The Measure of a Man

According to the dictionary, "Donald" means "man." Not that dictionary. The Trump Dictionary. It's different.

Reading Time: 3 minutes

We get a lot of mail here at OnlySky. More often than not, it’s the same old chestnut about how God loves us and we’re going to Hell. Sometimes we get thoughtful responses and rebuttals from learned theologians. More often than not, though, we get open letters from people who’ve been shooed out of every other platform like misinformation-spitting stray cats. Take this cry for help, for example…

“What, me succeed on my own?” Eric Trump (Wikimedia Commons)

I know you think You’re cool because Your Dad is proud of You, but I have some bad news, Jesus…

A lot of people ask me why Your Dad won’t punish my dad, Donald J. Trump, for his many, many sins. But in my family we tell the truth, whether people like it or not.

And the truth is that Your Holy Father is terrified of my dad, Donald J. Trump.

I know it hurts your snowflake feelings, wussy, but there’s no denying it: My dad makes Your Dad anoint his invisible panties.

With pee.

And Your Dad knows it. He knows Donald Trump’s heart. He can read people and He could tell that Donald J. Trump was a very strong person. Morally. And also in terms of ass-kicking.

If my dad prayed, he would get down on his knees and call Your Dad and be all, “Don’t even think about it, God. Don’t even try me, dude. It’s not going to work out very well for you if you do… Jack.”

Then what would Your Dad do?

Send the Holy Ghost after Donald J. Trump?

Haha, good luck! 

Cause one time, my dad called the Ghostbusters to come to our house and my dad is all, “Who you gonna call? Who you gonna call?” for, like, fifteen minutes and then they all laughed. I saw the Dan Aykroyd one look around kind of concerned, like he was worried the ghosts might hear, but my dad ain’t afraid of no ghosts and he caught the ghost and then the Ghostbusters gave him some money. Then they gave him one of their ghost guns in case they needed his help again later.

This was our house in Trump Tower, which is way nicer than some old church like Your Dad lives in. All of Your Dad’s houses are humble because He’s poor. My dad has McIBDs on a golden toilet, dude. I’ve seen him do it because he calls me to bring him more toilet paper. Your Dad doesn’t even have a body. Not that it would matter if He did because He could never get hotter chicks than my dad, Donald J. Trump.

One time, me and my brother Donald J. Trump, Jr., were gettin’ it on with, like, a hundred models and they were all like, “This is the best,” or whatever and my dad walked in and he’s all, “If you think that’s the best, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Then he gave them some money to come to his bedroom instead and that’s how I met Stop-Calling-Me-Mom.

The only lady Your Dad ever had was Mary. Pfft. Weak. I’ll give Him credit for cucking Joseph, though. That was pretty cool.

You know what’s not cool, though, is how Your Dad is all, “Oh, I love you, Son.” My dad says dudes who love other dudes are called Democrats. Or I bet he would if the subject ever came up. Bro, my dad doesn’t even talk to me and my brother. I don’t even think he knows my name. He named my brother after himself so it would be easier to remember and because he was “intended.” Intended to be King of America! My name is Eric.

Man, Your Dad didn’t even write His own book. I heard He had a bunch of other people write it for Him. My dad just had one other guy write his book. Wanna buy a copy? My dad says if I sell a hundred copies I can get a sweet new bike. I’ll let you ride it!

Listen, I really want that bike, so You better give me thirty pieces of silver or I’ll pound you. What are you gonna do about it, “Prince of Peace”? Tell Your Dad-dy? What’s He gonna do? Send a plague? I bet Your Big Shot Dad would love to get to my dad through me, his only son named Eric.

But He won’t say boo to my dad.

That’s why He gave him bone spurs.

Because He’s afraid.

Amen.


The moral of the story: When life gives you lemons, name one Eric so you don’t accidentally use it to make lemonade.

As a comedy writer, the details of my life are depressing at best and sketchy at worst. I have written for all of the best comedy sites and none of the bad ones, resulting in a net gain of half a ham sandwich....