The room was a wasp’s nest.  All throughout the main conference room at the Trump Hotel in Las Vegas, media members from the world over, foreign dignitaries, and strippers heading home from the late shift were gathered for what promised to be an intriguing press conference.

All were welcome in this palace of excess.

Rumors were humming through the air leaving more speculation in their wake.  Why had Donald Trump called the media to attend a press conference?  What did he mean that it would “be a day that changes the course of human history?”

Before the crowded room was quite a sight.  A stage had been constructed and assembled and on the stage sat 5 chairs.  In front of those 5 chairs was a podium equipped with microphones.  Behind the stage, there was a crimson curtain that held all the possibilities that a Vegas-addled mind could imagine.

Whispers have a way of splitting, like growing bacteria, and soon enough the entire room was infected.  Just as this simmering of activity seemed ready to seethe over into a shouting melee worthy of the New York Stock exchange floor, Trump himself stepped from behind the curtain and onto the stage.

He walked up to the podium, which held roughly 87 microphones, ran his bejeweled fingers through his famed Trump ‘do and smiled a porcelain, veneered, smile.

“Welcome everyone.  I’m glad you could join us today, on the this the first day of April.  As spring begins to thaw out our great nation and release us from the icy mandibles of winter, although here in Vegas the sun’s always shining baby,” he winked at the audience full of people and two of the strippers we will call soon-to-be-ex-wife numbers 8 and 9 winked back.

“I know what you’re thinking, people, but this doesn’t have to do with my impending Presidency, nor is this a chance for me to public flaunt my wallet — although, for those of you wondering, I just compared checking accounts with God and have him soundly beaten.  I have called this press conference today, with media outlets attending from CNN to Al Jazeera, to let the truth be known.”

The Donald leaned back, letting the wildly diverse crowd murmur.  “I have a few friends to join me.  A band of Merry Pranksters, they’ve all been putting you on.  Here they are.”

From behind the curtain emerged four shapes.  As they stepped forward to the light, Trump called each by name.

“Charlie Sheen, everyone.”

Charlie Sheen stumbled to the front of the stage, wearing heavily tinted sunglasses, gave a head nod to been-there-done-that strippers 6 and 7 and took a seat.

“Moammar Ghadafi!”

Colonel Ghadafi stepped onstage, resplendent in his military outfit, and blew a few kisses to the stunned crowd.

“Everyone welcome Justin Bieber.”

Bieber danced onto the stage, popping and locking.  Towards the back of the room a tweenage girl screamed so hard her braces turned to liquid metal.  She swallowed, purely by reflex, and thusly cost her parents another twelve grand in orthodontist fees. 

(*Author’s note: later on in her life, the girl would note that this price was “like totally worth it.”

“And finally,” The Donald gestured widely like a ringmaster in the center circle.  “The Economy.”

A man dressed in a tuxedo, wearing a monocle, stepped forward and bowed deeply.  The puzzled crowd was now deathly silent.  Katie Couric looked over at Brian Williams and shrugged looking for all the world like she expected Ashton Kutcher to come leaping out from behind the stage and reveal that all were being featured on his new movie, “Punk’d 3-D.”

“Alright,” said The Donald, reclaiming the attention of his audience.  “Charlie would like to lead us off.”

As The Donald moved to take his seat he first pulled out a piece of chalk and drew a long line on the stage.

As Sheen stood up, he grabbed a cigarette and lit up with a flashy platinum lighter.  He wobbled up to the stage and leaned heavily on it.

The crowd caught their breath, inhaling as one massive, collective lung.  They were preparing for Charlie Sheen’s rant. 

Dr. Drew, star of Vh-1’s celebrity-exploitation machine “Sober House,” was seated in the back row delicately wiping away the caviar from his mouth with a wad of $100 dollar bills and mentally planning his next cash bath from a Sheen-featured special.

Suddenly, with a swift and lithe movement Charlie Sheen stood up straight.  He took off his sunglasses to reveal two distinctly un-bloodshot eyes.  Then, to the shock of all in attendance, he put heel to toe and perfectly walked the chalk line drawn out by The Donald.

As Sheen finished his walk, he turned and sauntered back to the podium.  Leaning into the wall of microphones, Sheen said in perfect, unslurred letters, “Z-y-x-w-v-u-t-s-r-q-p-o-n-m-l-k-j-i-h-g-f-e-d-c-b-a.”

Without another letter or another word, Sheen did something else completely remarkable.  He stood on one leg, pulled from his pocket a handheld breathalyzer and touched his nose with his other hand.  The cameras zoomed in on the breathalyzer, which promptly landed at 0.00.

