Donold J. Grump #37

VS

The Shuffleboard Coup - part 1

Setting: Maga Logo, Present Day — Morning – The War Room

Donold J. Grump sat hunched over a holographic map projected across his gold-plated “War Desk,” gnawing on the eraser end of a pencil with all the intensity of a man trying to solve a Sudoku with no numbers. His royal-purple robe was askew, and the crown—now slightly melted on one side—rested on a bowling trophy instead of his head.

The map on screen flickered with blinking red dots.

“Retirement communities,” he muttered.

His Chief of Paranoia Operations, Stevie Boot-Liquor, leaned in nervously. “Sir, that’s the Del Boca Vista Phase II shuffleboard league.”

“Exactly,” Grump whispered, eyes twitching. “That’s their cover. Those octogenarians... they’re organizing. You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t feel it? I saw their eyes. I stormed the beach. They have the same thousand-yard stare.”

Stevie licked his lips, unsure. “Sir, with respect... are you suggesting a militant uprising by Florida retirees?”

“Not just Florida!” Grump snapped. He jabbed at the map with a chicken nugget. “I got reports from Arizona, Georgia, and parts of Staten Island. They're all connected. Senior centers. Assisted living facilities. Mega churches that sing Amazing Grace off-key. These people are woke, Stevie. They remember how democracy works. That makes them dangerous.”

Stevie blinked. “Are you... okay?”

Grump stood abruptly, his hand trembling as he adjusted his emergency diaper strap. “I saw them, Stevie. I saw them. In Normandy. And now I hear them at night... pushing walkers like tanks... revving their scooters... whispering about Medicare. It’s all connected.”

He turned, slamming a red button on the desk marked “Crisis Response: Tier 6”.

“Activate Operation Lawn Wrath,” he said.

Stevie paled. “That’s for when Walmart stops carrying frozen shrimp.”

“Do it anyway!”

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Within hours, DHS agents in golf carts and rented minivans began swarming bingo halls, Meals-on-Wheels kitchens, and bocce ball courts across the country. Thousands of bewildered seniors were rounded up.

One man was cuffed mid-pickleball serve in Scottsdale.

A group in Naples was tackled for “suspicious knitting.”

In Toledo, 92-year-old Bernice Filkins was hauled out of her bridge club for allegedly “making eye contact in a seditious tone.”

Every agent had been ordered to ask the same question:

“Did you call Social Security last Thursday?”

If they said yes, they were flagged as potential ringleaders.

One DHS agent raised the alarm after discovering a heavily annotated copy of the AARP Magazine under a recliner. Another found a stash of Werther’s Originals and flagged them as “foreign aid.”

Maga Logo: Bingo Panic Rising

It was nearly 3:00 p.m., that sacred, sun-drenched hour when Maga Logo’s seniors traditionally retreated to the café for soup, shuffled into the library for a nap, or returned to their rooms to loudly complain about the temperature settings.

But today, the halls hummed with tension.

In the Surveillance Suite—recently converted from the resort’s old juice bar—President Donold J. Grump stood hunched in front of a bank of monitors, his face twisted in cartoonish alarm.

“Zoom in on Hallway 3C,” he barked.

Stevie Boot-Liquor leaned forward, sweat rolling from his temples, and tapped the keyboard. The cameras obeyed, sharpening their view on a short, white-haired woman slowly hobbling through the corridor, clutching a walker covered in plastic flamingos.

In her hand: a clipboard.

Strapped to the top: a laminated BINGO card.

Grump gasped. “She’s back. Glenda the Gray. She was in the GS-13 gang. She’s tracking grid coordinates!”

Stevie squinted at the feed. “Sir, that’s... a bingo card.”

“A code sheet, Stevie! Look—she just marked G-17 near the vending machines. That’s where the security panel is. What do you think that ‘G’ stands for?”

Stevie blinked. “G-17?”

“Gulag 17, Stevie. Gulag.”

Onscreen, Glenda paused, adjusted her readers, and wrote something on her bingo card.

“She’s mapping the hallways,” Grump muttered. “Cataloging entry points. Plotting evacuation vectors. I’ve seen this before—in the Operation Crosswords files.”

Stevie whimpered. “Sir, I think she just got bingo.”

Grump spun to his emergency intercom.

“Activate Operation Scoot ‘n’ Seize. I want every senior using a walker, a motorized chair, or orthopedic shoes rounded up now. Anyone caught playing bingo without a MAGA stamp is to be designated an enemy agent.”

Stevie leaned in, whispering nervously, “On what legal grounds?”

Grump grinned darkly. “The Alien Enemies Act.”

Stevie winced. “But that’s for foreign nationals—during wartime—with congressional approval—”

Grump cut him off, slamming the dusty old volume onto the juice bar counter.

“She’s clearly foreign, Stevie. Look at her. That cardigan screams Ottawa. And this is war. Information war. Bathroom war. Bingo war.”

He flipped to a highlighted paragraph with shaky pen marks scrawled in the margins:

Any person... who is a native, citizen, denizen or subject of a hostile nation or government... may be apprehended, restrained, secured, and removed.

“Does Florida count as hostile?” Grump asked.

“To you? It’s turning that way,” Stevie muttered.

Within minutes, the Maga Logo hallway was chaos.

Staff members, armed with bingo daubers and mobility scooter trackers, began herding seniors into the indoor pickleball court, now rebranded “Temporary Holding Facility Omega.”

Glenda was the first to be detained. Her bingo card was confiscated.

“What’s this?” a young MAGA intern asked, holding up the laminated sheet like it was nuclear codes.

“It’s Thursday’s 2:00 p.m. game,” Glenda sniffed. “I’ve been on a dry streak for seven weeks. If you interrupt this round, so help me, I’ll file a grievance with the National Bingo Council.”

Grump burst into the room, flanked by Stevie and two panicked aides.

“There she is!” Grump cried. “The mastermind! Admit it—this wasn’t about B-12, was it? That was a location marker! You were going to attack the bar!”

Glenda scowled. “B-12’s just what I need for my back pain, you fossil-faced idiot.”

“See?! Pharmacological infiltration!”

to be continued...

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Just remember if you have someone in your life that loves you, holds you at night, makes you laugh, cry...

Then you are richer than

"He Who is PU!"