552. Law Suits Are Made for Walking

Image result for frank sinatra picturesSo I’m listening to the Moldy Oldies station on the way home from work today, after a belly full of indigestible chunks of Trump chumps and punks all week, when Nancy Sinatra’s only hit song came on, These Boots Are Made for Walking. For a moment I thought of how less than her talent was, so much less than big Frank. And Frank Sinatra, Jr. was stuck in the same also ran gutter. His big song was Something Stupid Like I Love You. My mind did a comparison between a real talent Persona, Frank Sinatra with all of his Mafia brand arrogance, and Donald Trump, Mr. No Talent Reality T.V. Guy, with all his Russian Mafia buddies. A couple of  shady narcissists full of bravado and multiple wives and girlfriends, surrounded by lawyers and scandals and the stench of fetid morality served on gold-rimmed stoneware.

Image result for trump children picturesAnd their offspring? Donald’s sons are what you might expect of trees planted in the shade of a sunlight-hogging grandiose chestnut father… lacking something or other, born on third base and absolutely convinced they’d hit triples. Unfruitful and spindly. Then there is the First Daughter, the whole daddy/daughter dynamic is too creepy to think about, and the other daughter who seems to be hidden away from the lime lights. What’s with that deal? And poor baby Barron must endure them all, like a stuffed Tigger chew toy.

Image result for sinatra children picturesFrankie Boy had three legitimate kids, as Wikipedia diplomatically states the case. None of his kids really achieved much. No matter for today’s exam, except for Nancy’s song. As the lyrics high stepped on by, I thought of a word change or two that would make her peppy song even more contemptuous and contemporary.

Here is the original.

You keep saying you got something for me
Something you call love but confess
You’ve been a’messin’ where you shouldn’t ‘ve been a’messin’
And now someone else is getting all your best
Image result for these boots are made for walking gif
These boots are made for walking
And that’s just what they’ll do
One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you
You keep lyin’ when you oughta be truthin’
You keep losing when you oughta not bet
You keep samin’ when you oughta be a’changin’
Now what’s right is right but you ain’t been right yetImage result for psychotic gif
These boots are made for walking
And that’s just what they’ll do
One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you
You keep playing where you shouldn’t be playing
And you keep thinking that you’ll never get burnt (HAH)
I just found me a brand new box of matches (YEAH)
And what he knows you ain’t had time to learnImage result for matches igniting gif
These boots are made for walking,
And that’s just what they’ll do
One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you
Are you ready, boots? Start walkin’
Image result for boots the cat pictures
These lyrics are not Grade A Prime, I will grant you that. However, the song stuck around for its melodic pop, I suppose. Maybe it was the miniskirt catwalk video. Folks, it was 1966!!!
I imagined Melania in a tall pair of chic, soft leather knee high boots, pouty lips and squinty eyes, tossing her hair back, singing to the Donald in her saucy Slavic accent, as the grease fitted hinges swung on the exit door at the White House yet again. “Good Bye, You Yellow Preek Toad.”
Melania Trump Then I realized how unlikely such a scene would be. She made her bed, so to speak, long ago. Likely has her own non disclosure agreement that includes loss of U.S. citizenship if she should speak her truths. Exile to Guantanamo Bay. Nope, she’s not gonna sing that song to Donald from behind bars in Cuba.
It’s just too creepy to have Ivanka lip synch the lyrics, especially in the miniskirt. Her mom Ivana? Nah. Marla Maples? That yacht has sailed. Hmmmm. I know. How about Stormy Daniels? With just a tweak or two.
Image result for stormy daniels with donald trump gif
You’ve been saying you’ve got something on me. (Like a lawsuit? Or an NDA?)
Something you call fair but confess
You went messin’ where you shouldn’t ‘ve been messin’
Now Michael Cohen’s cleanin up the rest
Law suits are made for trumpin’
And that’s just what they’ll do
One of these days law suits are gonna thump all over you.
Stormy does a little foxtrot here, and then returns to the narrative while smuggling manatees out of Florida disguised as Volkswagen Beetles.Related image
You’ve keep lyin’ when you oughta be truthin’
You keep losin’ when you oughta not bet
You keep shamin’ when you oughta be changin’
Now right is right, but you aint been right yet
Law suits are made for trumpin’
And that’s just what they’ll do
One of these days law suits are gonna thump all over you
At this point I imagine Michael Cohen and other Trumpian sychophants rushing in to do a chorus line in cowboy boots, ten gallon hats, and silk tassels.
Related image
With so many former White House employees at the unemployment office these days, all they need is a choreographer to work out a line dance or two. It could be a combination of Whack a Mole and Bingo in Motion with the right game card.
Image result for fired white house staff pictures gif
The game is virtually unwinnable because it’s a moving target, and the Bingo chips melt as soon as you place them down. Meanwhile the definition of chaos is redefined as a mud wrestling business strategy where Emperor Donald gives thumbs up or down over the fools who enter the stadium. If you ever disagree with his majesty’s itty bitty self esteem, so long.
Image result for emperor trump pictures
Comey, McCabe, Tillerson, Flynn, Cohn, Omarosa, Spicey, Hopey, Porter, McFarland, Bannon, Priebus, Gorka, Moochi, Price, Dearborn, Manafort, Gates, Lewandowski, Papadopoulos,and a host of others less well known. Let me think: He was only gonna get the best people, all of whom could not wait to work for the Donna. And yet, these awesomest of awesomenosity need to quit or get fired in Twitter world for displeasing Donna, the Prima Donna. And this was just Round One.Image result for trump bingo card of faces
You can’t have it both ways: either Donna was stupid for hiring them then, or he’s stupid for firing them now. You don’t fire the so called all stars of America’s team. You fire the coach in this instance.
Are you ready boots?  Start walkin’.Image result for cowboy boots walking gif Faster, the lawsuits are comin’. Giddyup.
 Image result for cowboys riding horses away gif

