Imagine it: the President of the United States, doing one-finger push-ups in the Oval Office while 50 Cent’s “Many Men” echoes down the halls.
Melania preps her ring cards with a crayon. She only carries two, just in case the Commander-in-Chief toys with his opponent for a round before knocking him out in the second.
Somewhere, in another wing, Kash Patel barely drags his perpetually surprised eyes away from redacting the depravity of the Epstein files with a Sharpie. He checks the time, remembering he has to ref the whole ordeal, but not sure that his stomach can handle the pressure.
Trump stops mid-exercise. It’s time.
He blow-dries the sweat from his combover with an industrial-sized fan and leaves the gold-trimmed office.
“Come on down!” Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth shrieks into the microphone. “And turn off all cameras, the wind is just ruining my hair!” He stomps away, a dramatic reflection of Regina in “Mean Girls.”
Donny the Don approaches the octagon, bopping his face with his own itsy-bitsy knuckles, ready to come away the victor over Biden once and for all.
Only to find Kamala Harris has replaced the former president at the last second, trading her formal, rigid pantsuit for a slightly looser pantsuit, one that really allows room to breathe.
She skips in place. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a B,” Joe Rogan wails from the ringside.
The round is brief, but slow, like two turtles on amphetamines. Trump huffs around the octagon, swinging low blows and wiggling his eyebrows in Harris’ face.
Harris cackles back, a cartoon witch on laughing gas, but eventually loses, if only by a margin. She never had the crowd’s support in the first place.
And that’s the way the UFC Freedom 250 cookie crumbles, baby.
The Patriotic. The Proud. The Poundings! I’m practically vibrating in my seat.
Few things say “250 years of America” as explicitly as watching a handful of guys grapple on the White House lawn in the middle of June, not July, as one might expect.
Maybe there was a scheduling conflict for the resurrection of the Tesla showroom from last year.
A potential theme in case the electric vehicles are rolled back onto the lawn: let’s go Dukes of D.C., where Boss Hogg Trump chases two rascally rednecks around for a half-hour — Kid Rock and RFK Jr. post-workout should fit nicely.
Unfortunately, due to the contestable nature of the General Lee’s name, all the chasing will have to be performed in a half-charged 2025 Tesla. Now, that’s good ratings in the making.
Even better, the Trumpinator is no stranger to fighting on TV.
With his history of rowdy WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment) appearances, I honestly expected John Cena or the Undertaker to come skipping out of the White House to a Motörhead song.
Instead, we get Alex Pereira and the cotton-candy haired Sean O’Malley — real fighters set to parade around the lawn.
Not disappointed per se, but I still expect to hear “Here comes Trump with the chair!” or I’m demanding a better tax refund.
If I know one thing for certain, they’d better get Pabst Blue Ribbon and Marlboro to sponsor the whole thing, because fist-fighting and wrestling in the yard just doesn’t feel right without a cold one and a stogie.
Ask your cousin with the Confederate flag hanging in his trailer window. He knows what I’m talking about.
Whoever decides to grace the lawn with headlocks and headkicks in June, I hope they have as much fun as I am, day-dreaming about a world where Saturday Night Live isn’t force-fed sketch material until they gag.
Until then, and until the bell rings, I want to see a good, clean fight. No hits below the belt.
Well, a few low blows are fine. Stop when you hear the whistleblower.
