 Happy Wednesday everybody! We’re off and running now, aren’t we? Well, aren’t we? Actually, if you read the news feeds from overnight, it appears that the Weird Ship Trump may have sprung a leak (away the damage control party – Navy talk). Apparently, The Trump sent out a tweet last night that read as follows: “Despite the negative press covfefe…” Now everyone in the Land of Twitter is trying to figure out what, if anything, The Trump was trying to tell us. Maybe he fell asleep mid-Tweet? We could only hope. Wise-guy responders took to their accounts with stuff like: “Make America covfefe again!” After careful analysis on the part of Cousin Fred, I think we’ve come up with an answer. Yesterday, Spicy was holding yet another daily press conference at the White House (I thought they were going to stop doing that?!) when he became so overwhelmed by the media’s constant barrage of questions regarding The Trump’s accusations of fake news based on anonymous sources, that he (Spicy) walked out of the conference, pissing off the reporters (they’re young, they have their health, they’ll get over it). Mr. Spicy, he walked out! So maybe, just maybe, The Trump was trying to say (and, I hate putting words in his mouth, but in the interest of insightful analysis – okay Cousin Fred came up with his insight only after half a bottle of Mezcal): “Despite the negative press conference…” Yes, Mr. President? What about it? <zzzzzzzzz> Before he departed the arena, Spicy went on and on regarding The Trump’s successful visit to several places in Europe and the Middle East last week. Spicy (with a straight face mind you) informed the gathered media that before it was over, The Trump and Angela Merkel were swapping spit. Okay, that’s not true, he didn’t actually use those words, BUT keep in mind this is the same trip where we saw the American president shove that other world leader (dude from Montenegro) aside so he could be first in line for whatever the lunch buffet was featuring that day. Weird, I’m telling you! All of this coming on the heels of Tuesday’s firing of the WH Communications Director…a dude named Dubke. Mr. Dubke, he gone! Well, the press reports initially said that Dubke resigned…uh huh. The Trump is trying so hard to control and spin everything from the bridge of the Weird Ship Trump and the vessel is beginning to list to starboard (more Navy talk). Oh, and one last thing, I see this morning that Scott Pelley of CBS is done. Get this, he was on assignment for 60 Minutes somewhere in the world and the HR thugs at CBS cleared his desk, but no one bothered to tell him he is fired. BUT, (and this, boys and girls, is why the free press is the bane of a democratic society) some of his colleagues leaked the news to the rest of the world BEFORE Pelley was told. Mr. Pelley, he fired, but he don’t know it yet! Can’t help but wonder if the WH was leaning heavily on CBS execs to get rid of Pelley. Those CBS Evening News broadcasts had become so anti-Trump it was kind of embarrassing to watch. Okay, enough of the nonsense, on to more important matters…WHY THE HELL aren’t you people buying your festival passes to A Clustering of Gigolos this summer? Ticketmister tells Cousin Fred that no one has bought any tickets yet. Cousin Fred is working some sort of deal wherein people who buy passes for The Gathering of Juggalos festival also get admittance to A Clustering of Gigolos, though no one else (Ticketmister nor Insane Clown Posse) knows anything about it…yet. In the meantime, Cousin Fred and I have been working on our act for the festival, henceforth known as Deranged Mummers Parade (DMP to you hipster kids). With electric ukulele (me) and electric banjo (CF) in hand, we’re working on a thrash metal glam punk version of Tiptoe Through the Tulips where at the end of our set, I smash an effigy of Tiny Tim over the head with my uke before setting it afire. Only problem is that I only have one uke, so we won’t actually rehearse the on-stage arson until we actually do it. We’ll be legend. Or, the fire marshal will shut us down. That is all.  Let’s see…okay, we’re finally past Memorial Day weekend. I’m happy to report there were almost no casualties here at The Compound. Well, except for the six windows that were busted out on the west side of the main house during that storm on Saturday night. Appears Tornado Payneinmyass and his band of savage weather thugs got caught flat footed on that one. I don’t think they ever saw it coming. Even the intrepid storm chaser who usually hangs out here locally wasn’t around…he was on the other side of the state!
