Time for Hearing Hell to Halt

muellerhearings

Watching the House hearings July 24, I felt a combination of admiration and pity for poor Robert Mueller.

Donald has taken a heavy toll on this devoted public servant. It’s time for us to stop pinning our hopes for ridding ourselves of Donald on Mueller, and let this exhausted war hero off the hook.

If a tedious day of testimony can only bring a handful of House Democrats into the pro-impeachment faction, initiating impeachment proceedings would be a waste of time and resources. Another endless series of hearings, horror of horrors, might even help Donald secure a second term.

House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, once again, stands as the tried-and-true political compass by which all Democratic representatives should have the good sense to be guided.

The hearings successfully presented the core of Mueller’s findings to voters who have not read the 448-page report. Even those who have been ignoring politics for the last 3 years now have extensive documentation that Donald is a chronic liar.

American voters now know that the Russians were at least partially responsible for putting Donald in office. They know that Donald has committed crimes for which he would be charged if he were not put above the law by an insane policy put in place during the Nixon investigation.

Democratic presidential candidates have been given plenty of verified political ammunition to fire at Donald throughout the 2020 campaign. With a big, fat target like that, they don’t need to waste any of it by shooting at each other.

President Spanky

D.C. rumors:

As Secretary of State, Rex Tillerson once called Donald Trump a “F**king Moron”. Following a 60 Minutes interview with porn star Stormy Daniels on March 25, Trump is being called (behind his back and affectionately, I assume) “Spanky”.

Putting these two nicknames together, I felt a holiday song parody was in order.

Hence …

Spanky, the Moron
Was a nasty, dumbass soul
With a hollow head
And a face to dread and
A heart made out of coal

Spanky, the Moron
Is a horror tale they say
He was made of dough
But right-wingers know
How he came to life one day

There must have been dark magic
In his presidential run
For when they tallied up the votes
It appeared that he had won

Spanky, the Moron
Was as dirty as could be
Piling lie on lie
Such a crooked guy
He’s bad news for you and me

Spanky, the Moron
Knew the probe was closing fast
So he pointed here
And he pointed there
The distractions couldn’t last

Down to the Congress
Seeking funding for his wall
But they told him “no”
Just like Mexico
There was no end to his gall

They chased him down the streets of town
His leadership a flop
And he always claimed a witch hunt ‘til
Bob Mueller hollered “Stop!”

Spanky, the Moron
Was about to go way
As he waved goodbye he said,
“Don’t you cry.”
I will file for a stay

Trumpity, Trump, Trump
Trumpity, Trump, Trump
Look at Spanky go

Trumpity, Trump, Trump
Trumpity, Trump, Trump
Looking for his next show

Society Adds New Meaning to ‘Trump’

It’s official. The National Synonym Society today approved “trump” as a new word for “dumb.”

“This is a well-earned honor,” said Sebastian T. Wordsworth, NSS president. “Never in the long history of the NSS has an alternate meaning for an existing word been so well documented by multiple media.”

Wordsworth added that the new meaning is, also for the first time, attributable to the acts of a single individual.

“That individual, is of course, Donald J. Trump, whose elevation to President of the United States of America and whose unfiltered access to Twitter have showcased his trumpness to the world daily,” Wordsworth elaborated.

dumbtrump

Trump had a long, honorable, pre-Donald J. history. As a noun, it traces its origins back to games in which certain playing cards were designated as trump and ranked above other cards in the deck.

Mutating into a verb, trump became the act of beating cards of other suits. This was eventually more broadly defined as making a winning move in a competitive situation.

Trump’s positive past, however, has come to screeching halt with its coronation as an adjective.

“It is now perfectly acceptable to substitute trump for dumb in any sentence not referring to speechlessness,” Wordsworth said. “By extension, trump may also now replace any previously existing synonym for dumb — including but not limited to, stupid, dense, brainless, slow, empty-headed, vacuous, moronic and half-baked.”

Wordsworth also noted that trump has earned the right to replace close relatives of dumb, such as ignorant, illiterate and bonkers.

