Kitman returns today with the first in a series of letters he is writing as the Pliny the Elder, explaining the madness to the Pliny the Youngers.
The new, improved, fastest tweeting, made in Moscow, so-called President Trump model was introduced to the TV nation at a Joint Session of Congress a few nights ago. It got rave reviews from the pundits. This latest version sounded more presidential, less like a madman sitting at a blank Twitter page by dawn’s early light, going where no president has gone before.
I found the performance very entertaining, but disappointed he did not deliver at least part of the address in Russian, aimed at the constituency that may have played a major role in giving us a minority president.
RT (the Russian news network) is not on my FIOS channel line- up, so I may have missed the mujiks firing their Kalashnikovs in the air in the streets of Irkutsk Oblast or Nizhny Novgorod as he spoke, an event that wouldn’t have surprised a man who saw Muslims dancing in the streets of New Jersey the day the Twin Towers went down.
As huge as it was, and although it touched on all Vladimir Putin’s talking points, it did not address the major question which has — to use the proper oratorical word — schlonged his administration’s first 47 days.
What did he know, and when did he know, his friends in the Kremlin were meddling with the last election, possibly subverting an electoral process they have been trying to undermine since the 1920’s.
Our boy president has gone on record saying he “knows nothing about this Russian business.”
He never spoke to this guy “Putin.” He couldn’t pick him out in a police line up. The closest he has come to anything Russian is the Russian Tea Room, or words to that effect.
The same thing could not be said for members of his cabinet and closest advisers, who apparently had been in touch with Russian diplomats and other possible Soviet spies during the election, according to US intelligence. Phone calls, private meetings, the occasional knocking back of a few social vodkas. “Be My Valentine” cards exchanged. Nothing incriminating on the face of it.
Not to mention his family. The first son–in-law and his wife somehow show up in the president’s meetings with premiers of foreign nations. His sons are travelling salesman making business deals for the Trump organization worldwide, including Russia, of which the president presumably knows nothing, so it’s all kosher. The way the Trump family keeps popping up in stories reminds me of the creepy Snopes family, the power brokers in William Faulkner’s novels about Yokanapthawpa County.
I tell you, with all of this secret unexplained business going on the District of Columbia is starting to seem like Moscow-on-the Potomac.
Not being much of a Republican, if at all, the golfer-in-chief probably isn’t aware that the Plymouth Rock of Republicanism has always been “ Better dead than Red.”
To take the public’s mind off this Russian nonsense, the fantasy political game president had an epiphany. The Twit-in-chief stunned the world by tweeting Obama had meddled in his campaign by wiretapping.
And he proved his point by having no evidence.
No evidence? How can he do that?
His M.O. is never to have for his outrageous claims what is laughingly called “evidence,” such as facts.
The facts are accurate, in the new Trumpian system of logic, he made them up himself
How can he get away with this, you might well ask?
The man is a liar and an idiot.
Every village idiot in West Virginia, Ohio, Michigan and elsewhere they voted for him is proud one of their kind has been so successful in pioneering the concept of alternate facts for old-fashioned truths.
Anyway, our alternate president, and the other idiots in Congress are calling for an investigation to find the missing evidence to prove the twitter message’s veracity.
The way this idiot deals with the disturbing new reality of less than the truth being even more of a chance to set us free, as the Bible says, when I go to bed at night and say my prayers, I chant to myself “USA… USA” (United States of Amnesia).
The Nones of March MMXVII