The Cabinet Saloon replication (aka, The Cab) made it through in good shape. Friend Lamont’s RV is a bit battered, but he has good insurance and there was someone here to replace the broken glass the next day. The Wife has returned to the roof, though this time she is wearing a Kevlar combat helmet that I keep around for just such occasions. All in all, we survived I guess. Izzy, the non-driving Buddhist vegan with irretrievably poor eyesight consultant from OKC, asked to be driven back to the truck stop on the west edge of Cosmic City after the storm. He’s had enough country living for a while, I think. Says he’ll be in touch with Skype. Cousin Fred and I drove Izzy into town on Sunday morning and then went on to Walmart to get some plastic sheeting to cover the broken out windows. As we were wandering through the place looking for rolls of plastic sheeting, I heard something that I never thought I would. John Lennon’s music is now store Muzak. Seriously, they were playing “Nobody Told Me.” Cousin Fred and I looked at one another, not believing what we were hearing. Cousin Fred muttered, “That’s sacred music, Brah.” I didn’t respond. I was too busy wondering if Yoko is so desperate for cash that she’s selling her long-deceased husband’s tunes for folks to shop by. And then I was wondering if she sold the entire catalog? I suppose at some point we’ll be hearing “Cold Turkey” or “Working Class Hero?” Oh, maybe “Meat City” over on the meat aisle and they’ll have to play the backward recorded parts frontward. That would be entertaining to see people’s reactions. Just another example, I suppose, of the decay of civilization as we recognize it. Selling John Lennon’s music to help sell more…whatever…eh, maybe I’m just getting old and cranky. Nah…. According to former CIA director Mike Hayden, we’re in a very dark place in society. Hmmm. He was making the comment during interview that slammed the “hubris” and “ignorance” of The Trump’s son in law, Jared Kushner in trying to establish a back channel for communication with the Russians back in December. We’re in a dark place as society? We didn’t get here overnight, fool. Yes, there is a lot of contempt and suspicion for the “organs of the state” (parts is parts) as he put it. And, he was an instrument of instilling that contempt. Him and every other political appointee and/or politician since Nixon (Nixon is dead still, right?). It kills me to defend anything that The Trump’s people say or do, but Hayden is the FORMER, as in ex, head of the Agency. Sit in your recliner at home and watch “The Jerry Springer Show” (today’s episode involves mothers and daughters pregnant by the same carnival show accountant – his name is Alec and he gets around) and shut up already. You no longer have your hand in things. Why are you still talking? I once knew a very senior government official, who upon retirement, was offered tons of dough to go to work for CNN or Fox. They wanted someone they could turn to in times of crisis to get his take on things. He turned them down (as I recall there were several offers). He figured that once he left the government, nothing he could say would be worth much since he was no longer there as information poured in to make a reasonable analysis. But I will give Hayden credit for one thing, he’s probably right, society is on back end of a roller coaster ride from hell and gaining speed as it heads for the broken rail at the bottom. Take for example, a story I saw on Huffington Post about a café in San Francisco that will this summer offer the opportunity for diners to dine with rats. WTFO? Let me make that clear, not dine on rats, but dine with rats…actually, I’m not sure which is worse. So, you pay an entry fee and for your money you get to share your coffee or tea and a breakfast pastry with a furry flea-bitten rodent. Now, isn’t that just f***ing special? AND (but wait there’s more), this is all being sponsored by a Bay Area rat rescue organization. Rat rescue? Again, WTFO? I don’t know about any of you, but I generally kill any rats (along with snakes and other things that go bump in the night) that cross my path. But maybe we’re just sliding toward some new new world order in which we make pals with creepy rodents because, well…it’s all that’ll be left to eat. Just sayin… That is all.  You know something? You people are lucky you aren’t me. I moved to The Compound a couple of years ago, thinking I would live out life in peace and tranquility. I’d listen to the songs of the mockingbirds and meadowlarks in the morning. I would view incredible sunrises and spectacular sunsets. I would smash spiders and shoot snakes wherever I found them. A life well spent on the Plains.
