 You know what really irks me? Good morning. Happy Monday and all that, by the way.
I spent far too many years in the military and the one thing that was always driven home when you’re in the military – in both theory and practice – is that you always take responsibility for your actions. If you screw something up, you own up to the mistake and take action to correct whatever you did. That's if you're in the military. If you’re The Trump you try to blame someone else for everything that goes just a bit off the tracks in your administration. Take for example one his lawyers, we’ll call him Sekulow…well, because that’s his actual name, who went on national TV Sunday morning and indicated that it seemed odd to him that the Secret Service would allow Boris and Natasha into Trump Tower for the meeting with the Three Stooges if there was something wrong with Boris and Natasha, which there was. This coming on the heels of reports last Friday that there was an additional attendee at the meeting, a shadowy former Soviet intelligence officer. Talking about Russian adoptions, indeed! When I heard this crap yesterday morning being spewed by Lawyer Sekulow, it occurred to me that even if the Secret Service had been in place at Trump Tower at the time, which they weren’t, it isn’t their job to vet visitors coming through beyond making sure they aren’t carrying a weapon. So, for example, if Kim Jong Uno showed up at the White House gates one morning and he had an appointment, chances are he would get in. Oh sure, he would have to hand over the portable nuke in his pocket, but hey, he has an appointment. Now, the USSS is defending itself by pointing out that they weren’t posting agents at Trump Tower at that time. But, even if they had been, if Boris and Natasha had an appointment with Junior and the other two stooges, they would likely have gotten in. All of this, of course, was meant to divert attention from the fact that Junior initially lied about the meeting and then compounded that by lying about who was at the meeting. This thing is going to roll on forever, me thinks. Now, I know that you people depend on CCB more for our analysis of reports of people acting stupidly than you do the political stuff. But, honestly, lately you people have been behaving, which leaves us with little to analyze besides the antics of La Familia Trump. Well, hey, things on that end are beginning to turn around. We saw a report in the overnight newsfeed straight out of the heart (or in the case, maybe the spleen) of Texas about a woman throwing an iced tea dispenser around a Taco Bell while the manager half-strips and threatens to beat the crap out of the woman’s 17 year old son and then really goes bananas. Now how’s that for misbehaving? Things are lookin’ up, I’m telling you! So the woman, we’ll call her Queen of Nestea, shows up at the restaurant with her teenaged son, we’ll call him Quart Size Unsweetened, during the noon rush to pick up her final paycheck. Aha…so, she’s a former employee…this won’t end well. See, things are looking up! What exactly started the melee isn’t really known. Maybe the manager, we’ll call him Taco Boss, was too busy with customers to fetch her final check at that moment. Whatever the case, things began to escalate. At some point the Queen of Nestea got behind the counter which all of you rule-following readers of CCB know is a no-no. She began slinging the contents of the iced tea dispenser around the restaurant reportedly asking patrons ducking the refreshing deluge, “You want lemon with that?” When alleged ice tea dispenser was empty she flinged it (sic) at Taco Boss who was trying to pass more greasy tacos out the drive-thru window. He turns around and grabs the tea dispenser near the drive-thru and flings it at Queen of Nestea. He then lets loose with a string of obscenities before tearing off his shirt and challenging Quart Size Unsweetened to a fight. Queen of Nestea begins shouting at Quart Size Unsweetened to get the hell out of the restaurant. She then picks up a large metal spatula and prepares to defend herself against Taco Boss. But wait, there’s more… Taco Boss then begins screaming at one of his diligent employees who is recording the whole thing on her iPhone to stop filming. “Don’t put this on the Internet,” he yells. “I don’t want to be on the Internet!” Alleged iPhone diligent employee responded that she was only recording in case someone did something stupid…hmmmmmmm. About that time, the cops come rushing in. Taco Boss throws his hands up in the air and begins screaming, “I’m the manager, I’m the manager, we have it all on camera!” Thank you, iPhone diligent employee. One of the cops tells Taco Boss to calm the f**k down and put a shirt on. They arrest Queen of Nestea and drag her off in handcuffs. But wait, there’s still more…the iPhone recording ends with the cops tackling Quart Size Unsweetened in the parking lot and cuffing him too. See what I mean? I love America, really I do. Where else could minimum wage employees find fame on the Internet? Really, where else? That is all!  Happy Thursday everyone. At least I hope your Thursday will be enjoyable. Not so much for me. It was a long night here. I wrapped up the final set lists for the Clustering of Gigolos Music Festival coming up. Finished that around 11:30 and thought I would go out to The Cab and have a drink with Cousin Fred.
