A Morning In The Life

Poor Donald. Poor, poor Donald. He’s pouting so hard you could put a service for eight on his lower lip. Imagine being confronted by REAL QUESTIONS? When deprived of his echo chamber in which he’s spent so much of his time during his presidency, he insists he has been treated worse by the press since any president since Abraham Lincoln. It isn’t easy, bearing the weight of having to battle all of the naysayers who seem to come out in droves whenever he places his head into the public sphere.

“It’s so bad out there in the world. People don’t show proper appreciation for what I’ve done for them. They blame me for this mess from China. Well, I know that if we hadn’t done things, more than 2 million would have died. And people are upset because of 200,000 dying?”  He fiddles with his remote control, forcing himself to see TV other than from his own safe zone. “There is that bitch Mika. What’s she saying? That I’m to blame for causing those spic families to be separated? Don’t they know I saved the country from their invasion? Those kids, they are so, so  much better off here where we take care of them. They probably never even saw running water in the shithole they used to live in.”

He pressed on the remote, forcing it back to his own safe zone, where Fox and Friends sat inviting him in. “No, not today. I’ve got too much to do today.” So the country was spared from a 40 minute stream-of-consciousness rant that would be dissected across the media world for the next day.

He called for his hairdresser and make-up artist. Few knew the intricate details involved with layering the remaining tendrils of hair up and over the immense bald spot atop his head. Daily it reminded Donald that he does not reign supreme over all of nature. “Just like that damn China virus. I can’t seem to make it behave either.”  He patiently sat for forty-five minutes while his hair weave was completed, and just the right shade of orange was slathered over his face, leaving his visage immaculate in its iridescence and ready for yet another day of facing his enemies. It is strange how so many of his supporters have become his bitter enemies, but then, who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Only Donald knows. He knows better than all of them how they will all turn on him, even those like Barr who has pulled off so many masterful escapes. But now Barr cannot even deliver on indictments of those who wronged him. “We’ll wait till after the election, after I win, then out he goes too.”

“They’ve been trying for a coup for the past four years. Well, now they want to keep bringing up this COVID crap. I’ll bet anything that those bastards will stop mentioning COVID right after the election. But now I have a secret weapon. My army will never accept a result that gets turned against me after the true election day. Back when America was great, we always knew the results the same night as the election was held. And none of this namby-pamby stuff about voting by mail. These wusses that don’t want to go down and vote on election day – they are not true Americans. Only my supporters will follow my commands and vote. Who cares if they get sick afterwards? They will have done their duty to me.”  The first can of Diet Coke was drained, and he rang for another.

When his footman appeared with another can, already opened, Donald eyed the man with suspicion. “Why do you have a mask on?” he queried.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll do better from now on.” The embarrassed footman tore off his mask as he backed swiftly out of the room and away from Donald’s presence.

Donald turned his attention back to the television. “I’d better respond to this idiot who keeps saying that the virus is spreading. It’s not. I keep telling them that at my rallies but they keep lying about my efforts. Imagine, saying that I’m not doing my job right. Why, no one has ever worked harder at this job than I have. Not a minute goes by that I’m not hard at work telling my people about how good a job I’ve done for them.”

He takes a swallow of Diet Coke, feeling the aspartame burn, then forces himself to stand up and amble towards the bathroom. The familiar heft of his phone in one hand, he squats down on his own personal throne, and prepares to share his wisdom with his followers.

“Your favorite President wants you to no that we will never acept an election where the result is not released on Election Day!!!! Anything else will just be inviting the Fake News to play with the results…..”

“….. and the Dumbocrats who run the cities will keep on counting votes until they win.  We can’t allow that!!!!  I need all of you to stand by for next week!!!!”

“Where are the indictments? The Biden Crime Family is GUILTY!!!! Let’s see some action out of Justice.”

“The Noble prize was RIGGED!!!!  We keep bringing peace to the mid-east. Meanwhile they award the prize to some part of the totally corrupt UN.”

Finally the remnants of the hamburger from two nights ago were deposited in the throne receptacle. Donald pressed the button, feeling the warm stream of water cleanse his lower regions. So much better to have that. It was really getting difficult to reach down there and clean it himself, and he hated to have to call for help.

He pulled on his suit jacket, and strode towards the elevator, ready to take on his busy, busy day. It was only 11:15. If those people just knew how hard he worked for them.

Tick-Tock

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The tick withdraws his mouth from the host, where he has been siphoning life blood. As his head disengages, dollars drip from his extended drill bit serving as a mouth. The tick moves on, slowly waddling down a slightly sloped ramp, until he comes to his next victim. There he engages with that next victim, another seeker of favors, and snuggles down to begin the extraction process.

The victims keep coming, willingly, as long as the favors they can procure keep coming as well. It is worth a bit of their lifeblood to enable them to carve out larger cavities in the body of the US government as their favors are translated into new contracts or new rulings in their interest. Sometimes the result of the parasitic infection is a purulent discharge coming from the body of the government, as the host rejects the outlandish demands of its parasitic free rider. But often, the burrowing of the new parasite is hidden, out of sight from those who try to decipher the acts of the government we all pay for. All of us, that is, except for the tick in chief, who pays nothing for his benefits, yet keeps feasting upon those who would request just one favor, just one contract, or just one tweet.

The tick in chief leads his progeny in learning just how to drill into a willing victim. By siphoning off a portion of the victim’s life blood, the family of the tick in chief can keep its engorged status intact. The rest of the world looks on in horror as the images of the tick in chief permeate the airwaves. No more can they revere the country the tick has invaded. Instead, they ridicule it, though the tick in chief keeps insisting that they are laughing with him, not laughing at him.

The tick in chief believes that only through displays of brute force can the rest of the population be brought into submission. Amazingly, there are many who believe that having a parasite at the top of government is just fine, they’d all like to be there sucking the lifeblood if they were ever given a chance, and the more that the parasite can do to weaken its host, the better off they will be.

