Straight to Hell! Or (Bye Daddy!)

By David Glenn Cox

It made me laugh in a way that was highly inappropriate. The type of laugher that makes one question oneself. I consider myself to be a reasonable person and moderately sober from time to time. Calm and unoffensive, but that laugh, oh that laugh. That laugh reminds me why we all aren’t rich. Because while life ain’t fair, she’s still can be highly entertaining.

I just stop and reflect, wow. Where did that evil laugh come from? That was so wrong! That was a Lex Luther reveals his Kryptonite gun to Superman evil laugh. You just won the lottery and have six hours to think up what you are going to tell your boss, evil laugh.

The kind of laugh that reminds you that you really don’t know who is driving up there sometimes, while you sleep at night. That Phantom of the Opera living in our head slips out from the bell tower sometimes. A random occasional Tourette’s syndrome outbreak. “Who said that?”

Mark Twain said truth is stranger than fiction,  because fiction is required to rely on only what is possible. While truth, has no such limitation.

For example: If I were to tell you a story about this real smart guy who worked himself up to being a billionaire developing electric cars and spaceships and stuff. The envy of millions and a regular household name.

Then, this real smart guy he blew the bulk of his fortune on a failing social media app. And then tanked that like an episode of Gilligan’s Island in less than 30 days! You’d probably say, “Aw go on with you!  Nobodies that dumb! Okay, maybe Donald Trump but nobody else, that’s all. Okay, maybe there are a few others. Let’s just call it a rather small group.”

Trump’s Truth App at last tally was taking on water faster than a Titanic that hit two icebergs. The good news being, Margie Taylor Greene was an early large investor, and the stock has lost 86% of its value. There it is again, that evil laugh!

 But it is the dilemma of the “Negro Leagues.” If Elon, lets the orange apocalypse back into the Major Leagues. Trump’s Truth will become even more pointless than a Viagra salesman in a celibate community. And will be forced to shutter the windows and lock the doors. Turn off the lights and stop the mail.  There it is again.

Am I just inherently evil? I really cannot help myself. This is way too much fun! I cannot withhold my laughter or enthusiasm anymore. I will laugh out loud and proudly too! I like watching him self-destruct, I could do this all day! I ain’t ashamed.

So, what! I’ll probably end up on the slow train to hell and not even get a sleeping berth, but I don’t care. That’s hardly a revelation. But this is worth it! And once I tell Satan my story, we’ll both have a good laugh. And maybe even Satan won’t believe it either, but will admire my attempt. We’ll become friends, and I’ll get a room in the air-conditioned dorm. Because this goes straight back to that “Truth being stranger than fiction stuff.”

Michael Cohen, hardly the source of all truth. He thinks he knows who the mole was at Mir-a-Lego. Remember the mole? Somebody had been ratting out the big orange cheese to the Feds. Telling the Feds where he was keeping all those documents hidden.

 Funny stuff, making Mr. Trump suddenly act kindlier and more charitable towards the hired help, lest they put the finger on him and send him upriver for a dime. I guess there is just no salvation for me. I just think about stuff like that and laugh and laugh, myself silly.

The mole according to Cohen is a woman. About five foot eight or so, with peroxide bottle blonde hair and extensive plastic surgery. She’s known to hang around in the company of this real skinny geeky looking guy. She would never talk to the FBI about her Daddy, would she?

In the words of Jesus; “Where’s Judas at tonight?” Straight to hell! I’m going straight to damn hell! And laughing all the way.

After raking in over $600 million dollars. Jarred and Ivanka have decided to stay out of politics this time around. Since they already have theirs and see no further reason to put up with the nonsense associated with politics anymore. Besides in the words of Admiral Doenitz, “The happy times are over!”  When the going gets tough, the tough get going! And the going is definitely getting tough, so Jarred Kushner and I Outta Trump plan to get going and scuttle off away from here. “Bye Daddy!”

It is a sign of the end times as Trump looks across his table of plenty from the chairman’s seat. And begins to notice all the empty places and new faces at the table. But it is inevitable, isn’t it? It isn’t the just evil wheels turning inside my little evil head, is it? When fortunes turn, some will grab the forty pieces of silver or 600 million and run for it, won’t they? Eventually the female praying mantis bites the heads off us all!

Daddies’ little girl, Et tu Brutus? Straight to hell, straight to hell! There just ain’t no hope for me Barack. I  think that’s funny. I think that’s hysterically funny. The old viper being wounded by the sting of its youngin’s tail, trained from birth at the foot of the master. What’s more, I know that it’s wrong and inappropriate to laugh so and enjoy this spectacle as much as I do. But I don’t care anymore. I’m going to hell for something anyhow.  And this planet lacks enough quality “Free” social entertainment for everyone.

Trump’s campaign announcement landed with the thud of an Acme anvil dropped from an Acme helicopter in the desert. Hailed with the same enthusiasm as a fresh dog pile discovered in the hall closet. “Oh look! He’s running again!”

The first time was a fluke. The second time was an attempt to recreate the fluke and to steal the fluke. This time a sad doddering old man is trying to recreate the thunder and glory of the good old days. Still with the roar of 2016 cheers in his ears of sheer adulation. The old hobo, trying to catch up with one more fast-moving freight train. Trying to catch a ride back to the good old days.

Running for office as a ploy to run from the cops. How sad that is. Everyone is abandoning him and repudiating him. The Republican Party whispers and moans, “Someone should tell him to PLEASE leave. He’s spoiling the Party for everyone.”

The Trump base inside the Republican Party is approximately 30% of all Republican voters. This qualifies Trump as a full-fledged Kamikaze pilot. With his first mission planned and scheduled for the Republican National Convention! “Oh, the humanity!”

The base opposed to Trump is about 65 or 70% of everyone else. Thus, basic math and Bernoulli’s principle tell us Trump can’t possibly win. Unless the Democrats decide to nominate three or four people to run for Presidency in 2024. “We just couldn’t make up our minds!”  

But here’s the kicker, so don’t never say life ain’t fun. For years, we’ve talked about Trumpers drinking the Kool aid. Any day now, they will all drink the Kool Aid. They drank the Kool aid! Kool aid this and Kool aid that. But Donald Trump IS the Kool aid! Cool sweet and sugary when it first goes down and toxic as hell and lethal as it settles in. And it is too late for them to try and hurl the poison out now.

I know, I’m straight going to hell because I still think that’s funny. They didn’t even notice the skull and cross bones on the package before drinking or asking for seconds.

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