424. Have I got a deal for you

 

So the new manager of my coffee shop has been making changes rapidly since he showed up less than a year ago to replace the lovely and inimitable Andrea, who moved on to work against sex trafficking. Andrea replaced Krista, who works with kids and got married. After Mitch left to lead worship services at my church. After Jake, Shelly, Jana, Sam and Emily and hundreds more barristas served their time in the coffee trenches. They come and go like Haitian presidents. Unlike Haitian presidents, however, they usually leave public service alive.

Which brings me to Nokay the newby and his almost able assistant Ong. They are housemates and friends on top of being employer/employee, which needs to be investigated soon by a federal agency before the Orange Emperor eliminates all such agencies. The boys are young and vital. Nokay the unmanager has been making executive orders as if he were a diabetic checking his blood sugar three times daily, then writing orders in a single drop of blood. Every day brings another change into the monkey cage of Coffee Nation. There is the soda case, the new table arrangements, menu changes, oaky decor overhaul, and more. But he has gone too far with his latest gimmickry.

On the wall behind the bulging soda/salad/parfait case Nokay had erected an exclusive coffee club cubby station rack of time shares for elite, by invitation only members.  I noticed it going up and slowly filling with black and blue logoed coffee mugs advertising the shop. At first I thought it was an attractive display of overpriced coffee mugs made in China. More wall art with a sales angle. Then neatly typed names began to appear below these mugs. Other mugs appeared to break up the black and blue monotony. “How nice”, I naively thought to myself, “a personal holding rack for regulars. How considerate. I may have misjudged Nokay.”

Then it got real yesterday around noon. Nokay approached me with the deal of the year as I waited for Ong to bring me a cup of delicious Tuscan Tortellini soup.

“Burrito, would you like to join the exclusive, elite, for members only coffee cubby?”

“Well, that depends on the deal.”

“Okay, let’s talk turkey.”

“As my ghost writer said in The Fart of the Deal, ‘Always negotiate from strength’.”

“Um, the terms are simple:  for $75 you can join and then drink all the coffee you want for a year at only $1.00 per cup. You get your own black and blue mug and a name tag.”

At this point his other bean lackey Grace offered to type up the paperwork and print the neat label on the cubby of my choice.

“Slow your roll, Marla Marbles. I’m working a deal here. It’s gonna be huge. I’ve talked with a lot of generals and the border patrol and they all agree with me.” Turning back to Nokay, “My price point is $50. You keep the mug.”

“I can’t do that. The mugs are worth $10 each.”

“Stop! You sell them for ten bucks, but you buy them for less than two bucks from China. The mug is off the table. I’ll provide my own Bob Dylan mug.”

Ong arrives. “How about a hug from me to sweeten the deal?”

“No hugs, no mugs, no drugs. Shut up, Ong. I’m working a deal here. It’s gonna be huge. Look at these hands. Call the generals. People love me.”