Wordsworth provided sample sentences incorporating the new meaning of trump.

“Do you work at being trump, or were you born that way?”

How can anyone in their right mind, be that trump?”

“Well, that was a trump move.”

“That has got to be the trumpest damn thing I have ever heard anyone say.”

 “Way to go, trump-ass!”

Hey. Maybe they can change the name of one of my favorite movies to Trump and Trumper.

Adventures in Writing: (Part 15 of 20?)

Take 20 words chosen at random. Put them in a bowl. Draw one, and write something about it.

Simple? Maybe not.

Hold

enceladus
Breathtaking view offered from a survival tent far, far away.

“What’s in the hold, Captain?”

I cringed inwardly. I was expecting the question, of course. I had hoped it would not be asked so soon after we had emerged from the stasis pods.

“That’s ‘need to know’ only,” I told my overly curious co-pilot, George.

I didn’t really care if the only other crew member aboard the SXS Elon Musk knew what we were carrying, but I had been sworn to secrecy before launch. Time had been too short for questions when we boarded and were hustled into the pods. The ground crew had stowed our cargo after putting us under. Even I had not gotten a look at it.

“Oh, come on,” George pleaded. “I’ve got the same top secret clearance as you, and I really have a need to know.”

“Not the same thing, as I’m sure you’re aware,” I said.

I smiled. George could be persistent. Good thing I liked him. Even more saving to the relationship was being in stasis for most of the four-year trip out to Enceladus.

Without the pods, I would like him a lot less. One of us would be dead, and I probably wouldn’t have cared who.

As it was, we were in for a long couple of weeks of keeping each other company. Nobody, especially us, trusted the ship instruments to take us the last million or so miles to our destination. Too many things could go wrong in this crowded solar system neighborhood for us to remain asleep on the job.

“Do you even know what we’re carrying?” George asked.

“I do, and you will too, eventually,” I answered.

“Well, if I correctly guess what’s in the hold, will you tell me if I’m right?”

“We’ll see.”

I didn’t see any harm in that non-committal promise. I didn’t want George to get too squirrelly. I was confident that, with a little bit of misdirection, I could keep him guessing until delivery. The only condition I stipulated was that the questions could only be answered with “yes” or “no.” Besides, if George had even momentarily considered his childhood, he would have remembered that “we’ll see” means “no.”

So, he guessed — constantly — unless I called a timeout, or he hit his mandatory sleep period. Blessed relief!

I gave him quite a few hints along the way. Our mission was unique. Its more than $2 billion price tag had been internationally crowd-financed in record time. George never put the pieces together.

He was still guessing as we made our final approach to the designated landing site. All he had established about the contents of our hold was that it was “animal,” bigger than a breadbox and would not fit in his mouth. George was not a good guesser.

The landing was perfect. George was amazed, after I keyed the door open, when he saw what was in our hold.

“What the hell! A stasis pod!” he exclaimed.

“What did you expect?” I countered. “You guessed that it was a living thing. Did you expect to see a food trough and litter box that were good for four years?”

“Who’s in it?”

“Still can’t tell you.”

“Chris, you are a bastard!”

“I know.”

With a little elbow grease and no small amount of robotic help, we were able to move the pod through the main airlock and onto the frigid Enceladus surface. We encased the pod in a survival tent, which we stocked with 2 years of survival supplies.

After setting up a video camera far enough from the tent to take in the entire scene, we quickly retreated to the Musk. We wasted no time on niceties like a countdown before we lifted for the return trip to Earth. If we wanted to get back before we were nursing home fodder, our window of opportunity was critically small.

I watched the moon grow smaller until it was time to head for the stasis pods. En route, I found Curious George with his eyes glued to the video feed from the surface camera.

Just microseconds before the Enceladus rotation took the transmission offline, I took a look at the monitor. Our former passenger had emerged from the survival tent. Even distorted by the suit faceplate, the mug under the disheveled, badly-colored orange comb-over was unmistakable.

The man had finally gotten what he wanted. He was king of the world.