 Happy Wednesday, people! Lots happening around The Compound. The insurance guy showed up yesterday to look over the burned spot on the north lawn where the Cabinet Saloon replica stood until 10 days ago. He took a look, took another look. Asked if I had a photo of the structure before it burned. He confirmed (for the third time) that this was a replica of an 1890’s saloon, which I confirmed three times. He asked again how it came to be burned down. I responded that law enforcement did it when the effort to summon forth the ghost of Temple Houston got out of hand. He asked if I had any proof the building was built to code. I pointed out that there are no building codes in rural Oklahoma. He declared it (actually wrote it down) a misadventure by law enforcement and handed me a check for $33.38 along with a notice that the company will be raising my premiums on The Compound because I live a risky lifestyle. I responded, “Well, I do have a blog to write and an idiot cousin to support.” At that, said insurance guy drove off in his electric car and after fifteen minutes was out of sight. Sigh. In the meantime, Cousin Fred and Gigi (aka, Boris and Natasha) are living the high life in a “family” restroom in Vnukovo International Airport outside of Moscow. Apparently, they were making their way through the customs hall at Vnukovo when they spotted uniformed Federal Security police waiting just beyond the exit doors leading to the main terminal. Believing that the FSS contingent was there for them, they retreated back inside the customs hall which counts as international territory, aka sanctuary. They’ve taken up residence in the bathroom. Cousin Fred says things aren’t too bad. Their residence gets cleaned twice a day…there is free power…unlimited toilet paper…vending machines are just outside the restroom…and, the Russian people are “real” nice. He asked me to send Russian coins for the vending machine. How I’m supposed to find Russian coins to send is beyond me. And, how do I get them there? Post them Cousin Fred c/o of Family Toilet Vnukovo Airport Moscow? Yeah, that’s not happening. Besides, I’m holed up (literally) in the hidey-hole waiting for the lunatic fringe in NoKo to detonate an EMP weapon at altitude and/or the lunatic fringe in DC to get confused one night and launch a preemptive nuclear strike on the American heartland (“They knew what they signed up for when they moved there. They should have lived in beautiful Manhattan like everyone else.”). Either way, it won’t go down quietly. In the meantime, I’ve got disgraced holy men making threats against me. You may recall a post I did back in May about how the disgraced holy man from the ‘80’s, Jim “Cry for Me” Bakker was making a comeback of sorts by hawking buckets of survivalist foods on late-night television and begging God to smite his critics. He’s back…again. Oh, he’s still selling his freeze-dried opossum stew to preppers who are convinced civilization is about to end (Hmmm…where have I heard that before? Hey, wait a second!). But, now he’s swinging at the “mean people of America” who make fun of him, telling them to stop watching his show. Uh huh, his show which amounts to an infomercial for his apocalyptic survival foods. His advice to those of us who make fun of him is to just go away, stop watching…or else. Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about the little termite until he resurfaced. Now he has fired off a flaming arrow at those of us who make fun of him: “One day, you’re going to shake your fist in God’s face. And you’re going to say, ‘God, why didn’t you warn me?’ And, He’s gonna say, ‘You sat there and you made fun of Jim Bakker all those years. I warned you, but you didn’t listen.’” Of course, that was followed by an option to redeem ourselves in the eyes of this scumbag patron saint of moral turpitude. We just need to buy a full year’s supply of his survivalist bucket foods and all will be forgiven. Dear disgraced holy-man-cum-insect… Thhhpppppppppttttttttttt! That is all!  You know gang, Mr. Robin has always had his own special way of dealing with the curveballs that life hurls at me like an errant National League pitcher seemingly bent on losing the NLDS…again.
