Oscar the Grouch Endorses Donald Grump for President
It was a smelly, glorious day on Sesame Street. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and Big Bird was helping Elmo learn his ABCs. But just outside Hooper’s Store, a different kind of lesson was unfolding—political chaos.
Oscar the Grouch popped out of his trash can, waving a tattered, mustard-stained banner that read: “MAKE SESAME STREET GROSS AGAIN!”
“Alright, you bozos, listen up!” Oscar grumbled. “I’m tired of all this niceness! Sharing? Bleh! Helping others? Yuck! We need someone who understands what it means to be truly rotten! That’s why I’m officially endorsing DONALD GRUMP for President!”
A hush fell over Sesame Street. Bert dropped his bottle of pigeon feed. Cookie Monster paused mid-bite. Even Count von Count stopped counting for a second.
Donald Grump, the infamous, orange-furred, trash-loving billionaire, waddled onto the scene. His hair, which looked suspiciously like a shredded mop dipped in nacho cheese, flapped wildly in the wind. He adjusted his oversized tie, which was way too long for his stubby Muppet frame.
“That’s right, folks,” Donald Grump said, puffing out his fuzzy chest. “I’m running for President of Sesame Street. And when I win—because I always win—I’m gonna fix this dump. First, we’re getting rid of all these silly ‘learning’ programs. TOO MUCH READING! We’ll replace ‘The Letter of the Day’ with ‘The Best Letter, the Only Letter: G—for GRUMP!'”
Elmo gasped. “But Mr. Grump, Elmo loves the alphabet!”
“Sad!” Grump scoffed. “Elmo, you’re too red! We need more orange representation!”
“But what about sharing and kindness?” Big Bird asked.
“Fake news!” Grump barked. “Sharing is a scam! If you’ve got cookies, you eat all the cookies. Just ask my good friend, the Cookie Monster!”
Cookie Monster nervously stepped forward. “Uhh, me do love cookies… but me also love sharing cookies!”
“Wrong!” Grump snapped. “You love winning. If you share cookies, you’re a loser. And I don’t hire losers!”
“Uh, you don’t hire anyone, Mr. Grump,” Bert pointed out.
Grump waved his tiny Muppet hand. “Exactly! I don’t need to. I fire people! And my first act as President will be FIRING BIG BIRD!”
“WHAT?!” Big Bird nearly toppled over in shock.
“That’s right! You take up too much space! Too much kindness! I’m replacing you with a BIGGER BIRD! A GREATER BIRD! A bird that understands business!“
“But there are no birds bigger than me on Sesame Street!”
“WRONG! Have you heard of Big Pigeon? Very strong. Very tough. No one messes with Big Pigeon.”
A massive, suspiciously mafia-looking pigeon in a pinstripe suit strutted onto Sesame Street, pecking menacingly at the sidewalk.
“This neighborhood’s got new management, see?” Big Pigeon growled. “We’re buildin’ a WALL around Oscar’s trash can, keepin’ all the CLEAN people out!”
“But me like clean people!” Cookie Monster protested.
“Then you’re out, too!” Grump declared. “Unless you start eating ONLY ORANGE COOKIES! Orange is the best color. Everyone agrees. Big Bird wishes he were more orange. SAD!”
Oscar grinned. “Now we’re talkin’!” He turned to the crowd. “Who’s with me?! Let’s ruin Sesame Street!”
The Muppets murmured, looking at each other in horror. Finally, Grover stepped forward.
“Mr. Grump, with all due respect, we do not think you should be President of Sesame Street!”
“Why not?!” Grump huffed.
“Because,” Grover declared, puffing up his little blue chest, “this is a place of kindness, learning, and friendship! We do not need walls! We do not need fake orange pigeons! And we definitely do not need a President who does not believe in SHARING COOKIES!”
The crowd erupted in cheers. Big Bird hugged Cookie Monster. Elmo did a happy dance. Even Oscar groaned and muttered, “Ugh. I hate when you guys get all mushy like this.”
Donald Grump scowled. “Fine! You just lost the greatest leader you never had!” He stomped off down the street, grumbling about how much he hated numbers, letters, and cooperation.
And just like that, Sesame Street was safe again.
For now.
Bill Rancic, my first Apprentice, comes from SPLIT, Croatia. A fantastic place, tremendous people. If Jesus lets me into heaven (which, let’s be honest, he will), I will SPLIT my fortune and give it to the poor. Especially my poor family and friends. They love me, I love them. Very generous, very bigly. Some say the biggest donation ever. Maybe even historic! God bless.
The Young Pope, Lenny Belardo, shakes his head as he speaks to the camera.
“I told Donald Trump to split his money with the poor. I told him what Jesus said: ‘Sell all you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven.’ But Donald, well… Donald believes in treasure here on Earth.”
Lenny sighs, rubbing his temple.
“But let’s be real. In these inflationary times, even Jesus’ teachings might be a little… too hard. If Donald sold everything, he’d probably still be richer than most, but maybe he’d have to downgrade his golden toilet to silver. And we can’t have that, can we?”
The Pope smirks.
“So, I told him, ‘Donald, don’t worry about giving away everything. Just split it. Half for the poor, half for you. A compromise, like a good deal. Call it The Art of the Almsgiving.’ But you know what he said? He said, ‘Your Holiness, I like rich people who stay rich.’”
Lenny leans back and exhales.
“Ah well. I tried. I really did.”
The Young Pope smirks, adjusting his zucchetto. “Fifty-fifty, you say? A tithe, perhaps, would be more reasonable. Ten percent. Even five would be a miracle.”
Donald Trump leans in, gesturing with his hands. “Listen, I’m a dealmaker. The best deals, okay? If I go fifty-fifty, the other billionaires—Bezos, Musk, even Zuckerberg—maybe they’ll say, ‘Wow, look at Trump, such a generous guy.’ And they’ll follow. Maybe.”
The Young Pope narrows his eyes. “Or maybe they will applaud your sacrifice while keeping their own fortunes intact. The rich often admire charity—from a safe distance.”
Trump waves his hand dismissively. “Fake news. If I do it, they’ll do it. They love me. And let’s be honest, Pope, if I split my wealth, you think people are gonna worship me? Maybe even canonize me? Saint Donald, has a nice ring to it.”
The Young Pope exhales slowly, as if weighing the absurdity of the moment. “Saints do not seek worship. They seek to serve.”
Trump shrugs. “I serve. I serve the people. Nobody serves the people better than me. But let’s make it fifty-fifty—no tricks, no loopholes. What do you say? You do it, I do it.”
The Young Pope glances up at the frescoes above. “Heaven does not bargain.”
Trump grins. “That’s why I’m making the offer down here.”