And, then…Cousin Fred moved in. So, yesterday I was inside the main house plotting the course for a new project I’m working on. I heard a commotion outside. I merely peeked out the blinds, afraid of what I would find. I should have just gone to bed and hidden under the covers at that point. I could see Friend Lamont atop one of the 50 foot speaker towers. He appears to be disassembling it. He’s lowering the pieces with a rope to the ground where the Hairdressing Hydrologist Gigi, wearing a hardhat, is untying the pieces and waving to Friend Lamont to pull the rope back up. Izzy, the non-driving Buddhist vegan with irretrievably poor eyesight consultant from OKC, was standing off to one side wearing a gold lamé baseball jacket and skintight white jeans. He was shouting into a diamond studded bullhorn encouragement to the people actually doing the work. Okay, actually he was shouting that there isn’t possibly enough time to get everything done before the end of July. And, that we need more help. That part he directed somewhere back to the northwest, where I presumed Cousin Fred was doing something. In the middle of it all, I see The Nephew pull up on the road out front with his truck loaded with something really big that’s covered in canvas. Cousin Fred comes running out from an area where I couldn’t see him as I’m peeking through a small opening in the blinds. As Cousin Fred runs toward The Nephew’s big rig he cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, probably looking to see if I’m watching. I remained cowering inside behind the blinds. Cousin Fred is now directing The Nephew to bring the load over behind the Cabinet Saloon replication on the north lawn. Out of nowhere comes some guy on a forklift driving toward The Cab. A forklift? Where the hell did that come from? I can’t ignore it any longer. I step out onto the front porch as The Nephew parks his truck over on the east side of The Cab and shuts down. Somewhere above me, I hear the cackling of The Wife as she observes the activity on the yard. As I step out from under the porch cover onto the sidewalk, an empty glass whisky bottle flies past my head and breaks on the cement. I turn to see The Wife cackling and slapping her knee, a filterless cigarette dangles from the corner of her mouth. “Missed youse,” she shouts as ash falls onto the roof. I move down to The Cab. Cousin Fred is startled to see me. The Nephew and mystery man on the forklift are busy unloading the truck. Turns out the bulk of the load are the biggest speakers I’ve ever seen in my life. I ask Cousin Fred what the hell is going on. “What the hell is going on?” “This is the sound system for the music festival, cousin. It’s the system AC/DC used on their last U.S. tour. 50,000 watts…hell, they’ll hear us in Tulsa.” “What did this cost?” “Practically nothing cousin. We’re leasing it. Just had to fetch it from New Jersey.” I looked at the road-weary Nephew, who promptly informed me not to expect him to haul it back to Jersey after the show. “That place sucks for driving a truck.” With that, he handed me an invoice for his services. I asked him if it included a family discount. He sneered and went back to work unstrapping the equipment. I pointed to the guy on the forklift and asked Cousin Fred, “So, who the f*** is that?” “Oh, him? That’s Bert, the forklift driver. He and the forklift are on loan from the Lowe’s in Enid.” “On loan?” “Pretty much.” Great…now there’s a hot forklift and probably a hotter driver on the property. Eh well, what’s one more soul on The Compound? I asked why Friend Lamont is disassembling the speaker towers. Cousin Fred responded, “Well, Izzy says that speaker towers are so 60’s cliché. We’ll hoist these babies,” he said as the slapped one of the monster speakers on the ground, “up on the framing over the stage. We can use some of the materials from the towers to build the frame on the stage.” As he said that, I looked northwest to see that the stage is beginning to take shape along the edge of a ridge that runs north of the main house. Cousin Fred continued, “Yeah, we’ll mount those babies to the frame that also hold the video screens.” “Video screens?” “Yeah, I have your daughter bringing those from Florida. We’re leasing them too. Paul McCartney used them on his last U.S. tour.” The Daughter? I know she just graduated from the George Mason School for Advanced Truck Driving, but she needs to start earning a living. “She has student loans to pay! She can’t be hauling stuff cross-country for nothing.” Cousin Fred responded, “Oh, she isn’t. I told her to bill you.” Well, maybe I’ll get a family discount from her. I was about to say something about the mixing-control board that would be required to handle a 50K watt sound system and a video display when I saw the last case coming off The Nephew’s trailer. It was a monster and was marked “Delicate Electronics – Handle With Care”…Bert promptly dropped it off the forklift. It’s going to be a long summer. That is all!  Wow…we at CCB have breaking news…of a sort…on a something we mentioned previously in a post. So bare (sic) with us.
