Everyone’s howling for Trump’s impeachment, and he won’t even be sworn in until tomorrow. Meanwhile, Trump’s howling about a conspiracy only he sees in which everyone else created votes for whats-her-name. This sort of thing invariably leads to a tea party featuring a dormouse and a disappearing cat.
I’m beginning to think, though, maybe this is a conspiracy Trump’s trumped up himself. He just doesn’t want to be President. He’s had all the fun, shaking babies, kissing hands, getting golden showers in Moscow. I think he wants to quit now, while he’s ahead.
That ain’t right, yo. We can’t let him get away with it. We gotta make him serve.
Ever since I learned to take the concept of Draft seriously – and I assure you I was caused to take it very seriously – I’ve favored drafting a businessman and hauling him, kicking and screaming if need be, into the West Wing, strapping ankle brscelets on him and forcing him to run the government. We could pay him from National Budget surplus. If there were surpluses three years running he’d be eligible for early release, but not guaranteed it, unless he could prove some benefit to the people – say, tasty school lunches nation-wide – resulted from his administation.
Being President is hard work. Look at the before&after pictures. You remember what young Barak looked like? And now? They go into office with colored hair. By the time they come out, it’s all white. Now, that’s one problem The Donald will not have to face. He’ll simply have to send out for a new wig.
The government is, theoretically, divided into three parts. Legislative, judicial, and administrative branches all serving as checks on each other. The President is the administrator, not of The People, but of the Government. In Trump’s case, that makes him the Top Landlord of all the Government office buildings.
He will be the one ultimately responsible for the proper functioning of the plumbing in all the lavatories in all the US Government-administered facilities in the world. First among these are in the Congressional cloakrooms. And as the landlord, he will be esponisble fo the janitorial services as well. These tiles are smeared not only with biological emissions but also psychic effluvia that cannot be erased with chemicals and scrubbing. The difference between Trump the Landlord and Trump the President comes here.
It is the President’s task first to grease the mechanisms of government with the alick primordial slime with spraygun and mink-fur brush, and then to recite the arcane spells and perform the profane rituals that cleanse these same political cogwheels so they can go home to their spouses and kiddies and not scar them when they embraced.
He wasn’t running to be elected Louis XIV, you know. It isn’t always good to be President. He’s got to deal with a lot of assholes. The Republican Party isn’t exactly a party.
You remember the last big party you went to? Where somebody rented a hall, booked a caterer and a band, had some mc yelling things through a PA system? And your Aunt Gussie made a spectacular fool out of you and, worse, your Dad? Well, the Republican Party is made up mostly of Aunt Gussies, and Uncle Melvins, too, the guy who enables her bad behavior with the catchphrase, “What’re you gonna do?”
Well, that’s a very interesting question. You know the saying, “Beauty s only skin deep, but ugly goes all the way to the bone?” My Aunt Maddie was the ugliest woman God ever made, if He made anyone. Her husband, Uncle Melvin, was alternately the sweetest guy you’d ever want to meet. You’d expect Uncle Melvin, living with this psychic vermin, would either die young or end up looking like Dorian Gray’s picture.
Not so. I don’t know what he said or did to her in private, but Aunt Maddie’s face while she was alive continued to corrupt, what with warts and convulsions, until she looked like the business end of a ’56 Buick. Uncle Melvin’s oountenance, unblemished, shone on all with the smile of the benificient.
She died ten years before he did. He then moved to Orlando. Whenever I ran into him there, he smiled on me and strolled on, accompanied by two women at least forty years his junior.