My approach is to wait. Over time, problems solve themselves. At least that’s always been my way of dealing with the fish-eyed fools and nonsense that I’ve found myself in. Of course, the Wife describes it as Robin’s passive-aggressive approach to just about everything. I don’t agree, of course, but don’t wish to discuss it. So it is that my problem of Cousin Fred and Gigi being up in the Main House here at The Compound now that the Cabinet Saloon replica has burned to the ground has resolved itself. Well, sort of. The Wife is racking up the charges at the motel on the edge of Shattuck this week. Extravagant room service (bierox, German sausage, sauerkraut, and Nehi soda every night) is compounding the bills. But, she refuses to step foot on The Compound again until Cousin Fred and Gigi are gone. Now that too is resolved. See?! Mr. Robin’s way works again! So, over the weekend, Cousin Fred saw something go by on The Compound’s newsfeed that porn-entrepreneur Larry Flynt is offering $10 million to anyone who can produce evidence that will get The Trump impeached. After reading the article, I could hear the urine-rusted hamster wheels in his chemically battered brain turning. Squeak, squeak, squeak. After some time of reflection, he announced that he and Gigi would build a new palatial Cabinet Saloon replica on the north lawn. “And, as to funding…,” I inquired? That’s always a sticking point around here. He told me that he and Gigi were leaving for Russia. He’s convinced that the solid evidence to impeach The Trump is there, just waiting fall into his hands. Soon thereafter, he plans to return to the U.S. and claim the $10 million bounty. Sounds easy enough, don’t you think? So they left this morning for Moscow via OKC dressed – and I’m not kidding here – like the characters Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale from the old Bullwinkle show (I know, I watched too much crap on TV as a kid). If TSA somewhere in the U.S. doesn’t tase, strip, and do body cavity searches on the two of them, hopefully the Russian TSA will take of business. Things actually are very quiet here at The Compound with the two of them out of the way. Good, I like it that way. The Wife indicated she wants confirmation of them landing on Russian soil before she’ll check out and return to The Compound. I told her to bring bierox, homemade kraut, and sausage with her. In the meantime, I’m headed back down the hidey-hole I think. Did you hear that some group in DC just released a study on the effects of an EMP explosion at altitude over the United States? The study was titled: North Korea EMP Attack: An Existential Threat. For those of you with a Liberal Arts degree (such as myself), that title is somewhat deceiving if you’ve sat through as much mind-numbing existentialism drivel as I have. Hell, I even wrote a short film screenplay that had its roots in existentialism. And you thought too much Bullwinkle screwed me up. Oh, no! Ho ho. Allow me to put it into context for you liberal arts types. In this particular context, the phrase “existential threat” doesn’t mean the Federal government raiding your hippie commune in the dark forests of Oregon, Washington, and/or Idaho and seizing your Deepak Chopra and Will Ackerman CDs. Nope, in this case “existential threat” means – WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE! According to this bunch of party animals in DC, NoKo and its lunatic-fringe leader with a really bad haircut may have the ability to set off an EMP bomb in the upper atmosphere over the U.S. Assuming they can get one of their hobby missiles to an altitude of 294 miles, the detonation of an EMP (electromagnetic pulse) weapon would fry all of our electronics and wipe out the power grid over nearly all of the U.S., most of Canada, and a huge chunk of Mexico. But that’s only the start. According the publication, 91% of the U.S. population would be dead inside of a year. Or not, there is no real indication that NoKo has that capability…yet. In the meantime, The Trump is tweeting that the chef who cooked his meal at his hotel in DC last night overcooked the prime rib. The Trump is calling for the chef to be publicly flogged in Lafayette Square as a lesson to other fake chefs. WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE! Note to self, bring a CD player and lots of alcohol into the hidey-hole. Must play Deepak Chopra and Will Ackerman CDs…great countermeasures for the threat of EMP and the gamma radiation that follows. That is all!  Good morning, everybody. For those of you who showed up at The Compound last night to personally view the mayhem, I hope you aren’t forever scarred. It was quite a night.
If you weren’t here, consider yourself lucky. If you’ve not done so already, you should probably read the post from yesterday so you’re up to speed. In the meantime, I’ll try as best I can to recount the events of yesterday. It was a virtual cavalcade of events: the sheer stupidity, destruction, and chaos of which defied anything else I’ve ever witnessed. Here’s a hint, folks: If ever you decide to attempt the summoning of a spirit…don’t. So, let’s see…things began quietly enough yesterday with people milling about trying to avoid another plate of beans and bacon being doled out by the Swarthy Texans. The Vintage Buick Princesses began handing out cinnamon rolls around 9 AM. There were still donuts remaining after feeding the phalanx of law enforcement out on the road. Cousin Fred was offering leftover donuts and coffee inside the Cabinet Saloon replication (aka, The Cab) on the north lawn. Everyone was happy and seemed peaceful enough. Around 11 AM, the TV stations in OKC bailed their respective pilots and accompanying one-air personalities out of jail. As the pilots were doing a quick check of the helos in the north pasture, the two personalities, Hands Morgan and Tornado Payne-in-the-Ass began making rude gestures toward one another, but kept their distance. Soon, both helos were airborne and out of sight. Again, things seemed calm. Around 1 PM, I noticed that Cousin Fred was beginning to get antsy. At first I thought he was just uncomfortable in the wool-serge cavalry uniform he was wearing. I was too busy keeping an eye on the crowd and the various camps spread across the lawn to pay much more attention. At around 2 PM, I saw Gigi run out onto the porch of The Cab with her phone in hand pointing to the north. She kept yelling, “He’s coming!” I looked up on the roof of the main