I can’t figure out if this is more about further evidence of the collapse of society as we know it, or my ineptness as legal consultant, or maybe it just points to how flawed the jury system can truly be if you push a jury to a breaking point. Okay, on with the show, or no-show as is the case here. So, a couple of weeks ago, I mentioned some guy down in Florida who was about to be tried for the murder of his wife (turns out it was his girlfriend). His contention was that during a sex act she “accidentally” choked to death on his ummmmm largish anatomy. Part of his defense strategy as conceived by his lawyer, was to show said largish anatomy to the jury and judge so they would understand what the dead girlfriend had to deal with. But wait, there’s more. Making this particularly weird was that he had left her dead on the bed for at least 24 hours, possibly as long as 48, before calling the cops. I predicted then that would be his downfall. Okay, fast forward to last week. I saw something go by in a news item that said the prosecution in the case was ripping the Big Clyde defense apart leaving it in a flaccid pile of soggy noodles. There was a medical examiner who testified that for someone to choke to death in the manner suggested by the defense, was most unlikely. I thought to myself then that there was no way he was going to convince a jury that it was all a bizarre accident. Shows how much I know (spoiler alert). Okay, so fast forward to this morning. I’m reading through the daily overnights, hoping to find something like The Trump offering a toast in Hebrew that, roughly translated, indicated that his host’s great grandmother had relations with a goat, when…there it was. The trial of Mr. Suave & Deboner down in Florida was over and he was acquitted by the jury. Really, I thought? Is it possible? I read on. Just before the jury went into deliberations, the prosecution and defense attorney’s engaged in a courtroom argument as to whether alleged murder weapon would be put on display for all to see and whether it would be displayed in a relaxed or aroused state. Curiously, the prosecution was saying that it had to exhibited in an aroused state since that was the defense’s entire erected case. Soon thereafter, the jury went out, and came back in with a verdict of innocent. Kind of makes you wonder if they just wanted to get the hell out of there and the threat of having to view…well, you get the idea. Weird, weird, weird. Made it back to The Compound from the east coast. Have to say that there isn’t much back there that I miss. Too many damned people. And, yes, the Hairdressing Hydrologist Gigi came back with me. Needless to say Cousin Fred is thrilled. He immediately kicked the non-driving Buddhist vegan with irretrievably poor vision OKC consultant Izzy out of The Cabinet Saloon replication to make room for Gigi. We moved Izzy over to Friend Lamont’s RV parked next to The Cab. I tried to get him into the guest quarters at the Main House, but The Wife is having none of it. She told me that she’s looking forward to the “battle royale” that is likely to ensue now that we’ve added Gigi to the mix out on the north lawn. The Wife has taken up residence on the roof again with a pair of binoculars and a night vision scope so she doesn’t miss any of the action. She’s up there with a cooler filled with Old Crow whiskey bottles and a box full of her favorite smokes, filterless Pall-Malls. I come out of the house twice daily and throw her a roast beef sandwich and a baggie full of Frito’s. She seems content, though she has asked that I get her a can of Frito-Lay bean dip. Now that it appears that the latest 100-year flood is past us, we’re back to work today getting things ready for the Clustering of Gigolos Music Festival later this summer. More on that tomorrow. That is all!  Happy Friday everyone!
You know what I love about America…er, Canada? Those Canadians have a special sense of humor when it comes to making fun of us. Take for example a new lawn ornament (pictured) with the head of White House Spokesperson Sean Spicer that you can hide among your shrubbery. If you’re a rabid conservative who fails to see the humor in that…thhhppppppttttttt. It’s genius, I’m telling you! Appears Spicy may be on the steep slope to a lesser role in WH communications. I saw on a news outlet this morning that he is expected to have less public exposure following The Trump’s return from overseas. That was followed by another item that said The Trump is not planning to allow as many daily press conferences after his return. Ugh, we’ll be back to the days of media reporters having to resort to “Unnamed White House sources said today on condition of anonymity…” which I’m sure this administration will pursue with a vengeance. Eh, it’ll give the new FBI director something to do…you can’t investigate Russian ties to the White House if you’re hunting White House aides. Of course, I MAY have had something to do with those decisions. I was just dozing off last night when there came a rap on the door. It was the three goons in expensive shades and black Armani suits. They shoved their way inside. The one in front asked, “Do you have a tie now?” Without a word, I produced my SpongeBob tie. Even flipped the micro-switch to light it up. “Put it on and tie it long.” I pointed out that I was in boxers and a t-shirt. Hardly appropriate attire for formal wear. At that, the other two goons set upon me, tying my tie for me. After a quick inspection, the head goon spoke into his cuff, “The pig is tied.” Soon thereafter, the Hostess Orange Cupcake himself stepped into the room. It was The Trump. He looked at me and said, “Nice tie, Blogger Boy. Remember me?” I was too stunned for words at first. He was using the name he pinned to me as I accompanied him on his first campaign stop in Shattuck. “Of course, I remember you Mr. President.” With that, he smiled. Reminded me of the white cream filling inside of Hostess Orange Cupcakes. “I’m here because I need advice. You’re a clever lad. I read your blog daily. Very funny, very insightful, very fake news.” “Why, thank you…I think.” The questions started. “What do I do about this damned Russian ties investigation?” “Nothing as long as they’re SpongeBob SquarePants ties.” No response. I tried