Nokay, “Here’s what I can do… $65.00 without a mug, plus your pick of old tee shirts which sell for $12.00 to folks who don’t know any better. And a free sample bag of stale coffee.”

“Again, I have several of those tee shirts. I wear them when I want to appear anonymous. They work like bug spray to repel sighted humans. Plus, I have my own custom made coffee shop tee shirt with my title and logo on it. And, under the belly line, printed upside down, is this bold statement: ‘You need to Growaset’.”

“No, sir. You go too far.”

“It’s true. I’ll wear it this Thursday.”

Ong, “How about that hug? It’s cooled off a bit to normal body temperature.”

“Ong, hug off!! Stay behind the bar or I swear I’ll hit you with this pint of Pepsi.”

Nokay, “What are your conditions?”

“I want Bob Dylan facing right on the top shelf with lightning bolts blazing out from his face.”

“Done. Grace, get on that.”

“I want an upstream payment of $1.00 from each of the previous suckers who bought into this square ponzi scheme whose cups are ranked below mine.”

“Not done. I’m not paying you to drink coffee here for free. I’m selling you an opportunity to save hundreds of dollars in your coffee budget.”

“Your ‘savings’ require me to spend money, Nokay. If you really want to save me money instead of persuading me to part with slabs of my money, you’d meet my terms and Grace could print out those lightning bolts. Why are you being so obstructionistic? I am trying to get this economy moving toward greatness again.”

“But you’re impossible. You act like you are negotiating, but all you are doing is taking. You aren’t giving anything. Can’t we meet in the middle?”

“Son, the middle is where you stick the knife, just above the navel. Read my book.”

“Just cut to the chase.”

“I have trained your barristas in how to deal with difficult customers, true?”

Reluctantly, “Yesssss.”

“At no charge, just a gentlemen’s agreement.”

“Okay.”

“Nokay, I have blogged about your enterprise bringing in untold business to you without increasing your advertising budget.”

“But we never…”

“Silence!! I’m not finished. I have invested thousands of dollars in this business over years of faithful customerization. I haven’t tried to weaponize or monetize my loyalty… and here we are arguing over a lousy fifteen bucks. Aren’t you ashamed?”

“uhhhh, I don’t know. I’m really confused right now.”

“Okay, here’s how we will settle this:  I’m folding this five dollar bill vertically. If you can pinch it as I drop it, you win. If you can’t, I win. We’ll do this three times or until the fifteen dollars is taken care of. Deal?”

“Sure. No, it’s a trick. I’ll lose… just, okay. I’ll pay you to drink coffee for a year, plus free muffins, just stop!! My sanity is at stake here.”

“You gotta deal, son.”

“And those other fools will pay for my wall.”

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420.To Blog or not to Blog.

 

Why do I blog?  There is no fame or fortune, no status or glory in the blog business. I have refused all pay that has not yet been offered. So why do it?  Uh, why speak to the new barrista at the coffee shop?  Let’s see– because you want to connect, maybe share some of your presence with someone else. Tenderize a brain or two. Learn something in return maybe. Though I don’t know all three of my blog followers, I’m sure they are nice folks with great tolerance and compassion. Why? Because I write some odd things in this blog, mostly for my own entertainment. My devoted followers have not cut me off yet. Maybe this will do it. However, if I’m laughing while typing, that’s usually a good sign. Furthermore, if I find just the right picture on my Google search, that’s even better.

Blogging beats billing or getting my accounts in order. You see, I write on my office computer 90% of the time. Like right now as Leon Russell sings through his nose, “There’s a slow train comin’.” It’s an enjoyable distraction after a few intense therapy sessions. Some days clients don’t show so I click on Pandora and zoom along with Van Morrison, Lou Reed, Dylan, Neil Young, or any of the 100 artists on my shuffle. Music is a big deal for me; it seems to free up ideas and help my stream of consciousness flow. Good therapy needs good therapy, I think. Otherwise the therapist blows. Blogging is one of my coping strategies that ease my blood pressure and stress. I’m not a fan of stress though I willingly engage it daily. Therefore, I need an outlet after ferrying anxious folks across troubled waters.