When I got outside though, I saw that he and the hairdressing hydrologist Gigi were standing around that hole they’ve been digging in the north pasture. Gigi was dressed in a bikini (it was still danged hot at 11:30) and a hardhat. Cousin Fred was wearing a loin cloth and a dried alligator skull on his head…a leftover from when that weird gator cult visited over the 070417 Apocalypse here at The Compound. There was someone there talking to them. A guy dressed in khaki pants and a white ironed shirt, oh, and a hardhat. He had a long roll of paper in his hands, looked like a set of plans, that he was looking at as he unrolled it. Gigi kept pointing to something on the paper. Dude in the white ironed shirt would nod thoughtfully as she spoke. When she would turn away to talk with Cousin Fred, dude in the white shirt would take a quick peek at her bikini-clad body. Perv. I thought I could hear something to the south, a motor sound, but couldn’t see anything on the road down there. I stepped back inside the garage where I keep a night-vision scope (no compound should be without one) and took it back outside on the terrace. I looked toward the south and could see something way down the road near the section line, but I couldn’t quite make out what it was. Some sort of truck maybe. There were people moving around the thing and smoking…lots of smoking going on. I moved the scope back over the north pasture and was nearly blinded when it picked up the group there with their flashlights perusing rolled paper and Gigi’s body. I swung past them to Ironed Shirt’s pickup. It wasn’t hard to spot, it was white. Why are there so many white trucks in this area? Don’t you people have any sense of color or style? But, I digress… There was an Oklahoma Corporation Commission logo on the door. What the hell is the OCC doing at The Compound at 11:30 at night, I’m thinking to myself? Now the bunch in the north pasture all seem in agreement and everyone is shaking hands. Ironed Shirt walks back to his white truck. I see Cousin Fred on his phone talking to someone. He was looking south toward the mystery truck. I decided then it was time to go inside, lest I be pinned as a witness to what would follow. Friends, when you were in high school or college did you ever find yourself in a situation where you’re with a bunch of friends in a car and they dare you to do something that they swear will make you a legend? Though in the end you just look like a fool? I know I did that sort of thing. In fact, incident for incident, I’m probably the most legendary person I know. Take for instance the guy in Arizona, as reported by KFOR News4 (supposedly the guy is a cousin to News9’s David Payne), who on a dare got out of his friend’s car in front of a Walmart wearing nothing but glittery eye makeup. He walks into the Walmart and tours the store naked. Store officials (read as woefully underpaid managers) call the cops. By the time, the cops show up, Naked Dude has left the building and is across the street. Bet he was searching for his friends who swore they would wait for him over there. He told the cops that he and his pals were doing some meth and his pals thought it would be really funny for him to tour Walmart naked. There was no explanation as to how he came to be wearing glittery eye make-up or when it was applied. Hey, maybe his friends were hoping he would wind up in one of those People of Walmart internet click-bait things. So let’s see…the cops got him for indecent exposure, public sexual indecency, and possession of drugs (he was still carrying some meth – where they didn’t say). The best part of this story is that it all happened in Maricopa County, where that lunatic sheriff no longer reigns. They got a new guy. Still, I’m betting it will not be a pleasant stay in the county jail. By the way, we were only kidding about the guy being David Payne’s cousin. That is all!  Доброе утро. Я надеюсь ты хорошо спал.
