My life as a fly in Donald Trump’s sorta hair

Fly, left-center, has his moment.

Fly, left-center, has his moment.

Because we always enjoy bringing in different guest to, today I’m pleased to welcome Fly, who landed atop Donald Trump’s sorta hair during a rally on Wednesday in Anaheim. Here is his account of what happened.

What the fuck?

That’s the question I’ve been asking myself for more than a day now. What? The Fuck?

At the start of this week, I was a young fly with lots of potential. At least that’s what my mother told me before she tried sucking a dried splotch of curdled Sunny D off a windshield wiper. “Son,” she said. “You have lots of poten—vvvvppppppppp.”

I digress. I was a happy fly. A good fly. I’d fly here. Then fly there. Then fly here again. Then fly there again. Bright light turned me on, as did the discharge from a cow’s anal cavity. I love eating, and eating, and eating. Oh, and flying. I love flying. And eating. Admittedly, I’m imperfect. I’ve probably spread a little disease. And I don’t keep in touch with my 765,322,443,222 brothers and sisters. But only because they refuse to Snapchat. Still, I’m a good fly. Really, I am.

Then, on Wednesday night, I made a most heinous mistake. I saw the glow from an arena, and flew closer. There were people. Lots and lots and lots of people. Which usually isn’t so wonderful for a fly, but then—sniff, sniff—what in the world was that delicious scent? I detected a trace of pineapple, a hint of mint, a tad of Potassium Bromate and a whole shitload of gum tragacanth. So, being a fly (IQ: -5) I flew closer. Suddenly, I saw the world’s most beautiful nest. It was neon, and bobbing, and screamed to me, “Come, little fly. Come land here and lather yourself in the blissful cavern of kings!” So, of course, I listened.

It was all a lie.

This was no beautiful nest. This was a stringy glob of manufactured spaghetti rot; a hellish merging of cat intestine, snail excrement, Cinnamon Life (which, admittedly, I enjoy) and the innards of my great-great-great-great-great Grandpa Mel, who died three minutes ago. This was a land where no man, woman or fly shall ever enter; a land where those who have walked through the valley of death long for the valley of death.

Yes, I escaped, but only when a man in a skull tattoo that read DON’T FEED THE ANIMAL slapped the body attached to the head attached to my personal Alcatraz so hard that I was dislodged.

The memory, however, will stick forever.

As will the nasty residue.

1 thought on “My life as a fly in Donald Trump’s sorta hair”

  1. I’m pretty sure you didn’t escape, fly. In fact, I think you’ve reached the stage of grief known as “hallucinatory escape” and you’re about to be devoured by that orange recluse spider which makes its home in that silken thatch.

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