again. “Nothing. Say nothing more. Deny everything. They have to prove it, if there was some wrongdoing.” No response. “What about the Comey firing?” “It’ll blow over. Do nothing. Say nothing. Deny everything. They have to prove you did it to impede the investigation, if in fact that’s what you did.” You could have heard a pin drop. He continued, “What about the brouhaha over my passing classified material to the Russians?” “So what? You’re the president. You can do whatever the hell you want. It’ll blow over. The allies who gave us the info will get over it. Tell the media to go F themselves.” At that, he nodded. “What do I do if they won’t let me do nothing? The pressure is getting incredible and distracting.” “You can always resign and go back to doing whatever the hell it was you were doing before.” Again with the nods. “You want a job?” “Oh no…I’ve had enough of this place. I’m headed back to Oklahoma.” “I need someone like you on my staff. You tell it like it is. Plus, I’ve heard the story of you telling that intelligence reporter from the New York Times to go F*** himself when you worked in the White House years ago.” “Mr. President, that was then, this is now.” “You know, there were 100,000 tornadoes in Oklahoma earlier today. Why would you want to live there?” “Uhhh…it’s a challenge?” “Every airport in the state was destroyed by bad weather. You have no place to fly to.” “Uh, but…” “I’m president, for now. I can shut down air traffic in and out of the state of Oklahoma. Just like that,” he said snapping his fingers. I stood there like an idiot in my boxers and yellow SpongeBob tie. How do you respond to something like that? “Well, I guess you can go home. But, I want you to consider coming to work for me. And, promise me I can call you up whenever I need advice.” “Uh, sure. I promise.” “Good. Now I have a surprise for you, Blogger Boy.” “Uh oh,” I thought. One of the goons turned and opened the door. Cousin Fred’s long lost flame, the Hydrologist Hairdresser Gigi stepped through. I looked to The Trump, who said, “Take her with you when you go. She belongs with you. Spicer will be doing my hair from now on.” So, there it is. Now I’m stuck with Gigi. Cousin Fred will be delighted. The Wife not so much. On the other hand, we can certainly use the help with the upcoming Clustering of Gigolos Music Festival in the summer. This is my last day in Northern Virginia, will return to The Compound tomorrow. That is all (for now)!  Friends, you talk about a guy who had it all and lost it, Jim Bakker was that guy. Remember him? He was a TV evangelist who, along with his garishly made-up wife, Tammy Faye, had an incredibly successful, not to mention lucrative, show on television back in the 80’s called the PTL Club. His downfall began when he was accused of raping Jessica Hahn (that also happened in the 80’s). Oh and then there was the whole fraud thing wherein he bilked MILLIONS out of his followers. That sent him to prison for five years (that was in the 80’s), where he was known Double-K. While in prison Tammy Faye divorced his sorry ass (think that was in the 80’s also).
The 1980’s were not good to Brother Jim. Well, now (in the upper 2010’s) Jimbo is back on television hawking survivalist food and doomsday prepper equipment. Sure, why not? Oh, and during his infomercials, he makes statements that the Antichrist is alive and residing in people who dare make fun of The Trump. Hey! Are you listening Scott Pelley, Lester Holt, Stephen Colbert, Jimmy Fallon, et al…ad infinitum…? Really? The Jimster is somehow able to tie this to the first horse in Apocalypse…blah, blah, blah. I’d share the details, but your head might explode. But, to make certain we have this right…as I understand it, a disgraced holy man from the 80’s (wonder if he was angst ridden while wearing linen suits with a t-shirt) says that criticizing The Trump is hastening the end of the world? I believe I have that correct. Hmmmm…<slapping forehead>…oh! I get it! So with the end of the world hastening in our direction, NOW is the time to load up on freeze dried survivalist foods and doomsday prep equipment. And, oh, what’s this? Jim Bakker, former holy man and forever huckster, sells same! It’s a miracle! I mean it must be inevitable. There’s no way people will stop dissing The Trump. There’s so much to dis! We’re doomed! Course, you people never listen to me. For $400, Brother Jim will fill your pantry with enough food to feed you for a year (1,496 servings of freeze dried rubbery yum)! Just you. Your spouse, your kids, your whatever…they’ll watch you eat and remark what a foresightful individual you were to buy into 80’s Jim’ latest scam. And, then fight over the crumbs around your feet. Thank you, Jim Bakker…thank you! Sleep well, America…the end is near! I know all of you are simply breathless with anticipation to hear what happened yesterday afternoon. In short, nothing. Seriously, no one showed up. This after I made a very special effort to go out and find a SpongeBob SquarePants tie! It even lights up! Eh well, I have another couple of days here so who knows maybe the thugs will reappear. This morning I’m too busy to deal with it. Off to attend The Daughters graduation from the George Mason School for Advanced Truck Driving. I’ll wear my SpongeBob tie to the commencement. The Daughter will be so proud! Who’s next? That is all!  Northern Virginia. Sh************t. I’m still only in Northern VA. Another morning I wake up in the great undrained swamp that is the Washington, DC Metro. Every minute I sit in this motel room, I grow weaker. Every minute the government bureaucrats squat in their cubicles eating microwaved burritos, they grow stronger.
