US President Donald Trump stands and salutes troops during the Army 250th Anniversary Parade. Photo: GETTY IMAGES
It’s my birthday next week. I consider it a grand coincidence of the cosmos and history that I share the date with one of greatest essayists and satirists to grace the language in Ambrose Bierce (born in 1842). I also share the date with the conclusion of the Battle of Bannockburn in the Scottish War of Independence whereupon Robert the Bruce was victorious for us Scots. (My being descended from the McFadyen clan of the Isle of Coll.)
It being the celebration of my coming into the world, I’m full of gratitude, and now rather disappointingly in how I thought I regarded my own modest ambitions and humility, I have been inspired by Donald Trump. It more than pains me to write that. How is that possible? Actually, it’s simple. Neither of the aforementioned things can compare to the extravaganza witnessed in Washington recently upon the coupling of Donald Trump’s birthday with the formation of the US Army 250 years ago. To think he could spend $60 million on his birthday. And I want one.
For my birthday next week, I want a parade, a big parade, a parade so big you can see it from the Moon. I want a parade that will send earth tremors through the streets of the entire country. I want a display of military hardware that will send waves of shock and awe around the globe, not once but many many times. It’s my birthday. A cake and best wishes don’t cut it anymore. A present you can hold in your hand? Haha. Forget it.
I want to sit and then stand and then sit and then stand on a high platform above the rest of the people watching my parade. I want thousands of soldiers to march past, in tight regimented formation, turn and salute me and then keep marching. I want brass bands to march past, and play to me. I want billions of dollars of fighter jets to blaze across the sky above me and roar their engines to the tune of Happy Birthday, and I want tanks, lots of tanks, to rumble past in a convoy of firepower to shake the eyebrows on my friends and the foundations of my enemies. I want the tanks to swivel their turrets towards me in fealty to my presence. If I could get away with it, I want them all to fire off a few rounds into the air. This has to be an explosive display.
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I want the world to know that on my birthday these machines and men and women that carry the weapons of destruction are mine to command. I am the commander in chief of them all. Where I say they will go, then there they shall go.
On my birthday, I will speak behind bulletproof glass to the parade. I’m thinking of saying words to the effect that my enemies have learnt that you don’t mess around with me. I’ll be coming for them. “Your defeat will be certain, your demise will be final, and your downfall will be total and complete . . . No matter the risks, no matter the obstacles, our warriors will charge into battle, they will plunge into the crucible of fire, and they will seize the crown of victory.” This will occur because of the grace of Almighty God and an iron will.
If anyone protests at all of this, they’re no friend of mine. Indeed, they’re no friend of the country. If someone can’t spend tens of millions of dollars on a couple of hours for my personal amusement and self-aggrandisement, what has the world become? I’ll tell you. It’s become sane. Wait, I meant insane.
It’s my birthday next week. I want a parade.
