Sadly, the Americans won last week. It was a great World Cup Final, but I was rooting for the Dutch gals. Not that I dislike Americans more than necessary, I just know more Kaaskop descendants than Yanks, thanks to Jannie van You-know-who setting up shop in the Cape back in 1652 before Stoffel Colombus got here. Hell, we could all be speaking American. Or Spanish.

One can be forgiven though, for wondering why the USA players –representing the Empire of the Angry Orange – wore plain white togs. Well, if the truth be told, when he found out there was an important soccer match coming up, the Head Orange instructed his Minister of Sports and Colour Coordination to supply the USA team with orange outfits for the final – to honour his remarkable achievements in wall-building and international diplomacy.

When he was informed that the Dutch already wore orange, and had adopted it since back in the House of Orange days, Trump was furious. He didn’t know, and wanted to fire people for not telling him.

“Is this more fake news? Don’t believe anything you see or hear! History is the enemy of the people!” he exploded in all directions at once, and immediately summoned his Minister of Tariffs.

“Where is this place, Dutch?” he asked the terrified Tariffer.
“Between Germany and Belgium, Your Majesty.”
“Never heard of it! What do they make?”
“Tulips.”
“Tulips? Can we build them here?”
“Well, Your Highness, not as such…”
“OK! Let’s slap a 90% tariff on tulips – unless we can wear orange!”

Well, he didn’t get his way, and in a huff he refused to watch the match. Instead – looking for all the world like the last tangerine tart on the snack-tray that everyone avoided because it was cracked – he trumped off to play a seething, viciously-divetted round of golf. All by himself. In the rain.

To darken his gloom, the British Ambassador to Orangeland had recently penned a few choice words about him in a dossier to Downing Street, and thanks to a leak by the other enemy of the people – the press – now the whole world knew the truth.

But adding more grump to his gloom, the traditional White House dinner invitation to all winning USA sports teams was declined by the soccer captain before it was even issued. In a petulant frenzy he considered exercising Executive Privilege and banning the sport altogether for disrespecting the flag. He wouldn’t lose face – or votes. His base of hillbillies and rednecks don’t play soccer anyway.

Sadly, he still misses the point.

The elephant in the room throughout all this, is wearing fishnet stockings, stilettos, a black belt in Fed-Up, and perfume called Phuque Hue Gize. This ever-inflating Jumbo represents sportswomen, nurses, teachers, accountants, and countless other women who get paid less than those not wearing fishnets.

The Angry Orange is stuck between a rock and a seriously fed-up elephant. He admires himself as a ladies’ man, and told the TV cameras how easy it is (being a star) to grab their attention, among other things. But being the most stable genius he knows, he also has to consider the art of the deal – securing the best for the USA’s bottom line.

So once again, the Emperor of Orangeland must confront his lifelong dilemma, the tussle between money and morals – income versus outrage. The Saudi Crown Prince is delighted and relieved. He too, always endorses the former option.

“Men play five and the ladies only play three sets in tennis,” complained the Angry Orange. “They should get 60% of the men’s fee. How much are the sponsors contributing to men versus women anyway – across all the sports? We can blame them! It’s their fault!”

He called his Minister of Dodgy Deflections. “Tell the fake news press that female pole-dancers get paid double – no, let’s make it four times more than males. When they sort that out we can talk about equal pay – on both sides. But no Mexicans!”

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