The Butternut Bombast: The True Origin Story of Donald Trump

Art by Steve Ponzo

Blake Erspamer hit this earth in 1928

he was raised and broken in Queens.

From the very start, he was a victim of fate,

disappointments and shattered dreams.


But a love for science pulled him through

a brutal and harsh adolescence.

He would sit in his room, a feverish screw

and toil with bioluminescence.


He’d tear the wings off fireflies and watch their light fade-

disturbed and elated.

He’d collect their glow in jars he displayed

as his growth became rather stagnated.


Throughout his life, he would speak to women

with the grace of a boorish buffoon.

He would prod, he would poke, he would lie, he would joke

of their feelings, he was not in-tune.


As the years pressed on he developed a hatred

a steaming and vile reproach.

Of those who left him humiliated

every single time he approached.


You see, dear Reader, Blake had no tact

and surely no way with words.

And the way he made up for what he lacked

was being loud, annoyed and disturbed


On his 30th birthday, he made a pact

from then on, it would be all about vengeance.

He would become the consummate smearer;

upon women, he would be relentless.


Over the next decade, he founded groups, started marches

in the name of anti-feminism.

He became known as The Sargent

and he started his own religion.


He was a recluse, a joke, a hate monger for sure

with no family, friends or career.

But his fascination with true anthropomorphization

would transform his life and this sphere.


Using wiring, luciferase and hyena DNA,

he attempted to bring life to an object.

He tried a lemon, a briefcase, a shoe and hairspray

but not an inkling of breath he’d detect.


One day in late October, with the moon full in the sky

he gave it one last go for society.

He connected the wires and prepped the machine,

for a squash of butternut variety.


This time, things we’re different,

the sky pulsed and turned crimson.

It was finally happening,

his villainous vision.


A funnel formed ’round his home

swirling and angry, like Mother nature’s soul was tearing.

He was knocked unconscious, by a garden gnome

and awoke to a sound that was blaring.


It was like an infant crying,

only different somehow, somewhat more garbled and unclear.

As he searched through the wreckage

he lifted a table and found something wildly severe.


There lay a humanoid, butternut squash,

crying and lying alone.

It looked like a human, but more yellowish/orange

with hands that were quite under-grown.


He scooped up the phallic being, fed it some warm milk,

amazed at his improbable success.

He vowed from that moment, he’d be devoted

to teaching the squash to oppress.


After six years of homeschooling,

the squash had grown angry, and exceedingly hard to contain.

He took Erspamer’s teachings to a whole new level,

and was becoming quite inhumane.


The hatred of women, and all who are different,

was taken to loathsome extremes.

While Erspamer was sad and angry,

the squash was disgusting and mean.


There came a time when Erspamer,

could no longer care for the “boy.”

He’d grown into a flailing monster,

that a man of his means could no longer employ.


Then Erspamer thought of a man who could harness this beast,

and give him a home and a stage for release.

A local magnate named Fred, known throughout the east,

for being bombastic, and a real-estate sleaze.


So he set up a meeting, between Fred and the squash,

and, turns out, it was love at first sight,

He thought that the creature could be far more posh,

but his flagrancy was a delight!


And so it was settled, Fred would take in the young brute,

and raise him as if he was his own.

He would even have his seamstress sew hair to his head,

so he wouldn’t feel so alone.


Blake Erspamer passed away three years later,

unaware of his life’s ramifications.

For the squash would eventually be given a name,

and rise to the top of this nation.


As we reflect on the state of the country,

and the ascension of the one with the orange skin.

We’re reminded that he’s really just a lonely squash

trying desperately just to fit in.



by Jesse Mechanic

Jesse Mechanic is the editor in chief of The Overgrown.

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