The Heroic Story Behind “Operation Slimeball”
I do not know for a fact that the president did not read James Comey’s new book, “A Higher Loyalty: Truth, Lies and Leadership.” But that would not be surprising.
Many intelligent Americans like myself read only reviews. So we know just enough to hold our own should the subject come up at cocktail parties.
However he found out about it, he apparently did not like it, especially the part about him.
He called the author “a slimeball.” Not only once, but twice in a three day period (April 13-15).
As if that wasn’t bad enough, he called him “an untruthful slimeball” on his Twitter account, the official record of the Trump administration, whose tweets will be ensconced in the Library of Congress until the Donald J. Trump Presidential Library opens (Donations now being accepted).
A slimeball, you should know, is a serious charge. Not as strong as “stupid putz,” perhaps, but nothing you can get away with on the sidewalks of New York, where the president learned English as a first language.
Basically, what the book suggests, as I gather, the president is unfit to govern. But what really upset him is the allegation that he attended a Golden Showers performance performed by two Russian prostitutes in a Moscow hotel room in 2013 for his edification.
According to multiple sources, the Steele Dossier alleges that the real estate mogul, who had come to Moscow on a nooky inspection tour as the czar of the Ms. Universe Contest, reserved the Ritz Carlton’s presidential suite, had the prostitutes defile the bed previously slept on by Barack and Michelle Obama, a rite secretly recorded by the Kremlin for historic purposes unknown.
“Do I look like the kind of guy who needs to pay hookers,” he asked his soon-to-be fired FBI director?
Besides, as he explained before he ran for president, he’s germophobic. “There’s no way I’d let people pee on each other,” he informed his chief law enforcement officer.
Furthermore, he didn’t even spend the night in his room at the Ritz Carlton. He had flown in, used the suite to change his clothes, and flown home to his wife in Trump Tower New York the same night.
The husband of the year wanted his FBI director to say those allegations about the urination bit were not true. It hurt his image as what a great guy he is, indulging in a perversion that was un-American, and made him sound, as he put it, “ like a pee brain.”
If it happened, which it didn’t, he was only there to inspect plumbing facilities at your average Russian hotel.
Our commander-in-chief was already bummed out with the breakup of his romance with Vladimir the Great. For months before Comey’s book, his enemies had been alarmed at the bromance with the ex-KGB killer, making him look like some kind of Communist sympathizer or even a traitor. Just when we were about to learn as an act of friendship, our POTUS was planning to endorse the Moscow plot to set up Soviets in Lowell, Mass. and elsewhere, his friends the Russians were implicated in Syrian chemical warfare.
The slings and arrows that were incoming from his style of running the country by his gut were getting under his skin. Lyin’ Jim, as Trumpistas called Saint Comey in Internetese, writing about the size of his hands and what made his complexion so orange, was gaining intolerable traction in the media.
Could it be the 155 missiles—including 40 of the extended range version of the Joint Air-to-Surface Standoff Missile, carried by Air Force B-1B Lancer stealth bombers--launched in the midst of Lyin’ Jim‘s media blitz were weapons of mass distraction?
Violating his own policy of not telegraphing military action, our emotionally unhinged Commander-in-Chief had called the Operation Slimeball (unofficial nomenclature) weapons “nice, new… and smart.” As the Orangeman wrote on Twitter of record, “Mission accomplished!”
But it turned out they were not that smart, leaving the Russian-Iranian-Syrian axis of evil supply of poison gasses untouched, a military action which left everybody, except the president with small hands, scratching their heads.
The escalation from hurling epithets to launching missiles, unpresidented in this pundit’s view, as a policy initiative will be debated by future chroniclers of the wild and crazy Trumpian epoch.
What worries me now is where the war of words between a sensitive president more concerned about his image than saving the planet and a self-righteous Dudley Do-Right lawman conducting a mea no culpa campaign might accidentally provoke before winding up in the waste basket of history?
Like Ms. O’Leary’s cow that is said to have knocked over the lantern in the family barn that caused the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 or the accidental assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria in Sarajevo in 1914 that caused World War I, it would be ironic if the end of our world was a result of a hissy fit over literary criticism.
Go know, as they say in Serbo-Croatian.
April 21, 2018