It used to be running a few miles back when I was young enough to absorb all that pounding. Nowadays my back and hips cry out in protest to jogging. I still hunt groundhogs for fun in the warmer months. Cold-blooded murder of vermin, so it is. And I enjoy it. Every so often I will draw or paint something, usually in watercolors. Chess, too, is a beloved activity when I can find a willing and capable partner. These are all healthy distractions and stress relievers. We can all use more distractions these days, don’t you agree?

The new administration is whirling forward in a dizzying blur. Not sure how things are going to play out. I do find it fascinating and terrifying how the media have been demonized. Sure, some are prima donnas, but the biggest prima donna of all is the Prima Donald.  And sure, he is being demonized as well. There has never been another Prima Donald to my recollection. His panties are in a wad over the silliest and vainest items. Don, buddy, you won. It’s true. Why the conspiracy theory to suggest that not dozens, or scores, hundreds or thousands voted illegally for someone else. No, for a man of your stature, the fraud must be millions. And those millions must be illegal, brown, unwashed criminals loaded down with diseases, eager to rape white women.

If you have ever talked to someone who is delusional, you will find that the delusions are never mundane, garden variety issues. If someone is stalking them or tapping their phone, it can’t be a local marketer or traffic cop or a disgruntled neighbor. Nope. That’s just not good enough. Delusions of persecution need to be big– the Mafia, the CIA, the FBI, the NSA, Interpol,  or the KGB. It doesn’t sound fierce enough if the delusionoid says, “The PTA are after me.” Or NASA. Or AARP. Or the SPCA.  These latter acronyms lack the dramatic serrated edge of the former referents. Go big, my schizophrenic friends, or don’t go at all.

So, why would a sane man want to entertain a conspiracy that undercuts the system that just elected him president? I can only speculate. The Donald has been a magician over the past two years. He has managed to toss firebombs  left, right and center that distract the public and media from his last firebombs. He’s good at this sleight of mouth. But even the Donald has to step back in awe of the verbal tornado woodpecker that is Kellyanne Conway. She is masterful at deflection and redirecting any narrative. She spews more cooked noodles than any Chinese restaurant ever could while breathing through her ears.  Please, folks, you were legally elected by the system . Believe it. No need to gild the outcome into something of an intergalactic victory of our species over the Death Star of the Leftist/ Media/ Demoproglibs.  Act like you believe in the outcome. It is impressive and historic. Stop talking like the prom king is a drag queen who needs an alibi. The new truth in our post factual world is that she looks fabulous, and that’s all that matters.

Oh, oh, oh. But controlling the truth is not the same thing as seeking and speaking truth. Whether that truth is your promised tax returns or climate change; emoluments or fraudulent universities; seeing jihadi Muslims dancing in Jersey City or millions of worshipful audience members on the national mall; there are ways of determining the truth via an abundance of proof. We do this in court and in science labs. But in the big stage of what was once known as news, our anchors, experts, and talking heads allow greasy soundbites to pose as truths. What results is a  paranoid environment of mythical beliefs and alternative facts. Hocus pocus hoaxes.

Instead of seeking and speaking truth, our society seems to have become allergic to truth. We break out in partisan rages rather than calmly putting forth the known relevant facts. So many tricks are used to move the tone over the substance. Today’s soundbite is that 3 million illegals voted not for Trump. Unidentified polling places all over this country were fooled three million times. And the evidence is… missing.

What will next week bring, I wonder? A new Sharknado that Kellyanne will explain away.

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312. Facebook Fascsim

Hitler and MussoliniI just finished my first Facebook Fanatic encounter. Wow! It was creepy and felt like a bar fight from a different time zone via Skype. I briefly opined about my least favorite human being, Donald Trump, and a highly educated, erudite scholar sucked on to my whimsy like a leech. It was actually funny from my side, but I am troubled that Professor Righteous is grinding his molars tonight instead of sleeping peacefully. An old friend once shared the saying, “That guy is so tight that you couldn’t pull a pin out of his ass with a John Deere tractor.” Here is another example of such a vacuum sealed  tightness. I posted a brief snarky comment about the Trumpster being an insult to thinking people and smart dogs, and my cyber adversary took off, accusing me of calling him a stupid dog; me being a liberal; not a Christian; a hypocrite, and more. He even said that I was Trump-like in my rhetoric.  Well, I asked him, if you find my impersonation of the Great One insulting, why cling to the original, Mr. Logical?

