Slouching My Way to Bethlehem, PA.
Tilting at windmills (which are only good for killing birds).
I am in receipt of a number of complaints from members of my base, who shall go nameless to protect the guilty, at my seeming preoccupation with a single subject.
“You are just tilting at windmills with your constant analysis of King Loudmouth’s performance on the throne,” one distinguished member wrote.
If that be so, call me Marvin Quixote. My lance quivers every morning when I read the official Crown Twitter message, dutifully transmitted by the treasonous fake media.
“You are preaching to the choir,” another dissatisfied reader wrote.
Well, put on my talith and call me Rabbi Kitman!
“You are as pathetic as a Capt. Ahab trying to nail Moby Donald,“ another opined. “This whale of a guy is impervious to satirical harpoons.”
Call me Ishmael.
Can’t I write something good about King Knucklehead, several suggested, as if there was a bias in my work.
Well, that’s not fair. As I have noted, he is a good friend of the Russians, what Lenin called “a useful idiot.”
Finding fault with our king— as he likes to think of himself (a tyrant on the outside, behind the mask is another tyrant)— is a rotten job, but somebody has to do it.
I mention all of this now, by way of saying I am not done yet with this preoccupation of mine, this obsession, if you will, that makes me sound like Inspector Javert of the Paris Sûreté on a witch-hunt of the century.
There is still work to be done. For example, there was a long article the other day in the New York Times (“All the fake news that’s fit to print”) describing all the dirt residing in a safe over at The National Enquirer. After mentioning the well-known allegations from his bevy of ex-mistresses, at the very end it mentions “allegations of unscrupulous golfing.” My sources and I believe the American people will agree that unscrupulous golfing is an impeachable offense.
I used to think King Blowhard’s days were numbered. Surely, the joke he played on the American people wouldn’t go on. His Excellency had made his point, confirming that anybody could grow up to be so-called president. He was anybody.
I assumed when all the president’s crooks were indicted, pleading guilty to lying to the FBI; when the most corrupt cabinet since the Harding and Grant administrations, filled with the Pruitts, Zinkes and Sleepy Wilbur Ross, the Commerce secretary who couldn’t stay awake after 11 AM, resigned in disgrace — it would all end with Porky Donald, quoting the words of the iconic Merrie Melodies 153 cartoons “Th-the Th-th The-the-th…that’s all folks!”
I was so sure of this happy ending, as a public service I had begun writing a suitable farewell address, which included the words...
…For the good of the nation, my party, and my family’s bank accounts, and having accomplished my goal of making America great again, I have decided to explore other options…
But I am wrong. King Donald the Fat is having too much fun.
What other job, I ask you, would give him the freedom of spending so much time way from the office. Of his first 591 days on the job, according to NBC News, which counts these things, 196 days were at Trump properties, and 153 days at Trump Golf properties. That includes 72 days at the “Southern White House,” (Mar-a-Lago) and 67 days at the New Jersey White House, the Bedminster National Golf Club.
What other job could guarantee space in the papers? Publicity is his oxygen. Any day his Tweets not being discussed on cable news networks is like someone stepping on his air hose.
True, he has made promises not kept, like getting Mexico to pay for that phantom wall. He has lied about ending the North Korea nuclear threat. He has blundered in foreign policy, attacking our allies and giving succor to our enemies.
Whatever cockups he engineers, the king’s loyalist base, the 34.9% for whom he can shoot somebody on Fifth Avenue with impunity, say so what?
The hotter the heat gets in the kitchen, when the so- called witch hunt investigations find his friends the Russians meddled, the faithful will say, so what? Anyway, what are friends for?
Not only that, whatever the investigations’ negative conclusion, the king will say it proves he’s not guilty of anything, as he’s been saying all along.
And the so what’s will say, so what?
My gut instinct direct from the stomach—the same place the King makes important decisions like what he will eat — tell me there are more windmills to tilt at… more words for the choir to hear.
Power to the Quixotes! Power to the preachers! Damn the Tweets, full speed ahead, as we slouch our way to Bethlehem, hang a left on Interstate 78.
Sept. 4, 2018