A lot of the folks back in Oklahoma were interested in why I am out here. Well, I’ll tell you. The Daughter is finally graduating from the George Mason School for Advanced Truck Driving. We’re all proud of her. Regular readers of this blog (all four of you), will likely recall me mentioning that The Daughter was involved in a scheme to truck green beans to Utah a few months ago…well, that and smuggling people who were trying to escape The Trump’s Great America by moving so far into the Rockies they’ll likely never be found. But, the Utah gig, it turns out, was only on the job training. She passed her final exam on reading tire pressure and checking oil this past Monday. Tomorrow, she’ll don her truck driving cap (with tassel) and an old baby blue terrycloth robe (it’s been in the family for years) and step across the stage. Of course, now she has to get a job. A real job. No more fake jobs driving green beans to Utah. Hopefully I’ll be able to make it tomorrow. Honestly, I’m afraid to leave the room. I woke at 2:30AM this morning to a light tapping at the door. A voice whispering through the gap, “Let us in. We just want to talk.” “Wrong room,” I called out! “We won’t leave. We have a message for you…from him.” Egads! What sort of nightmarish hell hole is this, I thought to myself? Fearing a trick I didn’t open the door, but peered out the window. There were three goons standing out there. All dressed in expensive suits and sunglasses (at 2:30 AM). One of them was saying something to me through the window, but I couldn’t really hear him over the god**n motel room air conditioner blasting away. I thought to myself, they don’t look so tough. Besides, what manner of thug would wear designer shades and an Armani suit? Always open to new adventures, I opened the door (first mistake). I had the motel room small coffee maker in hand and concealed behind my back. It was my only weapon in case one of these upscale punks tried something clever. No sooner did I have the door open when the three of them pushed their way in. I raised the coffee maker above my head ready to swing down on the one in front (second mistake). For my trouble, I had a lesson in the effectiveness of a Taser at close range. When I regained consciousness, I was on the floor. One of the goons was standing with his back to the door to ensure that I wouldn’t try to make a run for it. Another was standing over me with an empty plastic motel cup. Guess that explained my wet face. The third was seated on the recliner in the corner of the room. “Did you bring a suit,” he asked? “No, I’m here for The Daughter’s graduation, not a wedding,” I growled. “Have a tie?” “I wear ties for no man.” “Buy one…today. We’ll pick you up this afternoon. Be in a tie.” “Pick me up for what? I’m not going anywhere.” “Be ready or we’ll take you by force and tie a tie on you. You don’t want us to do that.” “Be ready for what? I’m not going anywhere with you freaks.” With that, the speaking goon got up out of the chair and dusted off his suit. “And, get someone to clean this room,” his final admonishment before all three departed. Since then I’ve been curled up like a formaldehyde-laden piglet on a biology lab table. Who were these people? What the hell do they want with me? Fortunately, there’s a Macy’s across the road from this no-tell motel. I suppose I can make an exception to my I-wear-ties-for-no-man rule. That is all!  Well, it’s Monday. Hope everyone had a great weekend and things are getting back to normal for you following the events of the past couple of days. But, in the big scheme of things, what is normal, you know? The blue fish swims in muddy water. If this opening paragraph seems a bit chaotic, it is…on purpose. I’m honing my skills at deception, subterfuge and surreptitiousness.
Why, you ask? Well, I’m on my way back to D.C. I’m not really looking forward to it either. Did you see the news this morning? Apparently, there’s a (yet another) revolution about to take place and I don’t want to be caught in the middle of it. I just hate landing in the middle of a firefight. Apparently, The Trump is planning to fire all of his top advisors, in a move that is more reminiscent of a president late in his term who is trying his best to keep special prosecutors and/or impeachment attorneys at bay. Reportedly, on the chopping block is Sean “Spicy” Spicer (aka, Hides in the Bushes – and not in a good way), the press secretary who can’t seem to quite keep up with his boss. Next is this administration’s version of Lord Vader, Steve “Banned from the NSC” Bannon who recently fell out of favor with his boss. There’s also Reince “Twice” Priebus, chief of staff, who no one has seen on TV much lately. And, finally, White House counsel Don “I’m McGone” McGahn. Their crimes? Who knows? Well, it’s been reported that Priebus tried to break The Trump’s thumbs to slow down the tweets, but other than that, no one seems to know. The WH counsel is an interesting add to the mix. Perhaps all of this is because The Trump is mad because no one can make the alleged Russian investigation go away? He fired Comey, hoping that would put the brakes on, but noooooooooo. I tell you, daytime drama ain’t got nothin’ on The Trump’s administration! And, here I go winging my way back east and straight into an acid-drenched milieu. But, remain calm, dedicated readers (all four of you). Throughout it all I expect to be able to continue my nearly daily missives from Jerusalem on the Potomac. Unless, of course, the jackbooted thugs at TSA seize my