Once upon a time, in the rolling green hills of Vermont, there lived a simple farming family known as the Trumps. They weren’t millionaires, billionaires, or real estate moguls—just humble carrot farmers who spent their days tilling the soil and harvesting the orangi-est carrots the land could provide.
At the head of the family was Papa Fred Trump, a hardworking man with a vision for success and a knack for stretching the truth. His wife, Mama Mary, was the glue of the household, always making sure the family stayed in line—even if their ideas tended to run a little wild.
And then, there was young Donald.
From a young age, Donald had an unnatural connection to carrots. Perhaps it was the soil, the farm’s air, or just some strange cosmic joke, but over the years, his complexion started to match the very vegetables they grew. His skin took on an unnervingly orange hue, making him look like a walking carrot with an attitude problem.
But Donald wasn’t interested in farming. He had big dreams, bigger than Vermont, bigger than the carrot fields. He wanted to be somebody.
Packing Up the Wagon – The Journey to New York
One day, Papa Trump gathered the family and made an announcement:
“We ain’t gonna be no Beverly Trumpbillies no more! We’re movin’ to the big city! NEW YORK, BABY!”
The family cheered, even though none of them had ever left Vermont. Mama Trump packed up the house, Donald combed his hair into a perfect, swirling formation, and the Trump family loaded up their wagon—a rickety old cart held together with nothing but hope and a couple of rusty nails.
Destination? New York City.
As they rode into the city, eyes wide in amazement, Donald knew this was where he belonged. The big buildings, fast-talking businessmen, and flashing lights were calling to him. Vermont’s carrots were behind him—his future was in orange-faced merchandise.
The Birth of the Trump Empire
Settling on Eric Avenue, the Trumps opened their first store:
“TRUMP’S ORANGE-FACED TRUMPIES – The Best, Most Fantastic, Absolutely Unbelievable Dolls in the World!”
The Trumpies were bright orange, had fantastic wigs, and, most importantly, made a loud noise from their bottoms that resembled a thunderous, unapologetic fart every time they were squeezed.
“A toy that farts? That’s marketing gold!” Donald exclaimed.
And just like that, the Trump family was in business.
The Trumpies were a hit. Children loved them, businessmen hoarded them, and the sound of synchronized farting echoed through New York City’s streets. It wasn’t long before news outlets picked up the story, dubbing the store “the most obnoxious toy store in New York”—a title the Trump family wore with pride.
Meeting Melanie (Or Was It Melania?)
One day, while showcasing the latest model of Trumpies, a mysterious woman walked into the shop. She had **high cheekbones, a foreign accent, and the energy of someone who had somehow wandered into the wrong country.
“Hello, I am Melahnie, no—Meloni? Melainy? Bah, just call me Melanie.”
Donald was instantly intrigued. She was beautiful, mysterious, and most importantly—she didn’t mind the Trumpies’ fart noises.
“I like these toys,” Melanie said with a slow, calculated nod. “They remind me of home.”
Donald was smitten. A woman who could appreciate the deep, comedic genius of a farting orange toy? She was the one.
From the Trumpbillies to the Big Leagues
Years passed, and the Trumpies became a nationwide sensation. The family moved into bigger and flashier businesses, buying properties, opening casinos, and marketing themselves as America’s “best-ever” entrepreneurs.
Donald eventually took over the family empire, rebranding their humble toy store into a real estate business that would later become Trump Tower. He always credited the Trumpies for teaching him the art of business, branding, and, of course, shameless self-promotion.
And while Melanie/Melania still struggled to pronounce her own name, she stayed by his side, watching as he fumbled, bumbled, and somehow stumbled his way into the highest office in the land.
But no matter how many buildings had his name on them, no matter how many political controversies followed him, Donald always remembered his roots.
And on some nights, when the world was quiet, he would take out one of the original Trumpies from his childhood shop. He’d squeeze it, listen to the satisfying fart sound, and whisper:
“We really made it, didn’t we?”
And somewhere, back in Vermont, a carrot field swayed gently in the breeze, knowing it had done its part in shaping one of history’s most unbelievable figures.
The End.