The tweezers of government have proven to be ineffective at removing the tick from its host body. Though quite credible allegations were provided on multiple occasions, the tick in chief got the report on the allegations quashed by those whom the tick had appointed. And of course, his enablers glommed onto the statements about the allegations being quashed, and they never examined the findings of fact in the original reports. Thus the enablers feel gleeful as they announce complete vindication. In fact, the tick in chief truly believes he has done a good job for his host.

Unfortunately for the tick in chief, a new validation is coming soon. The host has a chance to throw off the parasite that has dominated it for nearly four years. It remains to be seen whether the tick and its many other enabled parasites have infected the host body with an illness that survives beyond the lifespan of the tick in chief. A nation infected with spotted fever or lyme disease would be preferable to one that is infected with the ongoing illness of lack of trust and belief in illogical and silly conspiracy theories. But first, we have to throw off the shackles of the tick in chief. Sometime in early November, we will see if the head of the tick in chief has been extricated from the body of the government. May it be so.

Yesterday

In the past week, events ran at such a pace that a poor blogger was not able to keep up. I initially wrote this piece a week ago, after the “debate”, and the story about taxes from the NYT, when I believed that just maybe, a sense of reflection would have come across this President. Then came the news of the positive result for COVID, and the subsequent hospitalization. While tempting, I will not resort to cheap expressions that I feel karma has overtaken events. Still, it may be that the President has actually had the chance for reflection over the past few days, so my offering here is provided with that in mind.

My apologies to the Beatles.

Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away.
Now it looks as though they’re here to stay.
Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be.
There’s a shadow hanging over me.
Oh, yesterday came suddenly.

Why they had to blow,

My cover, they wouldn’t say

I did all things wrong

Now I long for yesterday

Yesterday fraud was such an easy game to play

Now I need a place to hide away

Oh I believe in Putin’s sway

Why I thought they’d know?

I’m the best, we’d be ok.

I did all things wrong

Now I long for yesterday.

Yesterday, all my dreams were part of daily play

Now I’ll need a brand new place to stay

No more TV from Fox today

Mm mm mm, mm mmm mmm mm.

Slimey to the Qth Power

I sat down on the ledge near the metro station just a couple of blocks away from Ben’s Chili Bowl. I was deep into the pleasure of a spicy half-smoke when I noticed someone (or something) plopping down beside me. Once more, my old friend Slimey appeared out of nowhere. For a 7′ tall reptile, he was able to move unbelievably silently and without drawing the attention you normally would expect from someone of his size.

“Greetings, friend” he hissed through his snout.

“Slimey, it has been far too long. What have you been doing with yourself?”  The last time I had seen Slimey, he had taken a position with a lobbying firm where he was trying to promote a fully-automated abattoir, aimed at eliminating the human interaction with the meat supply. I marveled to myself at how prescient that proposal was in light of the coronavirus outbreaks at meat packing facilities.  I asked Slimey, “Are you still with your lobbying firm?”

Slimey slowly shook his ponderous head. “No, I was unable to sell the idea about an automated slaughterhouse to the agencies. Imagine. The deep state actually thought humans were needed.”  He closed his eyes for a moment. “But in my new position, this idea has become really valuable”.

I took a bite of my half-smoke, then asked.  “What is your new position?”

Slimey’s face assumed an air of supreme satisfaction. “I’m working for Q now. I’m in charge of their next big assault into the public sphere.”

I shuddered. Q-Anon had grown in popularity by leaps and bounds, especially during the pandemic when so many folks had far too much time and far too good access to the internet where they could descend into innumerable rabbit holes. Finally, I could avoid the question no further and I asked, “What is the new Q theory?”

Slimey smacked his mouth a couple of times, then began. “There’s a new thing that Q will be reporting on. That thing with abducting the children and the elite distilling their blood to come up with their youth elixir? It just wasn’t revolting enough to draw in enough people. But this one, this one is a doozy.”  Slimey settled back onto the ledge, one enormous paw holding up his prodigious girth.

As often happened in my encounters with Slimey, I became aware of how vulnerable I was to a sudden swipe of his razor-sharp claws. Still, I summoned the courage to not be a species-intolerant person and continued the conversation. “What could you imagine that is worse than child abduction and harvesting?”

Slimey chuckled for a good half-minute before replying. Finally, he said “Imagine this. Instead of children being abducted, it is those who are wearing MAGA hats that are swept off of the streets. Once they disappeared, they are transported to one of my automated slaughterhouses, where they are stripped down to the bone. The meat? It goes to make certain sausage products.” He nodded towards the remains of my own half-smoke.  “I’m not gonna say one way or another, but you may be surprised by where we will claim this meat is going.”

I took one more look at my half-smoke, shuddered a bit, then laid it down on the ledge between us. I had to satisfy my curiosity, though. “Why do this? Why go onto such ridiculous extremes in order to keep the Q thing going?”

Slimey was glad to fill me in. “Of course, it’s the money. Do you know how much we are raking in with the social media posts? And then there’s the merchandise. Those Q posters and foam Q’s are just money plants, plants we keep on harvesting. None of this has to be true, it just has to be plausible enough to keep the clicks coming.”

For the first time in my encounters with Slimey, I found my anger and revulsion rising. “Do you mean to tell me that this entire Q thing is nothing more than an effort to make those at the top rich?”

“Why certainly. What else would it be? You don’t think any of us believe any of this crap, do you?” Slimey looked offended, tensed his limbs, and once again I took stock of the vulnerability of my position.

“I had hoped that was the case. I can’t believe that anyone with a lick of rationality would believe any of the stuff being posted in Q’s name, but after the events of the last few years, I have come to doubt my own sense of right and wrong.” 

Slimey looked satisfied with my answer. He seemed to relax back into leaning against the concrete ledge. He said, “It’s only been a few years since I moved out of the swamp, but it is amazing how much of a swamp I still find around me.

All I could do was nod in agreement.

He looked over at the remains of my half-smoke. “Are you going to eat that?” he asked.

“No. It’s yours if you want it.”

The remains of the half smoke were inhaled in that enormous snout with the reptilian teeth, paper wrapper and all.