Man, it was fun. I teed up twenty words and he wrote an angry reactionary dissertation like a mad golfer hitting a jumbo bucket of balls. I speculate that he’s probably still seething with rage against these meager snarky comments. I wish there were a way to cash in on words generated by others on the internet. From one jokey line of mine, this guy made himself a running joke of a thousand words or more. Vitriol makes a bad salad dressing, Dude. I don’t care how good your olive oil is. He is still chewing on the rubber worm bait, thinking it’s some opening shot in the Revolutionary War. No chance.

Charlie Chastiser got his panties in a wad. And being a moralist of the first order, he declared war on all the folks who did not agree with his extremism or the Donald. It was great stuff, lessons in rhetoric and logic were self soothing for him. But guys like that worry me. I fear that his vain attempts to rally the troops will fail and he will wind up in a movie theater with a legally purchased submachine gun and kill everyone who came to see a mildly spicy chick flick starring Ben Affleck… all in the name of National Purity. He has swallowed the poor victim pill and can now justify all genocidal tendencies. In the post-homicide interviews with his neighbors and coworkers, they will say things like,

“He was a very intense man who broke the decaf pot when it was introduced as an option.”

“He was very neat and punctual.”

“His desk was immaculate… but I didn’t really know him well.”

“He had a cat.”

Inside the loner’s mind he monologues to no one…

“Surely others cannot have value or meaning when they fail to toe my Fascist line. And I wouldn’t have to be a Fascist if they would just do what I expect. So, logically, I must exterminate them in the name of my superior beliefs. I am, therefore, a modern knight killing in the name of a just cause.”

It’s a scary world, blogistas. Don’t trust me, please. I am not a reliable source. I prefer good stories to great ideologies. But do trust your own assessment of weirdos who cling to ideology like a lab monkey clings to its wire cage mother’s breast. Something is wrong with such fear driven intensity. It promotes survivalistic reactions, an “us versus them” mentality.  The Donald is good at channeling this primal anger. He bloviates against the Chinese, as if they are a monolithic group of same think.  The Yellow Threat. He blows hard against Mexicans, as if they are all greasy rapists  posing as lawn care technicians in high brow neighborhoods just waiting to pounce on Republican housewives. The Brown Threat. He knows, because, you see, he has talked to one Border Patrol agent in New Mexico once. And that is gospel, after all. God Bless America. The White Threat to the multicolored world.

Image result for xenophobic pictures

To reject xenophobia is not an unpatriotic act nor is it a soppy milk toast liberal position. Being xenophobic does not make you a red blooded American either, whatever that is. Immigrants built this nation. Some came legally as slaves or railroad workers. Some came illegally by jumping ship in the harbor. Some came through Ellis Island. But please, do not believe the mythology that everyone came with good hearts and tears at the Statue of Liberty. After all, she didn’t get here from France until 1886. And let’s not forget that some U.S. citizens were here to begin with. Our Native People tried to stem the flow of the self righteous and better armed European illegals who used the self serving rationale that they had a God given right to occupy “unused lands”. It didn’t turn out too well for the Native Peoples, but let’s not dwell on that ugly chapter of U.S. history. No, America would never again relocate other people groups based on fear or greed until the Japanese were interned in WWII. Xenophobes have feared Catholics, Japanese, Chinese, Irish, Germans, Jews, Mexicans, Moslems, Russians, etc. over the past two hundred years. It’s the same old “us vs. them” reaction steeped in fear of the different.

[Rick is such a good neighbor, hardworking, honest, decent Christian man.]

We can thank The Donald for digging up the immortal head of the Hydra so simple minds can play with it again. This week’s feature is “Phobia from the Planet Xenon”. Feeding the hate and fear machine will always draw an audience… just like horror movies manage to continue their tradition, reproducing faster than mice. However, every so many generations the throttle gets loose and a majority sate themselves on easy to digest propaganda, no hard chewing required. In that dark world dentists and minor office clerks become judges, jurors and executioners, all quite legally, thank you very much. The xenophobic genie is hard to get back in the bottle once uncorked.

309. Numerology

When you run out of real things to think or talk about, you can make stuff up. Like numerology.

“Numerology is the study of numbers, and the occult manner in which they reflect certain aptitudes and character tendencies, as an integral part of the cosmic plan. Each letter has a numeric value that provides a related cosmic vibration. The sum of the numbers in your birth date and the sum of value derived from the letters in the name provide an interrelation of vibrations. These numbers show a great deal about character, purpose in life, what motivates, and where talents may lie. Experts in numerology use the numbers to determine the best time for major moves and activities in life. Numerology is used to decide when to invest, when to marry, when to travel, when to change jobs, or relocate.”

