points and their bad. I'm more of an issue kind of guy, but this was Trump, 'The Donald', the "You're fired" guy. Not to mention he has the best hair of all the political candidates. No, I stand corrected. The best hair of anyone, period.

Hell, yeah, I was going to go see him!

The event was going to be at the PE Complex at our university. The place seats 7,000 people and my wife works at the university, so I figured I've got someone on the inside, this is going to be great. She got us tickets about a week in advance and I was thrilled.

I have to admit, I didn't really know what his platform was. I viewed this rally as entertainment. I mean, this was the "Trumpster". I just had to see him. I taped the tickets to the wall on my office and counted the days.

The morning of the rally arrived. I got up early, worked out, showered, shaved and got dressed. About 2:00 his plane, Trump Force One, passed overhead. I ran into my back yard. The plane flew so low I could almost touch the white underbelly as she glided by. The word "Trump" in white lettering was emblazoned on the side against a field of navy blue. Man, it was beautiful. I stood spellbound as the glorious plane slid by and eventually out of sight.

He would be speaking at 6:00pm and they were opening the doors to the facility at 4:00, but I wasn't sweating anything, because I had a ticket and more importantly I had someone on the inside.

About 4:15 my wife texted me. She was already in line and said there were at least 500 people ahead of her and 3,000 people in back of her. She suggested I get down there ASAP. So I tidied up a few issues in my office and headed that away.

I found a parking spot, got out of my car, and loudly exclaimed, "Oh, shit!" There were thousands of people in line. I mean thousands! The line stretched forever. I was concerned but undeterred. I WAS going to see the "Trumpster".

I waited in line for about 15 minutes soaking in the carnival like atmosphere. There were vendors selling Trump hats, t-shirts buttons, bumper stickers, condoms. Yes, 'The Donald' has his own brand of condoms. There were food vendors, beverage vendors, clowns, jugglers, a balloon guy who twisted balloons so they looked like Donald Trump (I didn't see the resemblance but children were snatching them up), a dunking both, and bounce houses, I mean carnival like atmosphere!

My inside connection texted me. She was in and was saving me a seat. She said she was on the left side, even with the front of the stage, and 10 rows up.

Oh, ya baby! Way to go!

I was so excited that I tried to ignore the remainder of her text telling me she got frisked by multiple Secret Service agents, they were all good-looking, and she kind of enjoyed it. Normally that would have bothered me but I had Trump Fever. Nothing else mattered.

My excitement was short lived when her next text stated that they weren't checking tickets. They were letting anyone in who could make it to the door, ticket or not.

I took a picture of a section of crowd and made a rough count of the people in the picture. I estimated how many sections of that size were in the line. I got out my calculator, did the math and said, "I'm not getting in."

Another text dinged in. It was my wife again. She informed me that someone had collapsed and security was attending to them.

By now I was frantic, panicked. My mind reverted back to a primeval stage in our evolutionary development where the only thing that mattered was personal survival and I thought: 'If another 1500 people collapse, I'll have a chance'. It's strange how an obsession will make you turn on your fellow man. It was like I was an addict, the "Trumpster" was my drug, and I was going to do anything necessary, destroy anyone I had to, to get my fix.

A siren wailed. I turned to see an ambulance attempting to get through the abysmal traffic. In the middle of the intersection, a man had parked his car and jumped out. The red vehicle was plastered with anti-Trump graffiti. The guy had a bull horn and repeatedly shouted, "Trump is a fascist and must be stopped!" His impromptu demonstration further complicated an already horrid traffic situation and hindered the ambulance from getting through.

Amid all of this chaos, a brilliant, albeit somewhat morally questionable, idea came to me. I broke out of line and hurried across a grass area until I reached the road and followed it to the complex. When the ambulance reached the complex I was waiting for it.

Two paramedics jumped out, opened up the back doors, and removed a gurney.

I ran up to them.

"It's my Grand Pa," I said. "He's collapsed. He's sitting on the third row." I even squeezed out a couple of tears and thought, . . . I would like to thank the Academy.

"Don't worry, sir," the first paramedic said. He was young, slim, with red hair and freckles. "Can you take us to him?"

'Are you shitting me? It can't be this easy'.

The other paramedic, a portly and bald man, grabbed me by the shoulders looked in to my eyes and said, "Sir, did you hear my partner? Can you lead us to him?"

'What the fuck is wrong with these people?' I thought as I said, "Yes. And can I get one of those black caps that says 'Paramedic' on the front?"

The young guy gave me his. The other guy tossed me a big black bag to carry and off we went.

And can you believe it? It worked!

