By David Glenn Cox
I want you to imagine a scenario, you are an aspiring actor and you are trying out for the lead in a Broadway show. You don’t really stand a chance of getting the part but through serendipity you are chosen as the understudy for the lead in the play. For three and a half years, night after night, you wait nervously in your dressing room in costume waiting for those fateful words, “Your on!” Remember that night when the star was sick, and you were told to get ready? “No, I don’t remember that.”
On the night Donald Trump wasn’t having his mini-strokes Mike Pence was told by the Secret Service to stand by. But he doesn’t remember it, has no recollection of speaking to anyone. It is really sad in this country that we give out awards for everything except lickspittles. Why not the Waylon T. Smithers groveling award? Mike Pence is such a good dog you want to scratch him behind the ears. He won’t even squeak like a mouse behind the refrigerator that he would ever dream of taking the top seat.
I raised my children to understand that plausibility is the most important aspect of telling a lie. They knew better than to tell me the dog was writing on the wall in crayon. “Who’s a good boy? Mike is! Yes, you are, now sit!” In a national emergency, the only emergency which ever applies to a Vice President you are telling us with a straight face, “you don’t remember.”
When shopping for hound dogs or Boy Scouts loyalty is what you want to look for. But let’s stop kidding ourselves here; we are talking about the Trump Administration. The most contemptable collection of back stabbers butt fuckers and common criminals ever assembled without hand cuffs inside a government building. Their leader a narcissistic madman likely to throw a tantrum if he doesn’t get his way. The con man always on the lookout for being conned. The schemer wary of schemes looks for a dreamer without dreams. A person just happy to have been invited to the dance and willing to stay late and clean up.
Welcome to the jungle but that loyalty thing. Like Christmas, at the stroke of midnight she’s gone. Joseph Stalin rolled off his couch with a thud hitting the floor with a cerebral hemorrhage. His loyal staff did nothing. They feared his survival more than his death. They feared a cruel madman disabled would only become crueler, so they waited until they were sure he was dying before calling a doctor. Mike Pence wouldn’t have remembered that part. He remembers the sun setting over Donnybrook farm and doesn’t know about people in Dark Shadows or thugs on a plane.
But the boss likes craven and Mike does craven better than almost anyone else. But there is always that one…right? Always that one guy, who does it better. No matter how much you debase yourself and kiss up to the boss there is always that one person in the office lower than whale poop in the Marianas trench who is washing the bosses car on Saturday and cutting his grass on Sunday.
Trumpy the Hut tells North Carolinians they should try to vote twice in the election. Okay, but we’re all veterans here and we’ve learned that when Trumpy says, “Space aliens live at Petticoat Junction.” We’ve learned to just wince and move on. Mike Pence would deflect, “I hadn’t heard that, or I’ll check into that.” But then there is that guy who is willing to do a swan dive on the middle of the floor.
The Attorney General of the United States of America. The top cop the leader of law enforcement was asked about Trumpy’s remarks.
“I don’t know what the law in the particular states says.”
Oh my god, I am embarrassed for your ancestors. I’m embarrassed for your children and embarrassed for your law school. They should refund tuition and invalidate degrees and close their doors in shame. Name a state where you can vote more than once. But concerned that he wasn’t drooling enough Barr wades further into the lava pit. He’s not sure if it’s illegal to vote more than once and that is the danger of mail in voting. If Barr were to do an interpretive naked dance rendition of “Flight of the Bumble Bee” on stage, I couldn’t be any more embarrassed.
It’s one thing to talk about little green men but it’s another to volunteer to lead the mission to rescue to the Shady Rest. Trumpy’s interview with one of the Goebbels girls of Faux News the President had to be towed through a minefield of soft balls. “You like orange, don’t you Mr. President?” Orange is my favorite color! Twelve, squirrel, pretty girl, happy meal! “You would like everyone to vote for you Mr. President, don’t you?” Vote for me! Me good, Applesauce, naked ladies everyone wants me! Unable to carry on a conversation this wasn’t the stuff they edited out. If they edited out all they needed to edit there wouldn’t be no interview.
The emperor has no clothes, the sycophants can gush and talk about fashion week, but the emperor has no clothes. The emperor has no policy, the emperor has no plans. Swinging on his tire swing gobbling down Big Mac’s on executive time! Every week the kiss and tell industry publishes another volume of “Do you know what Trumpy did? The sweat and strain of every week coming up with something even more outrageous, but it isn’t the cake it’s the frosting. The toadies and bootlickers’ these foot soldiers of Fascism. This isn’t an Administration as much as a frat party at Delta house.