Wow!!! This sort of thing could keep a hamster busy for its entire life. Let’s say your birthday is the same as, oh let’s say Donald Trump– 06, 14, 1946. If I am following the above vague references, then adding 06 + 14 + 1946 will give me a certain magical number with occult meaning. Hmmm.  All I can come up with is 1966, which points me to the Donald at 20 years of age in the year 1966, during the Vietnam War. Now I have to find the cosmic vibration that emanates from his twentieth year of life.

As an internet search would have it, I got as close to that year as I could with the following blurb:

“During his college years, Donald Trump and his father decided to purchase an apartment complex in Ohio which was in bankruptcy. The purchase of this complex is striking because they obtained financing above the purchase price so they could do the necessary remodeling to the run down complex. The development purchased by Donald Trump with his father’s aid was called Swifton Village, a 1,200 unit apartment in Cincinnati, Ohio. It was purchased at a foreclosure sale for less than $6 million and sold within a year and half for about $12 million dollars. Without a penny of their own invested they were able to turn the apartment complex around by taking a strict approach at rent collection and by remodeling the appearance of the complex. Trump was able to see how the government would assist buyers in purchasing property with little or no financial backing, and best of all how to get such aid. This incident was the beginnings of the Donald Trump we know today. This event proved to be the single most important lesson Donald Trump learned.”

Wow, I’m seeing the numbers in numerology suddenly. Around 1966 The Donald made a cool $6 million without risking any of his own money. And the same government he mocks now actually backed his financing of that seminal project. I’m feeling that cosmic vibration now. Like the Tea Party folks who get a government check each month and demand their social security payments on time, but who reserve the right to bite that very same hand that feeds them… Ohhhhh, Ummmm, Yes, I’m feeling hypocrisy. Yeah, that’s it. Oh, and Donald was not in Vietnam because he had a string of deferments right through graduate school.

Now by decoding Vietnam with A= 1, B= 2, C=3… we get a total of 86. If you then deduct hypocrite 119 from Vietnam, you wind up with a difference of 35, which is about how much money Donald made during the war years in millions. The Donald must have realized that real estate in Vietnam did not look like a good investment in the 1960’s what with a war going on and POW’s being tortured in the north. Remember, he likes soldiers who don’t get captured. Kind of like saying, “I like folks who don’t get cancer. You know, winners like me.”

Now a cross check of letter values will give me even more insight, I am sure.

Assigning the same code of A= 1, B= 2, C= 3… we can decode Donald Trump into the following integers,  4+15+14+1+12+4 +20 +18+21+13 +16, the total of which is 138.  Now, it’s tricky to plug the sum into a meaningful relationship that has to do with the Donald. It’s clearly a premonition of his life– one man, three wives, five children (plus their moms). Well, well, it adds up to 1  3  8.  Amazing!!! Of course it helps if you have a free hand to make up the rules as you plop random numbers down. 138 also happens to be the average number of people he insults per week, just under twenty a day. So either way it’s a deep mystical insight into the Bloviator, which decoded adds up to 98. Which, if you add to the 138, comes out to a round 236. Now where to plug in this factoid?  270 electoral college votes are needed to elect a U.S. president. But since Donald never pays full price for anything, and he’s the world’s toughest negotiator, tougher even than William Shatner, he will gain the presidency for a yard sale price. Smart and tough. That’s the guy we need. He will build a wall around the White House and make Mexico pay for it.

But here is real risk. If you deduct 1966 from the upcoming election year 2016, you will arrive at a clear even number of 50. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s proof positive that the Donald will reign over these 50 United States. It’s in the numbers, folks. And old adage claims that “Figures don’t lie, but liars can figure.” Believe it. Since the first tyrant till now, bad logic has been offered up for the little people to suck on like a stone lollipop. It goes something like this, “Because I am rich, super rich, I am good and trustworthy.” Nothing could be further from the truth.

Being rich does not make anyone good or bad. That’s all about character, which does not need to be decoded.