In case you’re wondering, that’s Russian. I’m practicing my Russian because apparently The Trump and his family are planning to sell the United States to Vlad the Poot. Bet Junior is hoping to cash in on the Moscow commercial real estate uptick. And, I know this thing has been analyzed and reported to freakin’ death, but every time I decide to ignore it all, there’s a new wrinkle. I know you’re all tired of hearing about it, but Stephen Colbert put it best on Monday night. Essentially, he said that you have the campaign manager (Manafort) and key advisor (Jared) to a (then) trailing presidential candidate summoned at the last minute (in the middle of a heated campaign) to a meeting with an unknown Russian attorney and they happily attend…and swear they didn’t know what was going on? Okay, we’re stupid, but we’re really not that stupid. Raise the bullsh*t flag! Yesterday, Junior posted his email exchange with the weirdo Brit PR dude who made it perfectly clear what the Russian could offer. Like a bizarre late night McDonald’s commercial, Junior announced he’s lovin’ it. Let’s stop there for a second. If you will recall, these are same three stooges (Junior, Jared, Manafort) who all denied having any contact with Russians during the campaign. Hmmmmm…what about Natasha (the Russian attorney) who they claim wanted only to discuss child adoptions? Hopefully la Familia Trump understands why no one believes them now. Someone’s lying. Do I care? Not really. Hillary is probably as crooked as this bunch. She just didn’t understand why what she did was so wrong. Honestly, neither does this bunch. Let’s face it. We wound up with what we deserved and now we’re stuck with the NYC version of Dukes of Hazard. Have you been in corporate America lately…it’s always like this. Oh sure corporations will trot out their ethics team with records of training all the employees on playing fair. Thhhpppppppttttttt! La Familia Trump are cutthroat business people. They have no ethics. It’s kill or be killed. The only problem now is that there will be an investigation. The media will have to report on it ad infinitum. And, we’re going to receive the “benefit” of that reporting. Judas priest. I personally am thrilled to find diversions in this misery of life. Let’s see…in the middle of final planning and preps for our Clustering of Gigolos Music Festival at the end of the month, Cousin Fred and the hairdressing hydrologist Gigi have some secret project they’re working on in the middle of the night. Cousin Fred tells me not to worry…that I worry too much…I’m going to have a heart attack I keep worrying like that…fuhgetaboutit he says (with a western Arkansas accent). Yeah, easy for him to say. I don’t know exactly what they’re doing, but they’re out there digging in the southeast corner of the north pasture. Night after night. I can hear them out there. Drunk on their ass and laughing in between bouts of digging. Whatever they’re digging is covered with a large wood cover during the day. Okay, I need more diversion…let’s see. Oh, I know, there was the story I was originally going to post on here, but got sidetracked reading about Junior and Natasha. It seems there was a couple in Florida…why is it always Florida? They were out at 3AM having sex in front of a convenience store when a cop rolled up on them. According to Officer Nofun’s report they were both naked from the waist down and engaging in sexual activity with one another. Well, that pretty well sums things up, I reckon. Officer Nofun told them stop. They got belligerent about it and just kept going. Finally, Officer Nofun got the two separated (hopefully he wrapped himself in latex) and charged them with (only in Florida) public exposure of genitalia…eh, it’s a misdemeanor. They spent nine hours in jail, probably to sleep off the drunk and were released. Wait a minute…wasn’t Jim Morrison charged in Florida with allegedly wagging his wiener at an audience? Then it was a felony, which is why he fled the country for Paris and soon thereafter croaked. Sigh. There…now don’t you feel better about humanity as a whole? I know I do! And you people still wonder why I drink? That is all!  Happy freakin’ Monday, you madcaps! You know, time is quickly running out for you to purchase passes for the 2017 Clustering of Gigolos Music Festival here at The Compound. Seriously, people, we’re three weeks away and we’ve only sold 50 passes.
