Oh, come on. I'm a comedy writer. Writing comedy is what I do to put food on my table. Election season is my conveyor belt on the comedy assembly line, and if I don't have a steady flow of shoddy parts to assemble, I can't eat. And at this point, I think Donald Trump is purposely sabotaging my -- and all comedians' -- ability to earn a living.
Trump has sunk to the stinking depths of being unparodiable. To whom do I turn to try to suss out anything that can be exaggerated in this overblown shitshow of a political commercial? Grey skies loom as Iranian terrorists shoot at gloomy Hillary Clinton. North Korea has a rainy day missile parade, while ISIS prepares to bury heads in the mud of another desert rainstorm, and all Clinton can do is wear her sunglasses inside, presumably to hide her red-rimmed and rheumy eyes, glommed thick with sickness and decay, before her Secret Service detail has to pile her into an SUV like a ventriloquist's dummy and carry her away to some secret government hospital where your tax dollars will pay to have her shabby frame infused with cells from umbilical cords and bull urine so that she can remain active and semi-conscious for at least one more day.
And also coughing. Dangerously.
Donald J. Trump For President, Inc.
And then the sun breaks through the mire, and Trump, thumb uplifted like a chubby little sword fighting off the dark forces, proclaims he approves this message, letting us all know he's the man with the stamina, the fortitude and the $4 trucker hats that don't fit quite right who will take us into a new era of prosperity and/or bombing the shit out of strangers.
I can't even make fun of his voice at the end of that self-parody of an ad, because he said, "I'm Donald Trump, and I approve this message" in the same tone of voice you'd use to mock your little brother. He's doing an impression of someone else doing a dumb impression of himself. He has written a parody paradox. And it's BULLSHIT!
This commercial is about six construction paper figures away from being the cold opening of a South Park episode. There's nary a nook nor cranny for me to ease into with a new joke. From the hamfisted weather-based imagery to Trump appearing to literally yell his approval at me, no stone has been left unturned by the man himself. He has shat upon my comedic prowess, and made a disgrace of the very idea that comedians may use his ill-conceived ads as fodder for more laughs. It's beating a very dead horse to even consider it.
Yet consider it I will. Consider it, I have to, because I don't know how to hunt or farm for sustenance.
I will consider it for America.
Trump says he admires one thing about Hillary, whom he also thinks has covered up numerous rapes, murders, and probably a few dognappings and illegal video tape recordings. He admires that she doesn't quit. She won't give up. Well I'm with her today, and I won't give up. I'll make the most of this ad with the best parody I can conceive of, given my very tenuous parameters.
INT: DARK ROOM, NIGHT
A STROBE LIGHT flashes
Shadows RACE in the background.
A sound, LOW AND UNDULATING, begins to rise from the distance
as a figure runs from beyond the strobe light toward the audience. It is
DONALD TRUMP. He is NUDE and COVERED IN BLOOD.
The sound is his unbroken SCREAM.
Trump throws RAW MEAT at the camera.
A man being hit by a bus.
The Challenger explosion.
Massive forest fires.
Godzilla destroying Tokyo.
Hot dogs being made in a factory.
The Big Bang Theory
Trump, still in the room, still screaming as he hurls fistfuls of
raw meat in all directions.
The SCREAM dies down as Trump becomes visibly sleepy.
He circles like a cat and settles into a pile of meat to sleep.
The STROBE LIGHT CLICKS OFF.
Donald Trump (V.O.)
I'm Donald Trump, and I approve this message.
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How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
It's easy to work the system and win these awards even if you don't deserve them.