John Boston | Mr. Trump: Give Your SOTU in the Good ol’ SCV

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DEAR PRESIDENT TRUMP,

Read, recently, with disappointment, that Mrs. Pelosi is not letting you use Congress for your upcoming State of the Union speech next Tuesday. Terribly sorry, Mr. President. 

My title of Mr. Santa Clarita Valley has been passed on through the generations a ga-billion years ago from the Alliklik Indian nation days. Like Sen. Elizabeth Warren “Moon” of Massachusetts, I’m not full-blooded Native American. I’m .0000000000000000000000000000000000002 Native American. Even that is debatable in that a distant great-grandfather didn’t actually sleep with an Alliklik princess but had inappropriate and toasty thoughts of her during his after-lunch nap.

Other than that, I’m a Hart High Indian. Couldn’t be prouder. If you can’t hear me, I’ll write a little louder…

Anyway.

By the powers vested in me as Mr. SCV, I cordially invite you to give Tuesday night’s State of the Union address here in our overly beige community, the City of Santa Clarita, which huddles warmly in the tummy of the Santa Clarita Valley. I must warn you, however. We are within rock-throwing distance of Los Angeles, belly of the beast for mainstream media. Just guessing, but they would probably lift their nose job noses in disdain at covering your speech. But, we’re a can-do community, Mr. President. I have a hoodlum friend of some 50 years, Pat Arman. I’m sure I could convince Pat to drive around recklessly close to where you end up speaking while making rebel yells. We’ll make anonymous calls to the L.A. TV stations and report a carjacking. Voila, there’ll be several hundred newscopters darkening the SCV sky. 

TV reporters are as dumb as a 50-pound sack of wet Purina Monkey Chow. It’ll be days before they realize they’ve been duped into broadcasting live your State of the Union.

I’m pretty sure you don’t have to worry about protests from Antifa, communists, socialists, the Downtown Nicaragua High School Marching Band or the local Santa Clarita Valley Democratic Club/Unmentionable Fluid-Donors Club. We’re nearly 100 percent Republican. We did lose a couple of seats recently to the local cult, but only because they bused in several thousand angry young masked white people in black ninja outfits to the polls who happened to all be named “Bob Johnson” living at “9876543 Via Cabezon, Honby, CA 60605.”

We were assured by state Democratic Party officials that 2,500 people in one stolen avocado farm bus is perfectly normal and that we shouldn’t think the worst of our pretend-Ninja neighbors. That was good enough for our own, vibrant SCV Republican & Thursday Senior Mall Walkers Action Committee. Not only that, but, as I mentioned, after all the buses disappeared last election, there’s only two actual Democrats living here permanently. One is often at the mental institution in Van Nuys. Granted. She can sign herself in or out but Tuesdays are meatloaf night and you’d have to pull her off the buffet with a tow truck and six gorillas filled with a terrible resolve. 

The other Democrat, Larry von Larry, lives with his parents, the von Larrys, in the SCV’s ONLY basement. Last year, the Knights of Columbus all got together to build a wall around their house. The kid’s movements are closely watched, I assure you, plus, someone down at Youth Services last year installed a genital monitor on young Larry and they still can’t figure out how to remove it.

Well.

Safely.

On the bright side, it sends out both a homing signal and a loud, annoying wheezing sound when he strays.

There’s plenty to eat here in the SCV. We have both kinds of foods, burgers and pizza. I think we used to have a Del Taco, but there’s talk among the men about “maybe paying them a visit” as Mexican food can attract undesirables.

Like the Lutherans.

Mr. President. There are no shortage of good souls here in Santa Clarita who would offer their homes to you, your family, staff and Secret Service. I would be more than honored if you wanted to bunk at my place, as long as your lovely daughter, Ivanka, would not be attending. 

It’s not her.

It’s me.

I have boundary issues plus Ivanka reminds me of my third wife and our painful, court-ordered separation. I’m afraid my sobbing all night might keep you awake. And, well. I sort of live next door to the Larry von Larry family. Unless Larry manages to scale the wall and his monitor goes off, it’s usually pretty quiet.

If you’re interested, Mr. President, please don’t hesitate to call. My number is 661-309-4322. Like you, I’m up late. Call any time.

John Boston is a gifted and wildly talented award-winning (119) humorist. Just ask any local Democrat.

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