“Drink Up, Its a Two for One Happy Hour!”

Falling through the universe at the speed of life

By David Glenn Cox

It’s a play at the plate, here comes the throw. Will she quit? Will he get fired? A cloud of dust and…Rudy’s Giuliani back, and he’s found a new friend! Someone he can relax with and take the edge off. Not since the days Stan Laurel meets Foster Brooks has there been such comic relief. I know, that if I were a sadistic narcissist with delusions of overthrowing democracy, while suffering a complete emotional breakdown due to decades of self-delusion and psychopathic tendencies, I’d probably want someone like Rudy around too.

Let’s be real, when he said Four Seasons, you could have gotten Frankie Valli just as easily as weed eater string and two cycle oil. If you love mayhem, you love Rudy! Let me put it another way, what would Gilligan’s Island be without Gilligan? The billionaire needs someone to lead his legal challenges to nowhere. “Who can I get who will make a lot of noise with name recognition?” Someone with money troubles, someone who dropped their career like a hot lunch tray in the cafeteria. Besides, it’s not like he has to win or anything. This is the media department gig, not the legal department.

During the Third Reich they had Uncle Herman. Herman Goering did the public relations work, handing out Christmas gifts to children, always laughing always jovial always opiate addicted. Adolph was a cold fish. Goebbels was too short and didn’t film well and Himmler they were too afraid to ask. So, there was big fat jolly St. Herman, Nazi Santa Claus. A clown in his bright blue uniform, a self-deprecating comic characterization of a Nazi pig. Blasted, bloated and blind to his own absurdity. It was the perfect gig for a man with an opiate addiction as big as a small Florida county. Show up, smile for the camera go home and take a pill.

But before he became a bumbling buffoon, he was a World War I flying ace. He flew with the Red Baron and earned a Blue Max and led the squadron. A national hero brought down to the level of a clown serving a narcissistic psychopath. God, history is fun! Talk about history repeating itself, only the name on the bottle has changed!

A Gomer needs a Goober, a distant cousin dumber than you to make you feel smarter. Enter Melissa Carone, part-time actress and part time level one IT trouble shooter asking level one questions. “Are you sure it’s plugged in? Is the red light on next to the power button? Let me let you speak to my supervisor.” It’s pretty obvious which career path Ms. Carone is following here. She is a working girl working for the weekend and it’s five o’clock somewhere. I can only imagine Rudy, “We need to go over your testimony somewhere. Hmm, let’s see. How about over there, that building with the sign that says Cocktails?”

“Drink up its a two for one happy hour!” But it’s only eleven-thirty in the morning.

It’s a hell of a distraction, much funnier than watching the President of the United States slowly falling apart like bricks falling off a crumbling building. Sooner or later and in this case much later, someone had to tell King Viti-Trump that there was no fraud in the election. Bill Barr came out and said it two weeks late and now finds his head on the chopping block. Tell me it is not the last chapter when the tyrant begins lopping off the heads of his principles for disloyalty. “General Ney prepare the Calvary. We march for Toulon!” The behavior of the President deposed leads to only one diagnosis. Mary Trump says, she thinks Trumpy actually believes he won the election and I’ve wondered about that myself. Does the ventriloquist dummy really talk by itself or do I just think it talks by itself? The President deposed is having a breakdown on national television. The “Tilt” light is now lit, smokem if you got em.

Trumpy’s communication director has resigned from her post thanking the President for the opportunity to serve, referring to the Administration in the past tense. Small slights, “It’s a good thing you quit, saves me the trouble of firing you!” Jack Nicholson is pounding away at the typewriter, “Here’s Johnny!”

The Republican Party is fracturing into factions. The pro crazy faction loyal to Trump and the less pro crazy faction fearing for their futures. “Buy the ticket take the ride.” Who wants to ride the five-alarm dumpster fire with a month left in its constitutional term? Who wants to rile the sadistic madman already in a bad mood? Treason is the reason for the season! Jump froggy, in the oven or in the pot. At this point the President deposed is probably legally insane leaving Republicans in a Catch 22. Follow the orders of Captain Crunch knowing he’d probably get off, and you’d go to jail. We’ve reached the “Oh, there may be consequences,” phase of our story.

Yes sir, I’ll be glad to help. But under the advice of my counsel. I must limit my participation in any way that might open myself up to any potential criminal liability, such as making false statements under oath or taking on any financial obligations for any hidden third party.

The President deposed is absent without leave with a bad attitude and a head full of crazy. A historic event, not since Nero has it even been tried to be duplicated. Abandonment, fantasy folly and death. Now comes the ugly part where the pimple comes to a head. He’s certifiable, wanna play along?

Making your way in the world today
Takes everything you’ve got
Taking a break from all your worries
Sure would help a lot
Wouldn’t you like to get away?

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