Of course, Cousin Fred bought all of those to hand out to his pals. Heathen fool, I’m not even sure he has 50 friends! Anyway, please go to Ticketmister and purchase your passes today. As you may recall, joining the smashed up hulk of the Buick that The Brother-in-Law rammed out in the road in front of The Compound, we now have the burned-out molten frame of Mr. Kim’s Korean Plum Wine Hooch carrying RV. Someone from Cosmic County showed up late Friday afternoon and asked just what it is we think we’re doing by pushing all of our wreckage out onto a county road. I told the person I had no idea how all of that got there. It just appeared overnight…over two nights…we saw and/or heard nothing. It’s our story and we’re sticking to it. He smiled and said that a wrecker would be here on Monday to haul it all away. That’s all good because I really don’t have time to deal with any more nonsense around here. I’ve got a festival to run dammit! Mr. Kim has headed back to Tulsa to start brewing/distilling/vinting/whatever another mammoth batch of Korean Plum Wine Hooch. He’s pretty certain he can borrow his brother-in-law’s RV to transport it back here in time for the festival. I’m working on the final schedule of acts that will perform. It’s down now to negotiating who goes first, second, and so on. The really bad acts will want spots late in the Festival when everyone is bonked out of their gourds on the hooch. Believe me when I tell you – enough Korean Plum Wine Hooch and The Archies would sound good. Warning: Do not attempt to search for music by The Archies on YouTube. Doing so could turn you off music for the rest of your life. I left Cousin Fred in charge of getting us a battery of portable toilets. A mistake. I obviously overestimated his abilities. He hasn’t done crap (pun intended). Yesterday, I was screaming at him to get on the phone and find me 200 chemical toilets! See, it’s those tiny details that can wreck everything. I told him that he’d better lay off the hooch until we get past the festival. He saved several jugs of the stuff before the fire. He and the hairdressing hydrologist Gigi have been spending these hot summer days hiding out in the Cabinet Saloon replication doing who knows what and drinking hooch. At night though, they come alive, I can hear music and laughing going on all night long. Those two are up to something, I just can’t figure it out. And, speaking of dumbasses (poor segue, I know). Folks, if you’re like me (and, I pray you aren’t), you probably want to give The Trump the benefit of the doubt, don’t you? You hope the Electoral College voted the right person into office, yes? I mean, I read the tweets online. I think I’m reading between the lines, that it’s all a ruse to lure his enemies into a false sense of security…or something like that. I think he must have something going for him. He’s a billionaire supposedly, right? So if you overlook the numerous business failures over the years, the bankruptcies, and the lawsuits, he must have it on the ball, right? Well, you hope so anyway since the dude has the ability to turn Earth into a lifeless rock in space. But then, we hear that he and Vlad (The Poot) Putin had a private meeting at the G20 summit last Friday in which they (with apparently straight faces) discussed forming an “impenetrable U.S.-Russian cyber-security unit”…huh? What? Get me a Q-tip! Obviously I need to clean out my ears! I don’t think I heard that correctly! Yep, that’s what they discussed…oh, along with a cease fire in Syria. Yeah, about as much chance of that happening as a joint cyber-security team. When the news of that got out, even Republicans turned on him. That had The Trump backpedaling Sunday night and attempting to spin what he really meant. He was tweeting stuff about he didn’t think that a joint cyber security unit was likely to happen, but pointed out that he did work out a ceasefire in southwest Syria. Judas priest…as I sat reading all this, I couldn’t help but think this was the dumbest f**king thing I’ve ever heard. One lawmaker, and I’m sorry I don’t recall who, said that we might as well just send our ballot boxes to Russia for counting. We’re doomed. Buy your Clustering of Gigolos Music Festival passes now, even if you aren’t attending the ICP’s a Gathering of Juggalos. It may be your last memory of Earth. Just sayin’… That is all!  Welcome to Wednesday…Day 1, Post-070417 Apocalypse.