We breezed through security. I pointed the paramedics to the right, tossed the black bag and cap on the gurney, and went left.

I know, I know, looking back I'm appalled at my behavior too. I've never done anything like that before and probably will ever do anything like that again. Now, I'm so ashamed. But at that moment, I wasn't. Not a bit.

I found my wife and plopped down in the seat she had saved for me. She had Trump posters, bumper stickers, a balloon, and Trump condoms. I've had a vasectomy so we have no need for condoms, but I figured we'd address the condom issue later, because:

I was in!

She asked "How'd you get in here so fast?"

I answered that question with a gentle kiss on her lips and a soft "I love you," spoken into her ear.

Before you knew it, it was show time and the "Trumpster" didn't disappoint. We all said the Pledge of Allegiance, sang the National Anthem, God Bless America, America the Beautiful, and raised our right hands and took some type of oath or something. I'm not sure.

Then 'The Donald' was off. He was brilliant, mesmerizing, captivating. He would say something then music would play and people would jump up and shout and then the music would stop and someone would get thrown out: protestors, supporters, it didn't seem to matter. The music would stop and he would yell "You're fired!", and their asses were gone. It was like some strange version of musical chairs.

The hour was a blur of political fervor. As it drew to its conclusion I remembered something I had read in the week leading up to this. After his rallies 'The Donald' liked to come down from the podium and sign autographs.

Hell, yeah. I was getting me some of that!

I got a pen from my wife and one of her posters. I eased out of my seat, and slowly, snail-like, so as not to draw attention to myself, made my way down the steps. When he finished and the crowd broke into a standing ovation, I made my move.

Apparently other people had read the same article because #1 they had the same idea as me and #2 they were much closer to start with than I was. But it was the "Trumpster" and I had come this far. I wouldn't be denied.

I reached the floor and encountered a woman in a wheel chair. I grabbed the handle on the back of the chair and with a quick flip of the wrist spun her so she was facing the other direction. She didn't realize it. She grabbed the wheels and pushed herself in what she thought was the direction of the stage, but in reality was away from it. I filled the void she left.

Next was a woman in her early thirties.

"I said, miss, are those your children back there?

I had no idea if she had any children but my luck had held out so far, I figured I'd try.

"Yes," she said.

"Well, I saw a creepy man talking to them and pointing to the exit."

"Oh my God!" she screamed and dashed away.

I was one step closer.

All that was left was a ten year old boy. He turned, looked up at me and said, "I'm gettin' an autograph for my Grammy."

To which I replied, "I think your Grammy may be having a stroke. You better go check on her."

The kids eyes flew open and he ran away.

I know. My actions were disgusting, reprehensible, grounds for a firing squad, but you know what?

I was on the front row!

And there he was. Two people away from me. I began to breathe heavily, the palms of my hands became sweaty, and my knees felt like jelly.

As I stared at him, my focus zeroed in. It was strange. I became mesmerized by it, enthralled, enchanted. He stepped closer. He was signing something for the person next to me. I tilted my head to one side and my consciousness dissolved into a Lord of the Rings movie, where I was Smeagol and it, The Ring.

I could no longer hear the crowd or feel their bodies pressed against my back. I floated somewhere between reality and fantasy.

Then, he stood in front me. I stared up at him still floating on the edge of another realm.

I said, "My Precious."

And then I did it. I stood on my tip toes, extended my hand as far as it would go, and I did it.

I touched his hair.

A warmth filled the palm of my hand and radiated down my arm. When it reached my shoulders, it began to spread to the rest of my body, but before I could absorb the full power of 'The Donald's' hair, before it could encompass me, transport me to another plane of existence something happened.

About 300 secret service agents slammed me to the floor and commenced to give me the ass beating of a lifetime. These guys beat me like I had slapped their grandmother and stole her social security check.

I remembered when President Reagan got shot: some of the secret service agents pushed the President in the car, while others subdued the attacker and held him down until he could be whisked away.

I thought that was standard Secret Service procedure and if it's supposed to be, then these guys were absent that particular day of Secret Service School, because they went full UFC and beat my ass senseless. A few of them would pound on me for a while and then tag in a couple of other agents so the ass kicking could be administered in a continuous and efficient manner.

It was WWE WrestleMania and I clearly wasn't walking away with the championship belt.

They finally rolled me on my stomach, handcuffed my hands behind my back, my ankles together and dragged me through the crowd. As they did, the lady in wheel chair spat on me and the lady to whom I had spun the tale of possible child abduction threw a chair at me. An older lady, who I can only assume was 'Grammy', performed a Ninja move and kicked me in the mouth with an orthopedic shoe dislodging my two front teeth.