Sheen danced wildly around on stage, spiked the breathalyzer like he was performing an endzone celebration and leaned into the podium once more.  “I slept eight hours last night.  In fact, I do every night.  This whole, junkie-slash-crazy man thing?  Not only am I not a ‘Vatican Assassin’ like I told everyone, I got that phrase from a really crappy Charles Bronson movie from the 70’s.”

He tried to take a drag on his lit cigarette and choked, hacking.  “I don’t even actually smoke.  And I’ve been celibate for 5 years.  Joaquin Phoenix and I had the same PR agent, and he had this brilliant idea for both of us to fake– well you guys know the story.  And that, ladies and gentleman, is acting.  April F-in Fools.”

Sheen returned to his seat as media members grabbed hysterically at their phones. 

Dr. Drew tottered to his gator-skin-loafered feet took three steps towards the back of the room and his head blew up.  Mario Lopez, on location for “Entertainment Tonight” wept openly at all the ad revenue that had just been flushed down the toilet, only consoling himself by taking off his shirt.  Such was the commotion in the room that no one noticed.

As Sheen settled back to his seat Ghadafi returned to the microphone.  The crowd, whipped into a ravenous fervor by such a startling revelation, suddenly found itself hushed; on the edge of silence waiting for a push.

“Let’s give it up for Chuck Sheen,” Ghadafi said chuckling to himself in perfect english.  He slow clapped for a few seconds until he realized that his were the only hands making noise.  “Tough crowd, Chuck.  Real tough in here tonight.”

He delicately tapped on of the microphones and it squealed with high-pitched feedback.  “Wooo-eee.  Got a hot mic here, Donnie,” he gestured at The Donald, who smiled back magnanimously.

“Well, to start, my name’s not actually Moammar Ghadafi.  It’s Ted Davenport.  And I don’t live in the underground tunnels of Libya, I’m from Dubuque, Iowa.  I just have a really weird skin complexion from being dehydrated all the time.  Believe it or not, I actually learned how to speak Arabic, or whatever that language is, from an online course.”

The dictator formerly known as Ghadafi grinned, suddenly.  “Anyway, um. . . April Fools!  Man, you guys should’ve seen the look on your–”

A covert CIA sniper, hidden some 200 yards away near a gigantic billboard of Sigfried and Roy, finished Ted Davenport’s last word for him.

As Davenport-Ghadafi’s body was pulled from the stage, Katie Couric stiff armed Brian Williams in an effort to beat him to the camera crew waiting in the lobby to break the news.

However, as they were mid-way to the lobby to begin a frantic live report, they were drawn back to the dais by the angelic wailing of a boy considered by 88% of 13-year-old girls to be their muse.

“Katie. . .Katie. . .Katie. . .nooo!”  Came the high pitch siren’s call.  Couric froze in her tracks and turned, as though hypnotized. 

“Must. . .throw bra. . .at Bieber.”  She mumbled, as she stumbled like an extra from “Dawn of the Dead” towards her seat once more.

The crowd, lured in by the melodic pinings of the teen-beat sensation, turned their eyes once more to the dais.

“Hi, everyone,” Bieber croaked out in his real voice, sounding more like a pack-a-day smoker than a millionaire sensation.  “I wanted to come to this press conference to let everyone know a deep, dark secret that I’ve decided to let you all in on.”

The room was a vacuum.  Airless.  Soundless.

“I know you thought I’m a young, fresh-faced boy of 17 years, but I’m actually 39 years old.  I have a rare pituitary disease that has kept my body looking this age ever since I was 16.  I’m pretty much Andy Milonakis with better choreography.  Goodbye, under age women.  Hello, cougars.  April Fools, everyone.”  As he finished his statement he reached into the air and caught Katie Couric’s bra.

Many in the audience were now passed out.  Whether from the news of Bieber’s pituitary issues, Ghadafi’s Dubuque residency, Sheen’s true sobriety, or due to the quarter drinks provided in the casino after 3 P.M. it was unclear.  Silence reigned as The Economy stepped to the podium.

“I actually don’t have any startling plot twist.  We’re all still screwed.  I’m just here because I owe The Donald some money.  These other guys really fooled you all good, though.  Peace.”

And with this, The Donald returned to the microphone.

“On this a day of big revelations, I’d just like to say that April Fool’s day is not to be tampered with.  These men all had made fools of us all and chose to reveal their trickery on a day of pranks.  Let this be a lesson to you all.  Now, I’d just like to say to all of you: you’re fired.” 

Grinning he took off his hair and stepped down off the dais to go find another ex-wife.

(*Author’s note: Happy April Fool’s Day from Burnpoetry.)


  1. Sue Tolles says:

    If only………..

  2. madhat says:

    Happy April Fool’s Day to you, too, BP. I enjoyed this prank piece.

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