Things have quieted down here at The Compound. Smoke continues to clear, though there is still a bit of morning haze hanging around. Bodies are strewn across the lawns, mostly sleeping off the effects of tequila-soaked watermelon and Korean Plum Wine Hooch. All will live…hopefully. And then leave. Events of the Fourth got underway here early yesterday when two large tour buses pulled up out on the road. Inside were the members of that weird alligator skull cult that last visited The Compound in February. They have the belief that alligators act as a conductor for ghosts who wish to appear on Earth. They all wear dried gator skulls on their heads and everyone (man, woman, and/or child) is named Wally. I didn’t really expect to see them until October when all of the spiritualists are expected to re-descend on The Compound on the anniversary of the gunfight in the Cabinet Saloon to contact the spirit of Temple Houston. Apparently, Gigi’s social media plea for people to come here and celebrate life, liberty and the pursuit of BOOM did not go unheeded. But, seriously, TWO busloads of gator heads? Hopefully, we’ll be able to feed everyone. I had already cranked up Big Bertha, the smoker, cooking ribs upon ribs upon pork butts before I realized that the hippies from southeast Colorado only eat bean curd so there’s plenty for the carnivorous gator heads from Florida. By afternoon the day was moving along nicely. Wiley Piemore and the Prairie Dawgs showed up and played the better part of the afternoon. The music seemed to put people in a good mood, though the hippies kept yelling out for Wiley and the boys to play Freebird, a song they didn’t know. At about 7PM, after everybody was pretty well looped on the tequila-soaked watermelon that the folks from Florida brought and the hooch in Mr. Kim’s RV, Cousin Fred and Gigi began moving through the crowd handing out 3-D glasses to everyone. They were telling them to put the glasses on when the fireworks started. I wasn’t sure what that was all about, but before I could ask, the two of them disappeared inside The Cab to “prepare” for the fireworks extravaganza. At about 8PM, I saw the Sister and Brother-in-Law drive by on the road. They slowed as though they were going to stop, but when they saw the circus underway, they took off. Maybe it was because the supreme head gator head, Wallius Rexus, was standing by the entrance to The Compound wearing his gator head festooned with bright, colorful flowers and around his waist a grass skirt…that was all. Honestly, if I didn’t have to be here to protect the property, I would likely have driven on too. Did I mention The Wife returned earlier in the day from her vacation at the no-tell motel on the west end of Shattuck? She went there when the AC here at The Compound went out. By afternoon, she had resumed her perch up on the roof of the Main House to watch as events unfolded. She sat up there chainsmoking filterless Pall-Malls and occasionally lobbing an empty Old Crow whiskey bottle at one of the bean curd hippies if they got too close to the house. Hey, we all celebrate in our own special way, right? And then, it got dark. Around 9:30PM, Cousin Fred and Gigi emerged from The Cab. Then I knew why they were locked up in there for so long. Cousin Fred was dressed as George Washington. He stood very erect and commenced swinging a sword, which caused all of the hippie bean curd ladies to swoon. The gator ladies snarled and snapped, which I took to be the equivalent of a swoon. Gigi was dressed as Ben Franklin. It appeared to me that Cousin Fred had actually shaved the top of her head. She kept yelling in as deep a voice as she could muster that she expected beer and an orgy of farting after the fireworks extravaganza. The crowd went wild. I retreated onto the porch of the Main House. Then came the fireworks extravaganza. F*ck, oh dear. We bought enough Oklahoma-illegal fireworks to put on a two-hour show at least. The whole thing was done in 10 minutes. First thing, out of the chute, George had Ben place a huge frigging sky rocket on one of the launch platforms. George proceeded to light said sky rocket. A very drunk bean curd hippie rushed the platform saying something about shooting holes in the ozone layer. He tripped and fell into the platform. The rocket tipped over just as its chemical engine was achieving maximum thrust. The rocket shot straight into Mr. Kim’s RV with (by our estimates) half of the huge bladder containing the 100 proof hooch remaining. The RV exploded like nothing I’ve ever seen before. A huge fireball rose probably 100 feet into the air. Flaming pieces of the RV arced over into the pile of illegal fireworks lighting them afire. Now, everything – all of the fireworks - was firing off at once. Oh, the humanities! People were running in every direction trying to find cover from the fireworks shooting in every direction. When the fireworks were depleted, the RV continued to burn. The hippies all stripped naked and began dancing a wide circle around the fire, still wearing their 3-D glasses. Mr. Kim ran out onto the lawn with a garden hose trying to put out the flames, but couldn’t get within 30 feet because of the heat. He took his clothes off too! I can hear the Wife on the roof cackling hysterically and screeching something about another year, another holiday f*ck-up. She’s right you know. There doesn’t seem to be a holiday that goes by without some manner of mishap. The Trump has Kim Jong Uno and I have Cousin Fred. Somehow, I think I got the better deal...maybe. That is all!  Happy Fourth of July everybody! As is often the case on holidays, things are getting downright weird around The Compound. Allow me to explain.
