It was bad from the start, but the latest President Donald Trump bombshells are jarring Americans' waking hours. Gone are the cheery songbirds that welcomed each day. They've been replaced by an almost deafening, repetitive din of Trump news—his hatchet jobs on the courageous; and his use of the Attorney General William Barr and DOJ minions to punish his detractors.
You can watch any of the morning news shows, and it's pretty much the same. The GOP's hope of dismantling the impeachment process is gone. And, consistent with Trump's desperate-but-predictable blame-game, it's no surprise to see him gushing a steady stream of projectile vomiting, complete with its chunks of the same-ol'-same-ol' conspiracy theories.
This non-stop spewing S.O.S. message from the embattled superlative—also known as the "World's Greatest Prick"—is a disturbingly effective tool. With a generous supply of Republican supporters—far too dedicated and patriotic to engage their minds in simple moral questions or constitutional mandates—it's no surprise that the low-lifes, haters, homophobes, skinheads and devout Christian wife-beaters rally faithfully around their chief.
D.C. is awash with noise—noise "in excess of allowable E.P.A. limits." This continuous launching of swamp-goo at Trump enemies works; a little bit of it will always stick, much akin to our judicial system, wherein the innocent are convicted of crimes for which they are later exonerated.
The public never forgets, both in criminal charges and in the crap-slinging of dirty D.C. politics. There's a presumption of guilt, even when total exoneration follows.
All the while, the brat in the White House keeps screaming "Wolf!"—attracting the attention of compassionate would-be saviors, no matter how many times the portly toddler is caught in a lie. Here's how I imagine one of his most recent "distress calls":
Dispatcher: What is your 911 emergency, sir?
POTUS: I seem to have misplaced my silver spoon, and it's almost time to eat.
Dispatcher: Sir, I'm sorry to hear about it, but this service only deals with emergencies.
POTUS: It's not just any silver spoon, ma'am. It's the one I was born with, and since I'm the President of the United States of America, everything I want is an official emergency. You can't, by any chance, send a wall, can you?
Dispatcher: Sir, I don't care if you're the Queen of Sheba; You need to hang up now. You should also ask your cellular carrier why your phone IDs as "The Orange Lard-Ass Mutha."
POTUS: (flushed and hyperventilating) Damn those Democrats; they never stop; my phone's been hacked! (then, in full meltdown mode) Melania! Melania! Get me my smelling salts; I think I'm about to faint.
Melania: Get them yourself, asshole! You're not the Queen of Sheba.
POTUS: (Trump gets a Rodney Dangerfield look of dismay on his face, secretly wishing he was the Sheban monarch) No respect! (He laments, then falls to the floor in his best beached-dead-whale imitation.
Suddenly Trump's face contorts and jerks as the smelling salts are waved beneath his nose. Then, looking up at his attending angel: "Thank you, Lindsey. What would I do without you?"
Graham: I guess not much, but you know the system; ... doesn't mean that things can't change tomorrow. How about a little quid pro quo. Sign over another one of your Trump Tower condos, and I'll try to cover your back for another two weeks.
POTUS: That seems fair enough. By the way, I felt bad you wouldn't go trick-or-treating with me this year—just wasn't the same without you, ol' pal. It would have been great to have some company, but Eric was too busy playing video games, and even Mitch McConnell told me no. It was a sad, lonely Halloween, even though it's always been my favorite holiday. I love dressing up in my scariest face and making the little kids cry. Best of all, I've found that I can accumulate a sizeable stash of candy when those little chickenshits drop their bags and run. You know, I actually used my Halloween plunder-strategy in my book, "The Art of the Deal." Frankly, it's the method I've used to get virtually everything Dad didn't give me.
Graham: As much as I love you, Donald, and appreciate your great and unmatched wisdom, trick-or-treating was asking a bit too much. Besides that, I was really down on Halloween this year, mostly because I'm finding myself haunted by the word "witch hunt."
POTUS: Don't get me going on that one. That's what it is—a witch hunt, plain and simple. Why is everyone out to get me? I'm such a good, caring human being, and it's all so unfair.
Despite Trump's lonely and sugar-free Halloween, there actually had been some great pumpkin-day news. The 2019 witch hunt, it turns out, was a rousing success. Trump, himself, was the victorious hunter. Just after midnight a gleeful scream reverberated across America. "Melania," an elated POTUS screamed, "I found the witch; it was in my shaving mirror."
The author is a former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and one mongrel dog. Send feedback to email@example.com