laptop. “Hey, you jackbooted thug, I have the constitutional right to make a jackass out of myself with a nearly daily blog! Hands off the laptop, you cretinously savage nematode!” Kindly forward a cake with a hacksaw blade and file to my cell, gentle readers. Every once in a while, I feel compelled to advise people bent on a life of crime. Just helping them get their start, you know? I mean most criminals are complete idiots and do some of the dumbest things. Take, for instance, the Oklahoma City woman, in a bright yellow Batman t-shirt, who allegedly tried to hold up a Braum’s store in OKC using a hammer and a pit bull on Sunday. No, seriously. So, this woman lives in a state where every citizen (including newborns) possesses 4.6 weapons per and she attempts “armed” robbery with a hammer? Really? No one in the Braum’s took her seriously so she used her hammer to smash a credit card machine on the counter and then started beating on the cash register. Finally, the clerk just hit a button and the drawer opened. At that point, Maxine and her silver hammer and her mutt, ran off with a small amount of cash. They would run and then she would heave the dog over a fence before jumping said fence herself. That was followed by more running. As you can imagine, OKC’s crack crime fighting team was in hot pursuit. Pretty soon, the dog stopped running with the woman and started running with the cops thinking it was all great fun. She got caught. She’s in jail on a robbery with a dangerous weapon charge, to wit: a hammer (Ace is the place). The pitbull is likely in the pound, probably wondering, “What did I do?” Friends, if you intend to take up a life of crime, allow me to give you some advice…please. First of all, pick your target. A dollar store is probably a better pick than a Braum’s, unless of course it’s a Saturday. Then, Braum’s is rolling in cash from wayward drivers trying to find a casino and in bad need of a sugar fix. Choose your wardrobe better, just in case you actually get away with it. Bright yellow Batman tees are a bit…ummmm, conspicuous and easily remembered. Leave Phideaux at home. When the heat is on, dogs become confused about their loyalty…kind of like a Trump WH aide. Seriously, leave the hammer at home with your out of work construction worker boyfriend. Nothing says I mean business like a pistol, loaded or not. Okay, that it. My work is done here. I’m off to D.C. That is all!  Happy Friday everyone! I suppose we could call this the chickens come home to roost post. Two “stories” that we looked at last year have come full-circle. You see…that’s what’s makes us at CCB so good at what we do. We find news that matters. No fake news here. No sir.
Almost exactly one year ago today, we told you about Oklahoma City attorney Jay Silvernail who shot some dude outside an OKC bar called Groovy’s. “You just shot a man. How do you feel?” “Groovy, man.” Attorney Silvernail was released almost immediately on a $7,500 bond (it’s cheap to shoot people in OKC). Hell, the bullets cost almost as much. His trial has finally come around and guess what? Last night the judge declared a mistrial and then 30 minutes later changed his mind. He told the jury to get back to work. No word on the source of the mistrial, but I’m betting the judge changed his mind because he doesn’t want to see Silvernail get off so easy. You see, this isn’t the first time Silvernail has shot someone. Oh no. In 2015 he shot and killed one of his clients in what he called self-defense. Guy probably wasn’t paying his bill. In last year’s post, I compared Silvernail to Temple Houston, but that will only stick if he gets off from this latest shooting. Temple, after all, racked up as many acquittals as he did bodies. And, then, last fall, we told you the saga of Pennsylvania wild woman Kimberly Brinton (pictured), who, when reproached by an upstanding citizen about smoking a cigarette while pumping gas promptly sprayed said upstanding citizen with gasoline and threatened to turn her into a charred brisket. Miss Kimberly (best not call her Kim) sprayed upstanding citizen again through the window of her car, prompting upstanding citizen to get out of the vehicle to kick Miss Kimberly’s ass. Only problem was, upstanding citizen slipped in the gas, fell, and broke her upstanding arm. Wild woman Kimberly drove off, but was soon arrested. Anyway, she (wild woman K, Special K to her friends) was just sentenced to two to six years in prison. She said the time in prison will help her continue her studies of the Amish way of life…at least that will take the gas pump handles out of her hands. Okay, granted, the story of Silvernail is not exactly full circle, but who knows when the jury will decide what to do with him, if they ever do. Frankly, I’m looking for an acquittal. Attorney Silvernail is just about due to shoot someone else. Let’s get on with it! Things are tense here at The Compound. Izzy is not particularly happy with the living arrangements in the upstairs apartment of The Cab (the Cabinet Saloon replication on the north lawn). Cousin Fred sleeps downstairs in the bar and apparently snores so loudly that it’s keeping poor Izzy (the non-driving, Buddhist, vegan, and irretrievably nearsighted OKC consultant) awake at night. I offered Cousin Fred the couch here in the main house, but the Wife refuses to let him through the door as long as she is here. The fact that Izzy is here really has her freaked out. She’s been locked up in her bedroom since returning from overseas and only comes out