The Scottish took to the streets in the MILLIONS – possibly even BILLIONS – this past weekend as Donald Trump arrived for a “working” vacation. No photos of him working have been released, but there are lots of pictures of him golfing. Funny how that works! This trip will cost the US taxpayers $10 million dollars, money that could be spent on homeless veterans.
See, the Scottish don’t fuck around. And even though Trump’s mother immigrated to the United States from Scotland (possibly illegally, who the fuck knows with this corrupt shitbag family), the Scottish hate his fucking fat orange ass.
“Och No, Not Him Again!” — A Scottish Tale of Trump and Bulger
It was a misty morning in the Highlands, the kind of day when the sheep looked judgmental and the loch refused to reflect anything but disdain. A sleepy village called Drumfargle (population: 47 people, 612 sheep, and one very loud goose) was about to experience something so dreadful, so apocalyptic, it would later be called The Day of the Two Dunderheids.
First came Donald J. Trump, arriving via private helicopter, which he insisted on calling “TrumpForce One.” The chopper touched down on a field of sacred haggis moss, and the locals collectively shouted, “Nae bother gettin’ aff, ya plonker!”
Trump stepped out in his signature red tie, flapping in the wind like a warning flag. “I love Scotland! The people love me here. I’m like the Loch Ness Monster — mysterious, majestic, and totally real.”
At that moment, Dick Bulger arrived. Not by helicopter — Dick had hitched a ride on a Polish cargo truck full of expired corned beef and inexplicably smelled like wet rope and menthols. His only luggage was a plastic bag from a Boston liquor store and a half-eaten meatball sub he claimed was diplomatic property.
“Oh Christ, now there’s two of ‘em,” muttered Hamish McSnurdle, local pub owner and part-time ghost hunter. “It’s like choosing between bein’ kicked in the arse or pished on by a goat.”
The two men, unaware of each other’s reputation in Scotland (which was, frankly, universally negative), strutted through the village square as if it were a runway at a fascist fashion show. Trump tried to buy the local castle, declaring it “ugly but tremendous potential — maybe a casino with a tartan roulette wheel.” Dick, meanwhile, declared he was “reclaiming me ancestral lands on me mum’s side — or maybe it was me stepdad’s dog’s side.”
The townsfolk were horrified. Trump tried renaming Loch Ness to “Lake Trumpness” and offered to build a gold-plated wall around it “to keep out the illegal monsters.” Dick Bulger, not to be outdone, climbed into a rowboat with a CB radio, yelling into the void, “Breaker one-nine, this is the Celtic Sausagehound, reporting live from Nessie’s bidet!”
A council meeting was called. Urgently.
It was decided: both Trump and Bulger had to go. “Aye, they’re both pish,” said Fiona McBagpipe, head of the village council. “One tried to turn our sheep into golf caddies, and the other keeps using the word ‘ye olde beef funnel’ in a deeply upsetting way.”
The solution? The villagers tricked Trump into thinking he had been appointed King of East Glasgow, a role that exists only in folklore and meth-induced fever dreams. He proudly marched off in a sash made of tablecloth and was last seen arguing with a pack of feral seagulls.
Bulger was lured away with the promise of an “ancient roast beef stone circle” near Aberdeen, which turned out to be an old Arby’s dumpster. He was content. “This is where the druids used to dunk their hoagies,” he whispered with reverence, before falling asleep inside a discarded oven mitt.
And peace returned to Drumfargle once more — until word spread that Elon Musk was eyeing the local bog for a Tesla peat mine.
But that’s another nightmare.
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