I was taken to a room somewhere in the bowels of the complex. There were five or six men, a long table with two chairs on opposite sides of it. The far chair was occupied by an agent. They removed both sets of handcuffs and shoved me into the vacant chair. My left eye was swollen shut and I felt blood trickling out of my nose and mouth. My brain felt woozy, but I didn't care because I had glimpsed another dimension. I had touch the "Trumpster's" hair and it led me to a place far greater than this one and all I could think of was. . . I want to do it again.

I was told that I was going to be interrogated. Something about the word 'interrogated' shook off the cobwebs and I returned to my normal self. My pre-Trump mania self.

But first, the agent in charge informed me they needed to do a strip search.

Okay, it was humiliating, but I survived.

Next he said they were going to do a cavity search. To which I said, "Bring it on."

You see, the week before I had been to the dentist and I knew I didn't have any cavities.

You know what I learned? The cavity search you get at the dentist's office is not the same thing as the cavity search you get at a Secret Service interrogation.

When they explained what was about to happen to me I panicked.

"I have rights!" I shouted and spouted something about the First Amendment, the Fifth Amendment, and the 'Please Don't Let Anyone Shove Their Hand Up My Ass' Amendment. I made that one up but I was desperate.

They didn't care.

An agent snatched me up by my hair and slammed my face onto the table. When the lovely procedure concluded, the same agent snatched me up by my hair again and slammed me back into my seat.

I won't go into the details of the procedure. Not because I don't want to put you through it, but honestly, I don't want to put myself through it again.

At that point, the questions started:

Are you a member or Al-Qaeda? ISIS? Hezbollah? El Shababb?

Are you a Hillary Clinton supporter? Bernie Sanders? Ralph Nader?

Are you a member of the Communist Party? The Socialist Party? The Tea Party? The Libertarian Party? Do you watch Party of Five? Have you ever been to a New Year's Eve Party?

I mean, what the fuck does this have to do with anything.

They continued battering me with questions. Finally an older, well-dressed man came into the room, whispered something in to my interrogator's ear, handed him a folded sheet of paper, and then left.

My interrogator read the paper, got up, and walked around the table. He laid the letter in front of me.

"Take that, get dressed, and get the hell out of here," he said.

The bitch didn't have to tell me that twice.

I got dressed, stuffed the sheet of paper in my shirt pocket, and made it to the door. I turned to face them, saluted, and said, "Gentleman, it has been a slice of heaven."

After navigating a labyrinth of hallways and stairs, I stepped out of the building into the cool night air. My wife was waiting outside. She took one look at me and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "I got strip searched and cavity searched."

She smiled, giggled, and said, "Me too."

We reached a street lamp. I stopped under it and pulled the letter out of my shirt pocket. It was typed on official Secret Service stationary and stated that I can no longer go within 200 miles of Washington, DC. I can remain in the city which I currently reside but cannot go within 100 miles of any property owned by Donald Trump or any of his companies or affiliates. Which limited me to a 2 square mile plot of land in North East Montana. My right to vote, bear arms, and run for a political office had all been revoked.

We crossed the parking lot heading for my car. The lot was littered with banners and flyers. Empty cups, burst balloons, and a solitary deflated bounce house was all the remained. The circus had definitely left.

I felt like I had learned many valuable lessons through the ordeal, and promised myself to reexamine my life in light of some of the actions I had been a party to that day.

Yes, tomorrow would be another day and I believed I would wake up a better man.

I stuffed the letter back into my pocket and when I did my fingers brushed against something. We reached another street lamp. I pulled out what my fingers had brushed against and held it up to the light. It was thin and when I held it up higher I realized what it was. It was a long blonde hair. It was a strand of the "Trumpster's" hair. I was in possession of a strand of Donald Trump's hair and within it had to be his DNA. I could do it. I could make my own little Trump! My own Donald! I held the golden lock of hair up high. It was bathed in beautiful fluorescence and I swear it glowed.

I spread my arms wide, threw my head backward, allowed the warm sensation to envelope my body, and screamed to the spattering of stars above me:
"My Precious!"
THE END

PS:
My wife has started a Go Fund Me Page. She is currently accepting donations to assist with the high costs of the full time psychiatry care I now require. Please go to: www.gofundme.com/My_husband_has_gone_batshit_crazy, where you can make your donation.

Thank you for reading and any financial assistance you could provide would be greatly appreciated.










Recognized
Pays one point and 2 member cents.


Save to Bookcase Promote This Share or Bookmark
Print It View Reviews

You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.


© Copyright 2017. phild All rights reserved.
phild has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.