to fetch another bottle of Old Crow (she bought a couple of cases in the duty-free) and/or a carton of filterless Pall Malls. I have no idea what will happen once we get A Clustering of Gigolos Music Festival underway. I suppose she’ll probably head off on another fabulous international vacation. Friend Lamont is headed this way and will likely be here through the summer. Cousin Fred summoned him from west Arkansas. We need help and Friend Lamont is always a good hand. He’s coming in an old RV so hopefully there will be room in there for Cousin Fred to sleep. Cousin Fred and I have been working on songs for our metallic hop act that we named Deranged Mummers Parade. So far, we’ve come up with Creeping Fungus; Tornadic Spleens; Cotton Mash; Master of Idiots; Deep in Lard; Body Parts Warfare; and, Thrash ‘til Arrest. That last one has me humping the amplifier for feedback with my electric ukulele. It’ll be our closer. It’s going to be so great. You’ll see. Who knew it was so easy to be gigging musician? Money for nothing and your chicks for free! That is all!  I don’t know about you people, but I’m ready for a few days of sun. Thought I was going to have to swim into Cosmic City yesterday. Like any other person in this part of the country, I’m always delighted to see rain, but I’d rather it come when I want it to. Eh well… The Trump’s White House is all in a dither over the firing of Comey. The assistant deputy vice attorney generalist Rosenstein threatened to quit when the White House pointed at him as the impetus for the firing (he claims it wasn’t him). Even everyone’s favorite spokesman Spicy (henceforth will be known as Bushman) is on the run. He was discovered hiding in bushes to avoid having to face the media yet again over The Trump’s decision. Ho ho…this is without a doubt the most entertaining administration ever. But, I digress… The reason that I had to go into town yesterday was because the consultant from OKC arrived. Isidore Fettboden is the dude’s name. We had to go into town to get him because: 1) Izzy, as Cousin Fred is already calling him, doesn’t drive; 2) Greyhound no longer runs a bus line to Cosmic City (do they to anywhere?); and, 3) his ride, a bull hauler on his way to Dodge City, dumped him at the truck stop on the west edge of town. Isidore informed us at the truck stop that he prefers being called by his initials, I.F., but you say it as it were the word, if. He also insists that if we address him in a note that it be a little i, and a capital F. iF…makes sense, right? Cousin Fred just started calling him Izzy, at which the OKC consultant shrugged and pointed to his bags on the floor in the truck stop. I ignored the bags, stepping over them and went outside to the vehicle. Cousin Fred, eager to tap Izzy’s expertise, gathered the bags and showed the OKC consultant outside. As we drove back to The Compound, I asked Izzy about his experience putting on music festivals. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, but then pulled the sequined glove from his left hand and laid it across one of his legs. “I have plenty, thank you,” was all he said. He turned his head and looked out the side window the rest of the trip. So much for traveling conversation. After settling Izzy in the upstairs apartment of the Cab, he insisted that we get to work. We took one of the tables down in the bar area to talk. He wanted to see the plans, permits, insurance policies, and contact lists that we had to that point. Cousin Fred and I just looked at one another. Cousin Fred then went over to the trash can and dug out the napkin on which he had written various names before coming up with the festival name, A Clustering of Gigolos. He went to explain to Izzy, who refused to actually touch the napkin, that we had settled on the name after deciding to go after the Insane Clown Posse’s audience at The Gathering of Juggalos Music Festival in OKC. I piped in with a brief explanation of the Insane Clown Posse, but Izzy held up a hand to stop me. “I am very familiar with the act, thank you.” After a rather lengthy discussion of everything that needed to be done before we could even think of putting on a show, Izzy pointed out a flaw in our plan. Namely, that everyone attending the Gathering of Juggalos is really drawn by the headlining act, Insane Clown Posse. Izzy suggested that Cousin Fred and I needed to come up with an act of our own. He suggested that we put our heads together and think about it. As Cousin Fred and I were thinking (it mostly amounted to the two of us staring at one another), Izzy got up from the table and poured himself a tall glass of vodka at the bar. Cousin Fred, again (he’s on a roll) came up with a plan. He offered that we would start our own band and call it the Deranged Mummers Parade. I got up from the table and went over to the bar to pour myself a drink. Cousin Fred said that he was in Philadelphia one New Year’s Day years ago and caught part of the annual Mummers Parade through downtown. Since a lot of the entries into that parade are string bands, he suggested that we (meaning himself and me) could do something similar. His plan includes me playing an electric ukulele and Cousin Fred will play an electric banjo. The music in his view should have a psychedelic glamor punk feel to it. I continued drinking heavily at the bar. Izzy considered that for a time and then declared it “positively genius.” Somehow, I don’t think this will end anytime soon. That is all! |
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