305. Narcissus Maximus Trumpus

I don’t like politics and politicians in general. Whether they are lefties who want to expand government and make the world politically correct at all times for all people or they are righties who need another tax cut while contracting the parts of government that don’t enrich them, I am generally disgusted by their self promotion. Plus, they can never answer a straight forward yes/no question.  It’s always an exercise in CYA. But on top of all these disgusting hacksters there is the supreme narcissist, the gopher pelted, angry, rude, hostile Donald Trump, who lacks a filter of any sort. He is like the diesel pick up truck that billows clouds of black smoke from an oversized exhaust pipe with a sexually suggestive bumper sticker on its tail gate. Essentially these overblown high maintenance idiots are compensating for some major deficit in their lives, but their egos are so inflated that they cannot face the possibility that they are responsible for their own problems. Nope, gotta find someone to blame– immigrants, gays, Islamists, Democrats, POWs, the Chambers of Commerce, the media, the Pope. The problem cannot be in the mirror. So they just keep on blowing smoke.

Which brings me to the Donald who would be king. I don’t believe he wants to be president any more than Robert Mugabe wanted to be president. At least not in the USA. Maybe there is room for him in an African nation. I get the sense that Sir Ronald the Mc Donald wants to be Dictator for Life and King of Scotland, like some Idi Amin fantasy.

You see, in an American style democracy there is a supposed to be a balance of power among the three branches of government. However, since the Donald has to be the smartest, richest, smuggest moron in the room, there is no oxygen left for anyone else to breathe. So in a Trump presidency we’d have to close Congress, shut down the press, and send the courts home till he died. Why?  Because the Donald will take care of all things all the time. Like a Roman emperor/dictator. “Believe me, I have negotiated with the toughest negotiators on the planet and I’ve won. Now they work for me. Do you know how rich I am?”

 So why are we bothering? No sane person could possibly consider the Donald for anything other than a circus, which maybe is what the bigger political picture is. If we are ready to blow up our fragile democracy, then let’s all vote for the Narcissus Maximus Trumpus. He can reinstitute the gladiator fights at RFK stadium, and when the tired ones fall, the Donald can hold his thumb up or down, “You’re fired!” the hordes can all shout as the defeated warrior is cut into shish kabob chunks for the lions to  snack upon.

Some obvious questions  arise when we consider electing Donald as our Emperor Divine for life. Who would be vice emperor?  Certainly we would not need one because the Donald is all powerful and eternal, just ask him. We would, however, need a new government Department of Admiration, which would essentially be a 1,000 woman harem who had graduated from the Trump University of Cosmetic Lobotomies and Idol Worship. They could be housed in the empty Congress building. Who would be able to tell the difference between these ladies and the ones currently “working” there?

The White House would have to be demolished since it is far too small for such a large man. Emperor Donald could move into the Pentagon, the largest office building in the world, after a proper makeover, mostly triumphal arches wide enough for his chariot themed limos to drive through. At the same time the Secret Service would need to be grown by ten thousand percent because there is such an important man to protect now, a man who doesn’t sleep and never shuts up. A man who has alienated even retired nuns who have taken vows of silence and perpetual peace… who are buying guns at record levels. Who doesn’t want to shoot him?

With the Donald as our reigning Divine Emperor of All Things we could finally rename the Redskins to something more politically palatable. I mean, the Donald did own the defunct New Jersey Generals. Let’s see, the Washington Donalds, the Trumpettes, the Toupees, the Emperoritas, the Ignoramuses, the Blowhards, or the Pompous Asses. Maybe we should just ask Donald, since voting will be outlawed by then.

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Donald’s Divinity will be good for tourism also, once he has remodeled. The Washington Mall will need to be redone. The Trump Temple will rise above the Washington Monument, which will function like a speedometer needle pointing to the vortex of Donald’s inflated shrine to self. “Oh the humanity!”, cried the radio announcer when the Hindenburg exploded. Oh, if we could be so lucky and Emperor Donald could self combust from his own bombast blasts.

But I suspect that the Donald will do just that. He is the propane filled Mothra drawn to the flame of  public attention. His inflammatory rhetoric will be ignited by static electric shock from his frizzled coiffure and Boom!!

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“Bye bye Don
Bye bye  crappiness, hello selflessness
I think I’m-a gonna cry
Bye bye Don
Bye bye crude impress, hello happiness
I feel like I could sigh
Bye bye bully boy, goodbye.

I’m-a through with ignorance, I’m a-through with self love
I’m through with polling this clown above
And here’s the reason that I’m so free
My arrogant Donald is gone, you see.”