Mastermind Alimzhan Tokhtakhunov, shown here looking about a third of the way through a Wonka-style transformation into a blueberry.
Hearing all this, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of sympathy for Donald. I'm a homeowner, too. Sure, my name isn't emblazoned across the front of my home in giant gold letters the way only an Egyptian Pharaoh could truly appreciate, but if there's one area Donny and I can see eye-to-eye on it's the struggles and anxieties of homeownership. If there were two, the second would be grabbing p***y.
In the past, I've detailed the waking nightmare of having to deal with a termite infestation. Homeownership dumps that headache, plus a garbage truck's worth of other responsibilities onto your lap, and that includes having to deal with the nasty recurring problem of illegal gambling rings run by notorious Russian mobsters nesting secretly in your home. They're such a nuisance.
Just a few months after moving in, my wife and I heard noises coming from somewhere within our home. We grabbed a couple of flashlights and gave the darkest nooks and crannies a thorough look-see. Lo and behold, in our utility closet was an illegal Russian gambling ring made up of around 30 men in track suits waving rubles around a roulette table they'd cleverly fashioned out of an unused decorative potpourri bowl and an ironing board.
We were shocked and more than a little grossed out, to say the least. Under the harsh light of discovery, the Russian mobsters scurried back into the shadows in different directions, rubles wafting out of their grip as they fled, spilt high-end vodka leaving pungent snail trails behind them. All that remained was a single decorative flower pot stone skipping along the numbers on the spinning potpourri bowl. It landed on black 13. There were no winners, but this was my house and the house always wins.