The last episode with Slimey may be found here: evenabrokenclock.blog/2019/04/08/if-you-cant-beat-the-swamp-join-the-swamp/

If You Can’t Beat the Swamp, Join the Swamp

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The spring sun warmed me as I sat on a park bench along the tidal basin. Too early for the cherry blossoms, when these environs would become overrun with thousands of rubberneckers admiring the gift of the Japanese in a simpler age. I wondered if my friend Slimey would make an appearance, but so far he had not showed himself, and I was about to leave myself.

Before I could get up, though, a tall gentleman in an expensive suit stood before me and stopped. It was obvious that the suit had to be extensively altered to allow the huge tail purchase to stick out through the back of the pants. “Slimey” I said, as I leapt to my feet to greet my friend.

“Well met,” he said as he lurched over to sit on the end of the bench. “How do you like my new attire?” he asked.

Frankly, I was amazed. Having grown used to exchanging pleasantries with an 8-foot tall naked reptile did not make me immune from the surprise now at seeing him clothed, in a Saville Row suit. I managed to say, “You look ….. amazing. But why? And how?”

Slimey did not answer right away, but instead reached into his briefcase, where he extracted a fish filet wrapped in plastic. He shredded the plastic with a dainty swipe of his claw, then took in the tilapia whole. Licking his lips, he said “Those are so much better than the ones I used to find out there.” He extended his claw towards the basin which was still and reflected the Jefferson Memorial across the water. Smiley continued. “I finally decided that this was my one chance to better myself. With this administration, if I couldn’t fit in now, I never would. So I took a chance and submitted a resume, and, well, you can see the rest.”

“But who? Who hired you? Where are you working?” I was still taken aback by the image of my friend who had invaded my above-water world.

“What was it they said in that old movie? Follow the money? Well, I did. I’m working for a lobbying firm.”

I just had to let out a laugh. I felt comfortable enough around Smiley that I didn’t fear his razor-sharp claws. Sure enough, he joined in rather than taking offense. “I just have to ask” I said. “What did you put in your resume to make them hire you?”

Slimey seemed to actually smile as he went into his briefcase again. He pulled out a single piece of paper that he handed over to me. I began to read:

“Single cold-blooded reptile accustomed to mucking about in the mud and mire of the Tidal Basin. Experienced in mud-slinging and dragging my opponents through the mud. Native born. Willing to get dirty as needed to get the job done.” That was it. No educational references, no work experience. It was as close to a perfect resume as I had ever seen for the K Street crowd.

I said, “I can see why they would hire you based upon your credentials.

“True that,” Slimey said as he picked at some morsel caught in his teeth with a sharpened claw. “But now that I’m on the inside, I must admit, I’m a bit disappointed.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Well, I thought I was one cold-blooded monster. I found out they’ve got me beat six ways to Sunday. I have never seen such willingness to toss over a friend if someone else offers to pay more.” Slimey stretched his arms in his grey suit. It was as if a field of flannel had taken flight as it moved past my field of view.

“What sort of jobs does your firm do?” I asked.

Slimey tossed back his head for a minute, then lowered it and answered. “Right now, I’m involved in trying to deregulate the entire meat industry. We believe it is only right for the meat producers to be the sole judge and jury as to whether their product is wholesome and fit for consumption.”

Wow! Not only had he adopted the attire of K Street, he had internalized the arguments so that he now could recite the company line verbatim. I had to respond. “Don’t you think there is any role for government oversight over such operations? I mean, isn’t history replete with examples of meat packers who skirted the rules and caused all sorts of illnesses? And aren’t the meat packers the biggest sources of worker injuries?”

Slimey was ready for me. “This is where I am so perfectly placed to serve my clients. You see, I can take the worst of their slop that comes out of their plants. It can have salmonella, it can have listeria, it does not matter. I can eat that stuff raw and clearly demonstrate that there is no adverse impact to consume their product. Actually, it tastes a lot better once it is sitting out in the hot sun for a few hours.”

He paused for a moment. “It is true that there are a lot of worker injuries in the field. And you might have noticed that these plants seem to attract a lot of alien workers. Well, my clients are working on ways to reduce both of these problems.”

Slimey reached into his briefcase for a heavily-laminated sheet. Before he showed it to me, he swore me to secrecy. “You must not reveal what I’m about to show you. You could take this information and make a bet on the stock market and make a fortune. It’s that good.”

“All right, I swear that I will not reveal this to anyone. I don’t have enough money to even make a bet on Wall Street anyway.” I used my finger to cross my heart.

Slimey turned the sheet over, and I saw the meat packing plant of the near future. At the front was a robot that killed the animal entering the facility by slicing off its head with a laser. The decapitated corpse tumbled onto the line, where another robot hoisted it up and hung it on a hook, dripping blood onto the floor. From that point on, pictures revealed a totally automated process, where what came in was a living being, and what left was packaged meat products, along with various offal offerings for non-human consumption. Plus a lot of skin ready to turn into leather. I was truly impressed.

Slimey was watching my reaction closely. Finally he asked, “What do you think? You get rid of the people, you get rid of the problems.”

I realized where this discussion was heading, and even though I felt uncomfortable asking, I had to. “What’s to prevent this type of facility to be used against people?”

Slimey paused for a moment, apparently intent on a piece of tilapia caught back in one of his molars. Then he turned his ponderous girth towards me, and smiled that reptilian grin that showed no true emotion. “You can’t fight progress,” he said.

I sat there, dumbfounded. My friend was now part of the deep state whose true purpose was to lead to the depopulation of the entire world. But, being the pragmatist I am, I said to Slimey, “If I were to make a wager on the future I’ve seen, how would I make that bet?”

Slimey slowly blinked one eye, slipped me a business card, and left.

 

An Unexpected Visitor

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I was surprised by the sound of the doorbell. I was not expecting anyone on this November evening. When I got to the door and turned on the light, I was met by my friend Slimey’s face staring back at me. He was holding a plastic orange pumpkin in one of his clawed hands. I opened the door, and he greeted me with “Trick or treat!”

I motioned for him to come in, and said to him, “Did you know that Halloween was last week?”

“It was?” he asked. “You lose track of time down there in the swamp. I figured this was the best way to not attract too much attention, carrying the treat bucket. Most folks who drove past me just didn’t see me.”

I moved the coffee table away from the sofa so as to give him room to haul his huge girth towards a seat. He sat down with surprising grace, pulling his tail up behind him and laying it beside him on the couch. I asked him first, “How did you find my house?” I had only seen him alongside the tidal basin before, and had no clue how he knew where I lived.

Slimey looked up at me. “I Gargoyled you.” He pulled out a Slimey-sized phone with a well-scratched screen cover. “It’s the best way for my kind to keep up with what’s going on in the world above.”

I realized that I was being a poor host, not offering my guest any refreshments. “Could I get you anything to drink?”

Slimey thought for a moment, then said. “If you could, I’d like a glass of water flavored with some dirt from one of your plants. That would be delicious.”

I got up, and went into the kitchen in order to prepare drinks for us. I pulled a pinch of soil out of the aloe plant I kept in the kitchen, and placed it in the largest plastic cup I had, then filled it with tap water. As for myself, I poured a large scotch atop a few ice cubes. I figured that this was going to be an unusual evening, and I’d best be ready for anything.

When I returned to the living room, I noticed a trail of water leading to the sofa. When I looked back at the source, I noticed that all of the fish in my aquarium were missing, and Slimey was licking his claws. “I must complement you on the buffet you laid out there. That was mighty tasty,” he said.

I was flummoxed, yet I did not complain. It is never a good thing to complain when a 400 pound reptile with razor-sharp claws is sitting on your sofa. Instead, I handed over the cup to Slimey and sat down myself. “What brings you here tonight?” I managed to ask finally.

“I wondered if I could watch the election returns with you?” he said. “We don’t get good reception down in the swamp, and I’d really like to know what’s going on as soon as possible.”

“We can do that,” I said. I picked up the remote control and turned on the TV on the wall. Up came a scene of five people seated at an extended table, with graphics all over the walls behind them. They were talking about the closeness of the Senate race in Texas. “It now appears that Ted Cruz has defeated Beto O’Rourke for the Senate seat in Texas.” And up popped a giant picture of Ted Cruz, oozing his smarmy smile across the screen.

Slimey perked up. “That’s good for me, isn’t it? He’s the one who was so insulted a few years ago, but came back and kissed Donald’s ass this year, right? Anyone with so few principles has got to be great for the swamp.”

I nodded in agreement. While I personally would have wanted Beto to win, I could see it from Slimey’s perspective. The more candidates got down into the muck and mire to win, the messier the swamp would be.

Slimey took a swallow of water, then smacked his lips. “Ah, that’s good stuff you put in there. I can taste just a tinge of tartness from the dirt.” He pointed his claw up at the screen where the talking heads had moved on from the Texas race, and were talking about the wave of women entering the House.

“Now, that can’t be good. I know those women, they like to clean, they like to clean things up. I like it better when you’ve got a bunch of sloppy men around. They don’t worry about the filth.” Slimey took another gulp of water.

I nodded, then looked at the screen for more information. It was not to be found in the endless rehashing of the talking points they focused upon. I finally said, “You’re right, women don’t like dirt. But I don’t think they’re going to be able to really clean up the swamp. It’s too deep to get at.”

Slimey looked at me, then shook his head slowly in agreement. “I’ve grown attached to my swamp. I’d hate to see anything happen to it.”

I let out an unintentional yawn. It was getting late and they had just started going over the California results. Slimey noticed, and put his cup down and said, “I’ve imposed long enough. Thanks for the drink and snacks.” He unwound his tail from the sofa and maneuvered his way to the door.

I opened it for him, and said to him as he left. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about with someone trying to drain the swamp. Since no one’s done anything about it, the ocean warming will cause the water to rise. Soon the swamp will retake just about all of this town. You’ll be in good shape.”

For a minute I thought I was in trouble. Slimey looked rapturous, and started to move toward me to hug me. The thought of being squeezed by those huge limbs and crushed came quickly to me. But as swiftly as Slimey looked like he was going to embrace me, he backed off, and before he turned away he said, “Thanks. Thanks friend.”

I closed the door and turned out the light on the porch.

 

For previous tales of Slimey, see this Draining the Swamp

And this one: Sustaining the Swamp

 

Trump’s Greatest Hits!

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The time: A late night in early October, 2018. The place: A windowless room deep in the bowels of the White House. The players: The brain trust for the 2018 mid-term election.

“We’ve got to get back to the basics,” said the thin, balding man. “There is no way we can permit this revolution to fail.”

“Well, we’ve managed to make a martyr out of Brett. That should keep our base mollified.” A lone woman in the room gave her single contribution to the discussion.

The thin, balding man cleared his throat. “Yes, but once the vote’s taken, they’ll forget. They’ll be satisfied. And satisfaction is the last thing we want for our side. We want them afraid, and angry.”

The man in the immaculate suit and the neatly trimmed white hair raised his arms up in an air of supplication. “Stephen, why can we not go with what won before? Surely they haven’t wised up to us by now, have they?”

The thin, balding man looked over at the white haired man. He brought his hand up and stroked his chin, trying to think about this most critical month of the administration. Then, slowly, a smirk stole across his face. He spoke. “You know, it just may work. All we have to do is get the fear factor back. You there!” He pointed to a faceless form in the shadows. “What have you heard about a new group of migrants in central America starting to form up?”

The aide who had been summoned clicked on his laptop, then replied. “It looks like there’s a group in Honduras that may be ready to march soon. We’ve intercepted some communications that they are ready to begin as early as next week.”

The balding man smiled. “Is there anything we can do to help them? You know, without anyone finding out? The last thing we want is our fingerprints on their march.”

The aide, looked back at his computer, then said. “I’m sure we can manage a bit of logistical support behind the scenes. No one ever looks at how these things form.”

The white haired man said, “I’ll just bet if we work it right, we can blame a new caravan on Soros.”

The balding man replied, “Damn straight. We’ll tar him with this one just like we’ve done the last five times.”

Suddenly, the rumpled figure over in the corner stirred himself to life. His scraggly hair hung over his face, but he seemed scarcely to care that he appeared so slovenly. “Yes, that will be good. Revive the fear of the other. It would be good if we were able to deploy the military to the border before the election.”

The aide dared to speak up. “Sir, if these folks started tomorrow, it will be January before they reach any border.”

The rumpled figure glared in the aide’s direction. Then he turned to the balding man, “So much the better. The longer we can keep this in front of the public, the better for us.” He paused, then added “If we could just conflate this group of migrants with Arab terrorism, we’d get twice the pop out of this.”

The aide said, “I’m on it, sir.”

The rumpled figure got up from his chair, and brushed his hair back away from his eyes. “You guys asked me back in here because of how I managed the last campaign. Well, if you want my help, you have to be willing to do what I say. Is this a go?”

The white haired man said, “I can speak for him. We need you. We’ll do what you say. Anything but Nancy Pelosi leading the House again.”

The rumpled figure then started pacing back and forth, waiting for the words to form in his head. He started to speak as he crossed the room. “Ok, we’re in a bad place with this thing about pre-existing conditions. It seems that’s something even our crowd likes. We have to convince everyone that we are the folks who will keep this in place.”

Another aide who had been in the shadows spoke up. “How can we do that when we’ve been telling everyone we want to repeal and replace?”

The rumpled figure raised a finger at the offending voice. “You. Out. You have no place here.”

The second aide scurried to gather his things, and left the room, his back to the door so as to not ever show his back to the assembled crowd.

The rumpled figure stopped pacing, and held onto the back of one of the enormous office chairs around the conference table. “I have no patience for people like him. Why is it folks can’t see that it doesn’t matter what we’ve done in the past, all we have to do is come up with a common story and stick to it. Lying? That word doesn’t exist. If we say it often enough, they will believe. We’ve destroyed their ability to believe anything other than what we say.”

The balding man spoke. “There must be something we can do with all of these folks who are accosting our friends in restaurants, staging sit-down protests in the Capitol, yelling at us.”

The rumpled figure smiled. “I’ve thought of that. Let me see what you think of this. ‘Jobs Not Mobs’. I can see that plastered on signs at every rally he holds.”

The white haired man looked pleased. “I know I can sell that one to him. It’s short – he’ll remember it. Before we’re through, we’ll have convinced people that the Democrats are evil creatures, wanting only to seize power in order to make us the Venezuela of the north. I’m sure we can convince some of our friends to foot the bill for some really good visuals on TV.”

The rumpled figure nodded his head in agreement. “There’s one more thing that bothers me, though. That tax thing we did last year, it’s not polling well. Even our base has seen right through it. And it hasn’t resulted in more revenues – when that deficit figure hits, we’ll have to work hard to convince folks everything will be fine.” He paused. Then he resumed, “I’ve got it. Middle of this month, we have him talk about a middle class tax cut. Make it, oh, let’s see – 10%. Have him claim that it’ll be in effect by the election.”

The balding man spoke. “That’s genius! How have we done without you this past year.”

The rumpled man gathered his coat, and got ready to leave the meeting. “You weren’t too successful. May I just mention family separation? That was a royal mess. You needed me to reconnect with the people. Don’t you forget that. I’ll be waiting for your next call.” And the rumpled man left the room, while the others remaining were beaming with the knowledge that they had the game plan for the return of Trump’s Greatest Hits.

You Will Be Haunted, By Three Spirits

jacob marley

Donald lay in bed, waiting for the gastric discomfort caused by the double cheeseburger and fries to settle down a bit. He had his comforter in his hand, and was just about to send out a tweet denouncing all NFL players who ever spoke out about any social issue ever, when his comforter buzzed. On the screen popped up an image of Richard Nixon, and his words were spelled out in the form of a text.

“Donald, I have come to warn you of the path you are on.”

“Donald, if you do not change, you will wear the chains of disgrace that I bear.” With this text, the image on the comforter drew back to show the entire body of Richard Nixon, shrouded in chains binding his arms and legs.

“Donald, I am sending you three messengers, to show you how you have come to this point in life, and to offer you a chance to repent. If you ignore these, your fate is sealed.” And with this last text, the image of Richard Nixon faded from the screen and only the unsent tweet remained.

“That was strange,” thought Donald. He looked up and Hannity was still on the television. Nothing around him seemed to show that he had just had a virtual visitor on his comforter. He put it down and reached for the television remote control. Better to try to sleep than to have to think about what had just happened.

Sleep was hard to come by, but eventually his mind calmed, and he was able to doze off. That is, until about midnight when his comforter suddenly began buzzing uncontrollably. Donald shuddered, then groggily reached over to the nightstand to pick it up. When he did, the visage of his old mentor, Roy Cohn, appeared on the screen. Donald sat up and looked dumbfounded at the screen, and as he looked, Roy began to speak. He was clad in his trademark robe, seated in his old apartment, and he said “Donald. Remember those days we spent together in the ’70’s? What is it that I taught you then?”

Donald replied to the image. “You taught me to never settle, never surrender. To counter-attack and counter-sue immediately. And no matter what happens, claim victory and never admit defeat. I’ve tried to follow your advice. Look where it’s got me!”

Roy’s cadaverous face nodded in agreement. The image was of Roy just before he died of AIDS, and he was hollowing out what was already a slender body. “Let me show you what you missed while we were together.” Roy’s face dissolved, and a pier on the waterfront appeared. A huge car was parked on the pier, and two men were approaching the trunk, which they opened. They hauled out a bundle shaped like a human, totally concealed by cloth wrapped tightly around it. They took chains and wrapped them around the bundle, securing the chains with a padlock. Then they lifted the bundle up and tossed it into the dark water. After the loud splash, the bundle sank beneath the surface without hesitation. The scene dissolved again, and Roy’s face appeared once more. “You see what happened there? I got Fat Tony off on that charge. We used my technique and it worked. It’ll work for you too. Keep that in mind. These times are tough and you need to be strong.” And Roy’s face disappeared from the screen, and the comforter went silent.

Donald turned the light on, then pulled up twitter. He wiped out the post he had intended to send about the NFL, and instead wrote yet another condemnation of his attorney general. He ended it with “Where’s my Roy Cohn!” and sent. Many would wonder about the tweet sent at 12:45 in the morning.

Donald turned the light back off, and tried to resume his sleep. He was just entering REM sleep when …. his comforter began buzzing uncontrollably again. He picked it up, and this time he was face to face with one of his nemesis MSNBC commentators, Rachel Maddow. She spoke not a word, but pointed with her long fingers at a monitor to her side, and his attention was drawn to it. He recognized the Oval Office, and saw himself seated at the desk, with papers cluttering the surface. He got up, and left the office for a state function, the meeting with the Emir of Losewhatchakan. Not five minutes after he left, he saw a hooded figure enter the room, and that figure crept over to the desk and pilfered two pieces of paper. Looking around to see if he had been observed, he crept cautiously away. When Donald saw himself returning to the office, he never noticed that the papers were missing. Rachel’s face reappeared as the scene dissolved, only this time he heard her say in that annoying way she had, “And to think that all of your staff is laughing at you behind your back. Never has a President been treated with so little respect that his own staff would sabotage him – and never has there been a President who would not notice that he was being thwarted. Now, watch this.”

She indicated the monitor beside her. On the screen appeared an image of an immigrant detention center. The chain link partitions indicated this was a serious place. He saw his agents approach one woman who was surrounded by three children. The agents took possession of the children, actually pulling one from the mother’s arms. Though there was no sound, the anguish of the mother and the children were apparent as unheard wails could be seen coming from each of the family members. The mother was escorted away to yet another place of confinement as her children disappeared down a corridor. The scene dissolved again, and Rachel pointed up once more with her long, long fingers. Longer than Donald’s, that’s for sure. Rachel said, “Your program was more successful than you could have imagined. But there were people who didn’t like what they saw in this scene. They actually thought this was cruel to separate the family in this way. But you know better, don’t you?”

Donald was confused. He could not force a coherent word out of his mouth, but did manage to shake his head in assent. His mop of comb-over flopped back and forth, deprived as it were of its binding chemicals.

Rachel had one more thing to say. “If you don’t crack down harder on those who disagree with you, your reign is in peril. Remember what Roy said,” and then her visage faded away.

Unable to truly focus, the only thing he could think of tweeting was “The FAILING NBC network keeps showing FAKE NEWS.” The tweet appeared at 2:30 on the time stream. Soon Donald was back snoring peacefully amidst the soft pillows.

But there was one more interruption on this endless night. His comforter began buzzing louder than ever, and he again reached over to grab it. When he did, what appeared was a stylish blonde covered totally in white fabric. Her body appeared to be similar to his daughter’s, but he could not tell because only her eyes and a wisp of hair protruded from the eye slot that showed flesh. She spoke not a word, but held her finger up to where her mouth would have been, and extended her other arm in an open invitation to follow. Donald did watch as the scene changed to that of a crowd of white-clad people marching along a street. Slowly the camera panned back to reveal that the crowd of people extended as far as the eye could see, an endless mass of pilgrims walking, walking, walking. The crowd was even bigger than at his inaugural. Who were these people? Then the camera pulled back further, and he realized there were tall spires around the crowd, and that all of these people were MUSLIMS! So! Many! MUSLIMS! If he didn’t act soon, they would be all over our country, flooding our streets, turning our daughters into abaya-clad disciples of Allah! Something must be done! But as he felt resolve entering his limbs, the scene dissolved into yet another scene. Now he could see a camp of some sort, with thousands and thousands of tents, and even more people milling about, aimless, idle. He recognized that this was some sort of refugee camp, the people looked like they were Asian, and there were just so many of them. He could see them storming our border as an unending horde. He must do something to prevent these hordes from overrunning our civilization. Then the scene changed once more, and he saw a dreadful looking ship, in danger of foundering on the ocean, crammed to the brim with dark-skinned people. He saw the ship list, and saw people fall or jump off into the ocean without any survival gear, hundreds and hundreds of people. He knew then that this was a vision of the future, that all of these people were intent on invading our shores. He tried to stir himself, but found his muscles frozen.

He awoke from this last vision at his normal hour. He was determined to share his lessons from the visits of the evening. He would be ruthless in his pursuit of those who denigrate him. He would be unceasing in the efforts to keep the nation pure by banning all immigrants other than those who had enough money to buy citizenship. He would keep the faith of Roy by striking out through the legal system at all who had wronged him. He turned to his comforter to begin to share his lessons of the night with his many followers.

 

What? You believed that the visits of the spirits to Donald would result in a transformation? That he would grow a conscience and his heart would grow three sizes? That he would show charity towards all, and malice towards none? You don’t know him very well, do you?

 

Sustaining the Swamp

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I was sitting on a bench next to the Tidal Basin when bubbles erupted in the water before me. Slowly, my old friend Slimey, the slime monster emerged from the water, dripping from the moss and algae clinging to his arms and scaly torso. I noticed he seemed a little heavier than when I saw him last fall. He nodded to me and motioned at the other end of the bench I was sitting on. I motioned my arm to say, “Come on.”

He waddled over and plopped down on the bench. I could feel the balance shift slightly as his mass pushed down on the far end of the bench. I said, “You look like you are doing well lately.”

He looked at me and in his sibilant hiss, he said “You don’t know how good things are going for me in the DC swamp. All my fears about them draining my environment – they’ve vanished. I’ve never had it so good.” He paused to brush a strand of algae from his left eye, then continued. “I mean, Pruitt is everything we could wish for. He’s let loose a huge slug of rulings that are helping to feed me and my family. Thanks to him, all of the sludge from mountaintop removal is still flowing downhill to the Potomac, and let me tell you, that selenium is mighty tasty. But it’s not all Pruitt and EPA.” He paused.

I asked something that has been bothering me. “Do you get anything from the changes on the finance side? I know for us humans, the swamp is more than just what’s in the water.”

Slimey tossed his snout up in the air, seeming to laugh. I’d never seen his kind laugh, but the snortle was unmistakable. “Oh, my yes. I never wanted to admit this before, but when all of these tax changes support trickle-down, quite often the trickle-down misses all of the humans without money, but the trickle is a torrent by the time we get it. I mean, once that Dom Perignon is filtered through the kidneys, it gives a kind of rush to us when we taste it. And I’ve got to say, there’s been one heck of a lot more of it in this area since December. Live the good life, that’s what I say.”

I pondered on his statement for a while. “So for you, it all comes down to what’s going on with the water.”

Slimey shook away a dragonfly that was flitting around his head. “You might say that we notice things here in the water a bit more intensely. That’s why I’m so happy about getting rid of all those horrible programs aimed at slowing global warming. You don’t know how uncomfortable this place can get in January. I remember those times when ice would cover most of the water, made it damn hard to find a place to grab a breath. But now, we’re not shivering as much in the winter, and in the summer, it’s like we’re in a hot tub. I’m getting older now, and it feels so much better when I lay back and soak.”

I found I had another question that had bothered me since our first meeting last fall. “How is it that I’ve never heard of any other sightings of you, except for me, and now twice?”

Slimey dragged his long tail back and forth in the water, not ready to answer. Then, he admitted “Not everyone can see us. The way everything is polarized now, folks only see what they want to see. What they’ve been conditioned to look for. Now, look at me.” He pointed to himself with one immense claw. “What is it that you see?”

I weighed my words carefully. Though he had not given me any cause for alarm during our two encounters, he still was a massive reptilian figure with claws capable of instant evisceration and teeth capable of instant decapitation. I did not want to draw his ire, as I sensed I could not outrun him either. I finally said, “I see … someone we’d have had as a movie star in the 1950’s.” Slimey actually looked like he was honored by that, though it was hard to discern the exact expression on his face.

“You know,” I said to him. “You know, I think you might have a future in this administration. I think if you liked, I could float your name to him as an undersecretary of the Interior for wildlife management. What would you think of that?”

Slimey smacked his lips as he thought of the possibilities the position would provide. Unlimited snacks! But then he slowly shook his head back and forth, and he said “Thanks, but no. I don’t know if I could stand the cold-blooded nature of the folks I’d have to work with. You see, we never learned how to lie out here in nature. It seems like that’s a job requirement for anyone in this administration. No, I’m better off on the outside.”

Our conversation dwindled away. Finally Slimey got up, waved to me and started to slide down into the waters of the Tidal Basin. Just before his head was ready to go underwater, he turned back to me and asked. “What happens if he loses the House in the mid-terms?”

I thought for a brief moment before replying. I said “I don’t think it’ll make a bit of difference for those in the swamp. I think their fate is safe.”

He nodded his head, then slid under the murky water once more.

 

A Day In The Life Of The King

game-of-thrones-1722710__340 For those who are fans of the Game of Thrones, my condolences on presenting this work. You will need to be familiar with that series to capture the flavor of this post.

The King sat up in bed. Once more, he could see the opponents to his rule taken down by his favorite soothsayers from Weasel. They just demolished the arguments of his opponents in the court by simply saying that his opponents were namby-pamby wusses! Serves them right.

The King decided that he’d had enough time in his royal bed and went instead to his throne room. There he brought out his royal proclamation device and sent his wisdom out to his masses of adoring fans. He thought for a brief moment, “What should I say today?” Then he bent over on his throne as he strained to remove yesterday’s cheeseburgers, and it became clear to him. He proclaimed, “Best movement ever. Economy is reely going now. Only the lame-o’s who are haters can’t see it. SAD!” He dispatched this brilliant thought bubble out to the world, and prepared for his very active day of kinging.

The Queen was off again in the winter castle. She seemed to be staying down there, where the oranges were fresh, more often than not. Maybe it was all of the other noble ladies who kept harping on the King’s indiscretions that were driving the Queen away. Whatever. It did make the King’s daily life easier if he did not need to pretend to care about Queen number 3. The King idly thought about someone who preceded him as a King. Something about six wives. “At least they can’t accuse me of locking her up”, he thought as he saw the photo of the current Queen on the wall.

The King sat down to his breakfast. He was careful to make certain he got fruit with his meal. The apple Danish should suffice, he thought. Washing the pastry down with his first diet Coke of the day, he got dressed in his royal robes. He paid especial attention to his cravat, as it bore his blood red color. Making certain it extended down below his waist, he ensured it created a commanding presence. His servant held out his royal jacket, which he slid his arms through the sleeves, letting it rest loosely upon his fantastic frame. Thus armed, he strode down towards his round room, arriving just after 10.

Scarcely had he sat down when he was consumed by a desire to use the electronic raven. He picked up the voice piece and instructed his servant to contact his counterpart in the Kingdom of the Snows. When the connection was made, he spoke into the voice piece. “Vlad? I just had to let you know, it was not personal when I threw out your jousting party.” He listened for a brief period of time. “Yes, I know they had been looking forward to our tournament later this year.” Vlad apparently was making quite a point in reply, and the King pulled the voice piece away from his ear and his face assumed a grimace, before he returned the voice piece towards his mouth and ear. “I know, Vlad. You know how it is when you have to appease the court, right? If it was up to me, I’d start lopping off some heads, but my advisors have told me some bad things might happen if I did that.” Once more, he waited while Vlad continued with his side of the  discussion. Finally, the King said “I’m glad you understand. You and I, we understand each other. That’s good. I wish I could convince my advisors that it would be better if we just got along”. He hung up the phone, then sat back in his throne chair, leaning back and flexing his fingers against each other while he assumed a pleased expression.

After a brief period of reflection, he flicked on the sound box to summon his assistant. “Send in my jester.” It took a while for the jester to appear, so the King used the time wisely to practice his ball stroke, trying to coax the white ball into the hole on his green carpet he had placed atop the tapestry of power that lay on the floor of the rounded room. He heard his assistant open the door, and say “Sire, Jeff the Jester is here.”

“Good, send him in.” The King laid down his stick and went back to this throne chair behind the desk. Jeff the Jester came in, dressed not in motley but in a subtle blue suit. Only his projecting ears and small stature evinced his true nature as a member of the King’s assemblage. “Jeff, share with me something that will give me mirth,” the King commanded.

Jeff smiled as he cantered up to the desk. “Sire, we just stuck it to California. We told that libtard mayor of Oakland she was an embarrassment to the nation as she warned the alien wildings of the upcoming raids.” Jeff did a quick twirl of joy, then followed with “But what was best, I fired McCabe. I fired McCabe just two days before he was set to become a mooch off of the taxpayers by qualifying for a pension. Sire, I just wish I was around to see his face when he realized that his plans for a comfy life were in vain. I just wish.”

The King broke out into a broad rictus smile. “Jeff, I knew there was a reason why I kept you around. You really made me smile.” The King summoned his assistant. “Fetch me another diet Coke, and bring one for our Jester as well.” The King turned to Jeff. “So what will you be working on next?”

Jeff picked up the balls that were in the cup on the floor and began to attempt to juggle. Since he was an incompetent juggler, they soon were scattered all over the room. He looked back at the King. “I’m trying to come up with a way to silence the imp,” he said.

Just at the mention of the imp, the King’s expression totally changed. “Out. Out I say,” and he stood up, pointing at the door. “If you hadn’t said you had no power over the investigation, we never would have had that imp appointed. I should take you out and flay you.”

Jeff the Jester cowered as he backed away towards the door. When he reached the door, he bolted through it, knocking over the servant who bore two cans of diet Coke on a silver platter. The brown nectar fell and soaked the carpets. The King’s rage extended to his servant. “Up. Up you clumsy oaf. Go get something and clean up the mess you made.”

The King strode out of the room and went down the hall to consult with his hand. “Jared, where do we stand on getting the Palestinians to agree to peace?”

The King’s hand stood as the King entered his office. The King had begun bellowing his request while he was still in the hallway, so Jared was not certain he had heard the whole question. Through long experience, though, he knew better than to ask for clarification. Asking for more information was a sign of weakness, and would bring the wrath of the King down even on him. So he gave a non-committal response. “The Palestinians are not talking to us now. But I expect things to be better soon.”

“Hmmph” was all the King said, as he strode out of the room and went back to his round room. Once there, he summoned his assistant. “Go get me that guy with the name like a king, deals with diplomats. I need him.”

The assistant quaked while he dared to deny the King’s request. “Sire, you fired Rex a couple of weeks ago. The Senate has not confirmed his replacement. Do you wish to talk to the deputy?”

The King looked up, with a perplexed look on his face. Then, “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Ok, then, fetch me my hound. And bring me another diet Coke.”

The assistant said, “Do you mean the Mad Dog?”

“Yeah. Have him come here. I’ve a question for him.” Since it would be a while before the Minister of War made it to the office, he decided to watch his mouthpiece speak for him on Weasel. He’d had several mouthpieces since he became King. Seems like none of them could deal with the questioning throng like he wanted. But this woman, she seemed like she was better than most. The King wondered what this woman would look like in armor, since she had a frame that looked suited better to plate than to Dior. But he soon grew bored listening to the questions that kept coming, even though his mouthpiece parried each thrust away.

The Minister of War arrived in the office. He carried a folder full of illustrations should any of them be needed in order to make the King understand. The King was gracious. “Sit, sit down. How’s the wife?”

The Minister spoke, “She’s do…”

“Good, good,” the King interrupted. “Look, the reason why I called you here was that I keep hearing about these dragons that this King of Poverty has developed. I hear tell that these dragons can even reach our shores. Is that true?”

“Sire, we believe that it is possible that a dragon unleashed from their kingdom could reach our shores. They have hatched several dragons over the years.” The Minister opened his folder to show a map with dragon tracks flying across the open waters. “We’ve analyzed the potential, and here we show…..”

The King interrupted again. “I don’t care about any analyses. I use my gut to analyze. We can’t have this King of Poverty threatening us with his dragons. Why can’t we use our own dragons to neutralize him?”

The Minister was taken aback. “Sire, we would not want to unleash our own dragons, even upon our worst foes. Do you know what sort of damage a dragon would cause?”

The King snorted. “Why do we keep on breeding them if we never unleash them. I want a proposal in two days about how best to unleash our dragons on the Land of Poverty.” He waved his hand, indicating that the audience was through. The Minister of War backed out of the room, and turned to go away through the door.

The King sat back in his throne chair, and drummed his fingers atop the desk. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was already after 4 o’clock. “Not much point in getting into anything else” he thought. He summoned his assistant and said, “I’m going back up to the royal chambers for some sovereign time. Have me paged if there is a matter of great import.”

Once up in his royal chamber, he summoned his meal. Two cheeseburgers today, with fries. And two scoops of ice cream for dessert. He donned his royal bathrobe and awaited his sumptuous repast. He turned on Weasel, but they were blabbering on about some weather emergency that didn’t mention him by name, so he grew bored. He switched to another channel which was showing a story about another kingdom, one where they kept out the alien wildings by means of a 700′ wall of ice. He was tempted to use his royal proclamation device to extol the benefits of building the wall out of ice, out there in the desert. Oh, heck, why not. “Build the wall! Use ice to keep the evil alien wildings out! And it’ll create free air conditioning for the border! SMART!” His last royal proclamation went out just as he finished the last of his ice cream.

The King went to sleep fully content. He’d had many strokes of luck that day: He hadn’t been sued by one of his now forgotten flings; he hadn’t needed to face the scribes; he’d had an extra scoop of ice cream at dinner … He’d thought of a new way to build the wall and enjoyed doing it… A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy one. There were one thousand four hundred and sixty-one days like this in his term. From the first swearing in to the last turnover to his successor. One thousand four hundred and sixty-one days. The extra day was for the next leap year.