Memo to Ivana: Take the $25 million.


Not tomorrow, pumpkin. Now.

In cash.

The Donald in Disarray. Is this a great country, or what?

You know how on your utility bill there's one number for "amount due before this date," and another number for "amount due after this date"? Trump's due date is June 15. And on his bill it says, "Amount due before this date: $81 million. Amount due after this date: Japan."

It's a cash flow problem.

A slump de Trump.

From "Trump: The Art of the Deal" to "Thump! My Life as a Schlemiel."

(You think this'll hurt him with the women?)

Usually, slot machines are the answer to cash flow problems. Have you ever been to a casino? Old ladies who look as if they've been hoarding silver their whole lives to get to this moment line up 10 deep to get their dainty mitts on a handle. Slot machines are a cash cow that turns over about a trillion dollars a day. Who sold The Donald these clunkers, Detroit?

News of The Donald's dire financial straits was met with varying degrees of compassion.

Merv Griffin laughed.

Leona Helmsley laughed.

Liz Smith laughed.

Ivana smiled demurely. Liz reported that the former Frump de Trump "wanted to laugh, but was afraid any kind of sudden movement might rip the sutures off her face lift."

Don King had chest pains.

Marla Maples was disbelieving at first. "He's broke?" she asked. "This is a joke, right?"

Later, a spokesman for Ms. Maples quoted her as saying, "Donald who?"

Rumors of a Donald cash crunch had been aloft awhile, but became windblown last week after the Trump Shuttle began to cut back on the complimentary coffee served in its terminals. The New York Daily News quoted shuttle President Bruce Nobles explaining, "We were spending a lot of money giving away coffee in the terminal {to passengers}, and then they'd get on the plane and demand more free coffee." Oh, the horror! The Donald should be able to save, what, eight bucks a day from this savvy cost-cutting move. What's he going to do next, cut out the in-flight snack entirely? What a crusher -- no more wedges of cheese from the year 1260.

(Right now the more charitable and compassionate of you are probably asking yourselves: What can we do to help? Is there a "Dollars for Donald" relief fund we can contribute to? Can we organize a bake sale or a car wash? Hey, wise up. The guy is a no-necked, stubby-fingered, self-fascinated Sherman McCoy. He'd buy your home out from under you and boot you into the street without so much as a how-dee-do.)

There are conflicting reports as to The Donald's reaction when he realized how deep a hole he was in. Sources say he screamed one of the following:

1) "I've said it a million times: Honey-roasted is too expensive. Give them the regular peanuts. What are they going to do, jump out over Philadelphia?"

2) "How much did her new breasts cost?"

3) "Thirty thousand franchises out there. Domino's. Burger King. True Value. Waldenbooks. Safeway. And I buy into the USFL."

4) "Was it necessary to get every pair of No Excuses jeans?"

5) "I hold you personally responsible, Ravi. You told me to name it the Taj Mahal. It confuses people. Half my gambling charters land in New Delhi."

Apparently The Donald is facing a serious financial problem AND THIS IS NOT JUST A PUBLICITY STUNT, YEAH, SURE.

(Did you see the name of his new book? "Trump: Surviving at the Top." Talk about wishful thin -- Quiet! Did you hear that? It sounded like a splash into the endless sea of debt, a kerplump de Trump.)

Whither The Donald?

To the Money Store?

"Holy Cow, Phil, I'm gonna need more than this."

To a home equity loan?

"How can you say it isn't enough collateral? I need dough, and I'm ready to deal. I've given you 175,000 One-Pass miles, a home version of Trump: The Game, and Czechoslovakia. In the updated pre-nup, Ivana only got 125,000 miles."

To the mob?

"Carting garbage, Donny, that's the ticket. Hey, nice suit."

He can do what millions of cash-desperate Americans do -- hold a yard sale. He has plenty of yards. Selling his yards alone will get him a few million. He has a yacht with solid-gold faucets -- if the pipes clog you don't call a plumber, you call Cartier. He's got hotels in Atlantic City. Actually, he's got Atlantic City. He sells Broadway and Park Place, that's $750 right there, and with hotels on them ...

He can:

Sell his awful wide ties.

Open a McDonald's. The Donald's McDonald's. With a sign: "Billions sold -- not nearly enough."

Ride in his own bike race, be a shlump de Trump.

Start a self-serve gas station, a pump de Trump.

Borrow money from you, making you a chump de Trump.

Sell his blue blood. ("What? Seven dollars a pint? You'll give me the same as them?")

Make bankruptcy videos. ("Hi, I'm The Donald. I'll be your host on our tour of Chapter 11. Not bad here, huh? The dirty little secret of going bankrupt is they always let you hide most of your good stuff. Ask my pals Ivan and Mike.")

Or he can do what men in similar pickles have tried so long and so hard to do -- marry up. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you tabloid heaven: