Trump is a Laff Riot!!!
Many of my fellow Americans may find this hard to believe but our suffering Republic is in for a lotta laughs during the next 22 months. If there was an Oscar for “Leading Man in Unintentional Comedy” our Bozo the Clown-in-Chief would be a shoo-in. Too bad W.S. Gilbert isn’t still alive. Imagine what fun he could have with “Trumpie’s Wall”? I’m sure he could lure the pretentious Sir Arthur Sullivan away from writing ponderous Victorian quasi-religious dirges long enough to pen some sprightly Mikado-esque tunes for it. “Topsy-Turvy” is back. Donald Trump can go head-to-head with the most clueless of Gilbert’s silly twittering heroes. He’s the self-important “Ruler of the Queen’s Nay-Vee,” a foulmouthed ill-bred version of the “Captain of the Pinafore,” the “Very Model of a (moronic) Modern Major General,” and the viciously comical “Mikado” all wrapped up in one. No need to concoct a ridiculous plotline, we’ve already got one. “Our Brash Bumbling Hero” creates a bogus “National Emergency,” then sends “his Army” and billions in cash to defeat imaginary foes.
The brown hordes Trump spies on the horizon keep growing by leaps and bounds while the Great Wall he conjures up keeps shape-shifting. It starts out cement. Three thousand miles long and a gazillion feet high. Big enough to be visible from Space like the Great Wall of China. Then it turns to steel. Good old American Steel! A slip of the great man’s tongue labels it a “fence” at one point, then it reverts to a wall again. At first, it’s stout and solid, then it’s slatted, and we can see through it, no doubt to detect the vast armies of welfare cheats, drug smugglers and murderers lurking on the Mexican side slathering to rape white women. But will it end up being steel? Why not coal? There’s a dying American industry even needier than steel. If Trump’s imagined legions of bloodthirsty terrorists threaten to breach his Coal Wall he could set it afire and it would burn for decades. Or what about Big Ag? We can’t leave the farmers out. A Corn Wall? Preposterous, you say. But the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota is a major tourist attraction.
Decisions, decisions, decisions. Poor Trumpie’s “all alone in the White House” watching Fox News and listening to Rant Radio in search of wisdom. What will it be? Cement, Steel, Coal, Corn…how about garbage or junk cars or obsolescent computer hardware or old cellphones? And who should we send in to build the Great Wall of Trump once a National Emergency has been declared? The Marines? The Army Corps of Engineers? The Seabees? The National Rifle Association? The Daughters of the Confederacy? The Ku Klux Klan?
While Trumpie’s pondering we can all be laughing. The Democrats in the House can share a few laughs too. Giggling and rubbing their hands together in anticipation of low comedy to come as the sleazy denizens of Trump Swamp are hauled before their various committees to relate their highly fictional tales. Chortling while Republicans in the Senate twist slowly in the wind as they look toward 2020 trying to figure out a way to explain to the voters why they’ve been licking the boots of the foulest and most dangerous of American Presidents. Struggling to justify their refusal to perform their Constitutional duty to act as an independent branch of the government. Their leader, Mitch McConnell, is already in hiding. I hear he’s hanging out in a holler in his native Kentucky wearing bib overalls and a fake beard. Can they join him there for the next 22 months and expect to keep their jobs? Will there be enough bibs and beards to hide them all? More grist for the comedic mill.
So, lighten up America (or at least 60% of America). The days ahead may not be much better, but at least they will be more amusing. We have nothing to fear but a few angry Democratic Freshman Congresspersons who’re behaving like…well…Freshmen; and an excessive number of old Democrats who think they should be leading the new “blue wave” into the White House. Those annoyances will pass before the next election (I hope). Just remember the immortal words of “Mad Magazine’s” Alfred E. Newman “What? Me Worry” and enjoy the ride to November 2020. I know I will.
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