First of all, if you lived through that savage storm last night, congratulations. Everyone remains intact here, though we wound up with another broken window. This, after losing 7-8 (stopped counting) windows in a recent hail storm. Last night’s breakage though was caused by flying debris in a 70mph wind. Curiously, after the storm let up, we realized that the ATF&E agents were gone. Turns out, Gigi, our very own hairdressing hydrologist and Cousin Fred’s femme fatale, called in a favor and got The Trump to recall them whence they came. That was fine with me. I was getting tired of making coffee for them day and night as they remained down on the road dialing for dollars trying to find a federal judge to sign a warrant. I would carry the pot down to the entrance gate and begin pouring into their cups. They would look at me and say things like, “Hey, coffee boy, you got high end Kansas ‘splosives in there, huh, maybe a little homemade hooch? We’ll find ‘em just as soon as we find us a federal judge.” That would be followed by general snickering as I scurried back to the main house with an empty coffee pot in hand. Soon after they left, random cars began showing up on the road out front. Turns out, they were all from a hippie commune up in southeast Colorado. Cousin Fred and Gigi had taken to social media inviting people from all over the country to come partake of our Korean Plum Wine Hooch and celebrate life, liberty, and BOOM here at The Compound. For their part, the communers brought with them pot after pot of bean curd to be shared around campfires, which were quickly set to burning. I stood on the porch kind of taking this all in and wondering where I went so wrong in life. I used to be a somebody...I had hair…I had looks...now the only thing I have going for me is cast of lunatics and more ammo than can possibly be shot off in a lifetime. Cousin Fred and Gigi were moving from campfire to campfire passing out little red beer cups and encouraging the cupees to move to the RV and fill their little red beer cups with the burning nectarish result of Mr. Kim’s careful fermenting and distillation. It wasn’t long before the pots of bean curds were passed around the fires, each person dipping their fingers into the mound of goo and then licking their fingers clean. That was followed by copious amounts of hooch. After a while, things took a real turn for the strange with the communers singing the songs of Johnny Cash while Cousin Fred accompanied them on the bagpipes…naked. I prayed for another storm, but none came. As I moved through the crowd, I realized there were an inordinate number of people with odd names and even odder spellings. I was told they had all taken tribal names. Skye, Fyre, Twyg, Bleu (stupid French), Erth, Wynd (bet she grew up in OK), Pfideaux (wore a German dog collar), Loona (she was with a guy who called himself Toona), on and on. I was in the middle of the yard watching a number of people picking the sandburs out of their clothing when my phone lit up like a Christmas tree. A notification from Twitter that The Trump was tweeting again. This time he was launching snark missiles at Kim Jong Uno (roughly translated from the Korean is “He of Weird Haircut”). It seems that North Korea was busy successfully test launching an ICBM…the I in which of course stands for Intercontinental as in, “I can hit the United States with this bad boy!” So what did The Trump do? Not a damned thing. He’s got half of the U.S. Navy plying the waters off the coast loaded with enough cruise missiles to chase North Korea’s entire population into South Korea. If you recall, after the last round of test firing, The Trump said Kim would regret it if he (Kim) didn’t knock it off. Hmmmmmm…seems awfully self-restrained for The Trump. I’ll bet the Chinese have told him they’ll deal with knucklehead. Well, they better do something quick. The Trump even tweeted that it was about time the Chinese did something! This really is the equivalent of Kim dropping trou and mooning The Trump before turning to the North Korean propaganda camera filming the whole thing and giving it an Alfred E. Neuman “what, me worry?” look. We’re doomed! That is all!  