Losing Candidates for Cash: "Trumped"

[McCamy Taylor]

Here's the video of The Producers about Trump for Citizens United money:

http://www.vox.com/2016/2/29/11134296/jimmy-kimmel-the-producers-trumped

Here's a short story from 2013 about the same general theme---minus the Donald of course. It takes a truly sick mind to think of running the Donald for prez.

http://www.aphelion-webzine.com/shorts/2013/09/godhead.html

Call me Jerry. Or call me Jake or Jason. Just don't call me John Henry Henderson III----John Henry Henderson III has a warrant out for failure to pay child support. I can't remember the name of the kid I fathered, but his mother won't forget mine. Since all my shirts, luggage cufflinks, and tiepins bear my initials, JHH III, I am limited in my choices of aliases.

At the moment, all I have in the world are the accoutrements of a successful businessman, a full head of black hair, a natural tan thanks to my Cherokee grandmother, a square jaw that has not yet begun to sag, the brains with which God endowed me and Ster, short for Sterling, my partner in crime. Sterling is a war hero. Bona fide war hero--he has the medals to prove it. Sterling also has a full head of prematurely white hair, blue eyes that sparkle with wisdom and compassion as he is feeding you a load of lies and a spotless arrest record---as in expunged. Sterling's last name is Yarborough, and no, he is no relation to those Yarboroughs, but a name is a name is a name.

As I gaze into the refrigerator at a lump of moldy cheese, a bag of wilted lettuce and the tail ends of a loaf of Rainbow bread, I take mental stock of my assets. Three bucks in change in my pocket. Shirts, luggage, cufflinks, tiepins all but worthless except to some other man with the initials JHH III. And Sterling. There must be some way I can make some money off those medals.

Ten years ago, Sterling stood on a bouncing betty land mine in Syria for twenty minutes so that his platoon and a school bus full of kindergarteners could get to safety. Twenty minutes without so much as twitching a muscle. By the time the bomb finally detonated, he was too numb to feel the explosion that cut him in half from the waist down.

Thanks to the miracle of modern science and the generosity of the Pentagon, the doctors at Langley made him as good as new. Better than new. He has a mechanical heart that will never get clogged no matter how much fat he eats, and his lungs can filter out oxygen from water. A transplant made him whole again. Another casualty of war, a Syrian who lost his head to a sniper, provided legs, pelvis, a spinal cord, internal organs and a penis that would make a donkey jealous.

Briefly, I consider going into the porn business. Someone somewhere must be willing to pay good money to see that Sterling Yarborough's junk still works, even after he got blown to pieces on a foreign battlefield fighting to defend who knows what American value. But the live action porn industry is all but dead, killed by the Japanese software that allows anyone to create any combination of characters doing all manner of sick and perverted things to each other in the setting of your choice filmed at the angle of your choice with a full menu of moans, groans, "Yes, Jesus!" and squelching sounds to choose from. I get hard just thinking about it---about all the money some Japanese businessmen made out of their product, before it was pirated by the Chinese.

My stomach growls. From the other room, I hear the sound of Ster switching channels. "Hey, John Boy. They're showing The Producers."

And just like that, it hits me.

More at the link