THE TALE OF TRUMPY WUMPY

It’s the year 2070, and I’m 100-years-old (though look not a day over 75), telling the great-grandkids a story about the early 21st Century…

KIDS: Grumps, tell us the story about Trumpy Wumpy again.

GRUMPS (Me): Trumpy Wumpy? Don’t you ever tire of that story?

KIDS: No! Tell it, tell it!

GRUMPS: Well, Trumpy Wumpy lived half a century ago. It was a strange time when people drove cars themselves, and the cars were powered by dead dinosaur goop… these weren’t the real lizards the army uses to guard your school.

KIDS: Ooooo. Raptor Billy is my friend.

GRUMPS: Trumpy Wumpy had his own clubhouse called the GOP, which stood for Grifters of Plonk.

KIDS: Ha! Plonk. That’s a funny name.

GRUMPS:  Yes, it is. Anyway, Trumpy Wumpy was a bit like the opposite of Father Christmas. He even had a strange little elf servant named Mike, and he was married to the Ice Queen. He didn’t bring little boys and girls presents… he put them in cages and stole away their parents.

KIDS: Did they ever see them again? The parents?

GRUMPS: Not all of them!

KIDS: Oh no.

GRUMPS: But, don’t you worry. Trumpy Wumpy has been dead a long, long time.

(Dramatic Pause.)

GRUMPS: Or has he?!

(Tickle, tickle, tickle.)

KIDS: Oh Grumps, you’re the best.

GRUMPS: Yes I am.

(As imagined by DadHollywood.)