Americans are living the nightmare of a toddler president bedtime story. | Opinion | Salt Lake City Weekly

Americans are living the nightmare of a toddler president bedtime story. 

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My Uncle Sam’s household had devolved into a symphony of sighs and weary shuffles, the ceaseless demands of home and family threatening to drown Betsy and Sam. One chaotic evening, amidst the debris of a lukewarm, chicken nugget dinner, Sam threw up his hands in mock surrender.

"That's it," he declared, a wry smile acknowledging their desperate straits. "Someone else needs to take charge."

Betsy, equally depleted, offered a light-hearted chuckle. "Well, I nominate Donnie Boy."

Their 27-month-old son, who was engrossed in an art project with mashed potatoes, looked up, his bright blue eyes wide with dawning comprehension. He pointed a sticky finger at himself. "Donnie Boy boss?"

In that moment of parental exhaustion-fueled folly, a ludicrous idea took root. "That's right, Donnie Boy," Betsy affirmed, sharing a knowing, weary glance with Sam. "You're the boss now."

Donnie Boy, oblivious to the jest, puffed out his tiny chest, the word "boss" resonating with newfound power. The following morning ushered in the reign of toddler tyranny.

His first decree unfolded at breakfast. Rejecting the mundane Cheerios, Donnie Boy’s tiny finger pointed decisively at the Lucky Charms on the top shelf. "Dat!" he commanded, and so it was. The day commenced with a sugar-fueled frenzy, and Buster the dog wagged his tail as he scavenged the mess.

However, Donnie Boy-CEO’s vision extended beyond cereal. Spotting the eggs, a new culinary experiment began, culminating in a yolk-splattered kitchen floor and Buster’s hasty retreat.

Next, the dress code underwent a radical toddler-led transformation. Donnie Boy, still pajama-clad, presented Betsy with a sequined evening gown and Sam with a Hawaiian shirt and mismatched socks.

"Mama pretty! Dada funny!" he declared, tiny hands clapping with delight. Sam and Betsy weren’t so amused, but they stuck to the change in leadership.

Household chores, under Donnie Boy’s directorship, descended into delightful destruction. The feather duster became an instrument of chaotic redistribution, and finger paints transformed the living room walls into an abstract toddler masterpiece, extending its vibrant reach to the curtains, sofa, and a now-Picasso-esque Buster. Betsy silently mourned the destruction of their dream home.

Laundry took an unexpected, outdoor detour. Donnie Boy decorated the garden path with the clean clothes, Sam’s work shirts morphing into soil-caked stepping stones and Betsy’s blouses into damp, earth-toned flags.

The kitchen—already a site of questionable culinary concoctions involving peanut butter and ketchup—witnessed further innovation. Intrigued by the washing machine’s spin cycle, Donnie Boy decided the dishwasher deserved similar excitement, loading it with wooden blocks, a stuffed giraffe and Sam’s car keys. The keys didn’t make it through the food-grinding mechanism, and the wash cycle ended in a sputtering demise.

Water became Donnie Boy’s preferred medium for mayhem. Bath time overflowed its boundaries, turning the bathroom into a temporary wading pool. The toilet became a disposal unit for toys, crayons, Betsy’s toothbrush and Sam’s Rolex, the subsequent gurgling hinting at a plumbing crisis.

One afternoon, about two months into the leadership experiment, a five-pound bag of flour in the pantry proved irresistible. The resulting explosion of dust coated the kitchen in a ghostly white film, transforming Donnie Boy into a miniature, flour-dusted snowman.

Bored, Donnie Boy turned his attention to electronics. He hated Alexa’s voice and drowned her in the bathtub. Sam’s laptop, with its alluring, glowing screen, became a percussive instrument, random keystrokes leading to the irreversible deletion of crucial work files, accompanied by Sam’s echoing groan of despair.

By the end of the third month, the Sam and Betsy household was a sticky, painted, flour-dusted, mud-caked testament to toddler rule. Betsy and Sam navigated the chaos, a mixture of exhaustion and bewildered amusement etched on their faces.

Now, you’d think that a 30-month-old toddler wouldn’t be able to figure out how to unlock a cell phone and get into a banking app. Guess again! By the end of his third month in power, every kid in the neighborhood who Donnie Boy had wanted to impress had a new, battery-powered miniature Tesla, and there was a flurry of late notices from the mortgage company. Even worse, the 900 number telephone charges were off the charts, especially the one for Miss Daniel’s Dirty Talk—seems that Donnie Boy was a bit precocious.

Donnie Boy surveyed his domain with a satisfied grin before heading to bed each night. “I did this,” he’d smile. “I am the absolute greatest stable genius to ever live in this world, and it’s obvious I was destined to rule.”

Despite his own assessment of his successful reign, Donnie Boy’s days as King of the Sam and Betty household were numbered. One morning, his reign came to a grinding halt. Betsy, intercepting Donnie Boy’s artistic venture to decorate the TV with toothpaste, simply said, “That’s it,” jerked the tube out of Donnie Boy’s hand, and gave his bottom a good whack. “No!” yelled Betsy. “Stop it!”

Donnie Boy stood in front of the mirror, looking over his shoulder at his reddened buttocks. “It’s not fair,” he sobbed, “This is a witch hunt.”

As Sam and Betsy began the cleanup and repairs, they realized just how devastating the experiment had been. Restoration of order was a slow, arduous process, involving industrial-strength cleaners, endless laundry cycles, expensive plumbing interventions and a total remodel from the disaster-cleanup people.

And yet, amid the work, Betsy and Sam couldn't help but find a sliver of humor in the chaotic interlude. They looked at each other, with love in their eyes, and spoke almost in unison: “That was quite the experiment and we’ve learned our lesson.”

And, Betsy added, “Let’s get some childproof locks and never again allow a child to be the boss.”

As Americans and a world that has been almost destroyed by a lowlife, toddler madman, it’s time to say “No,” give Trump a “whack” on his behind that he’ll never forget and send him, his billionaire sidekick and his “sicko-phants” packing.

The experiment was a failure. But now we know that you don’t entrust a country and world to the judgment of a child.

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