Happy Monday everybody…hopefully, you still have all your fingers and toes attached. The arsenal here at The Compound remains safe, for the moment. Despite losing AC here in the main house, the Cabinet Saloon replication (aka, The Cab) was nice and cool last week. We just moved all of the Oklahoma-illegal fireworks down to that building. Believe it or not, the AC is back on here at the main house, but you’ll never guess what was causing the issue. Turns out a bunch of small ants were setting up their summer home inside the compressor housing and jammed up some switch that allows the compressor to come on. The technician sprayed the crap out of them…ants died…AC works…he’s sending the bill. Cousin Fred offered that we should build a wall around the compressor to keep those pesky ants out. I pointed out that the flaw in his plan is that they would just tunnel underneath. There will be more discussion on this topic that will likely roll into fall when it just won’t matter anymore. Besides we have much bigger thing to worry about right now. You know, at some point, I need to learn to keep my mouth shut…er, stop my fingers from typing too much. It seems that all my typing/talk about illegal fireworks coming down out of Kansas (it’s cheaper there you know) and Korean Plum Wine Hooch has attracted the attention of law enforcement. And not just any law enforcement either. I’ve got the ATF&E parked just outside The Compound. Problem is, I don’t know if they’re here for the hooch or the high explosives…or both. Fortunately, there’s no tobaccy involved. I was watching News 4 in OKC which has their helicopter watching the ATF&E watching The Compound (how many times can use the word watching in a sentence?). They’re parked outside and across the road. All of them peering at us through binoculars and eating donuts. All day long. Apparently, they can’t find a federal judge to issue a warrant to search the place. Bet all the federal judges are on the Chris Christie private beach in Jersey sunning themselves. Did you hear about this? So, the once-darling of the Republican Party and governor of New Jersey Chris Christie closes beaches in his state over a budget dispute with his legislature. It’s Fourth of July weekend, families want to go to the beach, but the Governor has closed them. He’s even posted armed state troopers at the entrances to keep people out by force, if necessary. But then, his rather largish self and his family are photographed lounging on an empty beach. “Let them eat cake,” he is quoted as saying about the poor slobs he’s holding at gunpoint. Okay, he didn’t really say that, but I’ll bet he was thinking it. Could you imagine if Her Royal Highness Mary of Fallin did something like that? Close all of the state parks to people on a holiday weekend? Suspect the capitol would burn. Oh sure, the majority of lakes and waterways across Oklahoma are probably unsafe to dip a toe into, but we Oklahomans loves us some toxic toe-dipping on holiday weekends. Of course, HRH probably has a private pool at the Palace so what does she care? Bet she’s been sitting poolside for the entire weekend, sipping margaritas, eating sponge cake, and occasionally whacking whatever OHP guard pulled duty this weekend on the bottom with her blinged riding crop. “Good Trooper, bad Trooper, which is it going to be? Get me another margarita. What? Hungry people are protesting this weekend? Teachers want more money and are also protesting? Let them eat cake,” she screams as she tosses the remaining sponge cake over the Palace walls to the amusement of Hellkat One. Would make a great movie don’t you think? Sofia Coppola should direct. Cousin Fred says he has a great surprise in store for us when he sets off the illegal fireworks tomorrow night. Something to do with him and Gigi being in costumes. Can’t wait. We’ve been sneaking drinks from Mr. Kim’s RV. He has a tap in the engine compartment that connects to the huge bladder of Korean Plum Wine Hooch in the cabin area of the RV. In fact, that bladder takes up the entire cabin area of the RV. It looks as though there are major repairs being done on the RV. The engine hood is up and we’re constantly out there tinkering and crawling underneath all day and night. I’m sure the ATF&E don’t suspect a thing. That is all! |
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