house to see the Wife looking through a spyglass and pointing also. I looked down the road and saw what they were pointing at…a largish RV with Mr. Kim at the wheel. He had apparently bought a new RV and was likely bringing a load of his Korean Plum Wine Hooch. At that point, I knew all was lost…we were doomed. Remarkably though everyone seemed to practice self-restraint when it came to sampling Kim’s product. Everyone was here on a mission! All of the camps came in to Fort Apache on the center lawn where the Vintage Buick Princesses laid out their plans for the evening. Since the former location of the original Cabinet Saloon in town was on the site of the current H & R Block tax service, the Princesses sent the Soon-to-be-Former IRS agents there and instructed them to take up positions. Next the Rocky Mountain High Coloradans were sent to the cemetery to maintain a watch over the Temple Houston grave and point the way to The Compound. The Moronic State Legislators were posted along the highway to chant, point the way to The Compound, and tell motorists passing by what a super great fabulous job they’re doing on behalf of the taxpayers of Oklahoma. The Swarthy Texans were left on The Compound, mostly to keep them from running off with the remains of TH which they are forever seeking to repatriate to the Lone Star State. The Burning Man Refugees, the Florida Gator Head Cultists, the Wannabe Temple Houston Impressionists also remained to help the Princesses with the chanting on The Compound. Everything was set. Finally, at the appointed hour (9:50 PM), the Soon-to-be-Former IRS Agents began chanting, “Temple, come to us now. We have fresh ammo and rye whiskey! We summon thee! But, we’ll need to see your receipts.” The Rocky Mountain High Coloradans began the same chant, but then forgot what they were supposed to be chanting. They kind of stumbled along though…hey, give them some credit. “I don’t know, man…something about fresh something…” The Moronic State Legislators along the highway were also chanting, but it would be interrupted by, “Saaaay there, angry motorist have you heard what the State Legislature is doing for yoooouuuuuuu? Have a nice daaaaay!” as cars passed. All of this was being simulcast using speakerphone features on phones connected over a conference call app. Cousin Fred was booming the collective chants through a Bluetooth speaker at The Compound. The Princesses began their chant of “Taro, Karo, Ab-Salami” while the others on The Compound began the chant, “Come to us, Brother Temple. We have fresh rye whiskey and ammo for you. Come to us now!” All of this continued for several minutes until one of the Princesses let out a shriek and yelled, “It’s him, it’s him” before fainting to the ground. The Impressionists caught up in the moment, drew their weapons and began firing in the air. That got the attention of the law enforcement out on the road. One of them yelled, “Breach of security!” before they all drew their weapons and commenced firing. Everyone hit the ground…except the Wife who stayed up on the roof, cackling and yelling at me that I had f#@ked up another weekend. She threw one of her empty bottles of Old Crow, bouncing it off my head. Cousin Fred made a run for The Cab where he jumped behind the bar for cover. Law enforcement on the road, not to be outdone began firing tear gas canister after tear gas canister through the windows of The Cab. TWENTY-FIVE canister shots just to roust my unarmed broke-d*ck cousin from inside! Curiously, Cousin Fred wasn’t moving. I knew he had to be choking to death in there so I made a run for the building to pull him out. One of the canisters landed in a trash can full of paper and set it afire. Soon the entire building was in flames. I found Cousin Fred and pulled him to safety. The Wife was on the roof, now wearing a gas mask and cackling. Oh, the humanity! Law enforcement on the road, deciding that they had possibly overreacted, soon departed for the various corners of Oklahoma whence they had come. The Cab burned to the ground…literally nothing left. The Princesses soon departed. The Swarthy Texans headed due south. The Burning Man Refugees suddenly remembered where they were supposed to be and departed. Mr. Kim drove out of here like a fiend when the shooting started the remaining plum wine hooch sloshing around in the bladder in the main cabin. The Florida Gator Head Cultists ran off into the south pasture and were never seen or heard from again. The Soon-to-be-Former IRS Agents quietly slipped out of town. The Rocky Mountain High Coloradans are still wandering around town wondering there are no smoke shops. The Temple Houston Wannabe Impressionists went in search of a new gig. The Wife, expecting me to let Cousin Fred and Gigi start staying in the main house now that The Cab is ash, drove off in the night to her favorite resort motel on the edge of Shattuck. Did I cover everyone? I was left with the lingering odor of tear gas, a burned-out building, a line of overflowing porta-potties, and four bottles of Old Crow. I commenced drinking. Eh well, just another weekend at The Compound, I reckon. That is all!  Geez…what a mess the world is in right now: O.J. is back among us; The Trump is tweeting more cryptic threats about blowing up someone…NoKo or Iran, it’s unclear…but someone – may – be going down; Harvey Weinstein’s lawyer quit though the bulk of Hollywood claims it’s all a smear campaign; did I mention that O.J. is back among us, okay good; still another hurricane is making landfall in the U.S.; the Sooners lost a game yesterday they should have easily won; the guitar player from the Lovin’ Spoonful was busted with child porn; you suppose The Trump will invite O.J. to play golf with him…eh, probably not; the white nationalists with their Home Depot tiki torches are back in Charlottesville; lunatic millionaires are shooting up music festivals; and…well, you get the picture…I did mention O.J. is out and moving around again, right?
But, I have no time to focus on any of that right now. The stage is set for a disaster here at The Compound, the likes of which were never imagined by Harvey Weinstein or acted by O.J. (he’s out now, you know) or presented in an OU playbook (their defense SUCKS). So, to bring you, the dedicated CCB reader (all four of you), up to date on the latest happenings here (cuz you don’t have enough to worry about)...the female geriatric army of spiritualists (hereafter Vintage Buick Princesses) arrived late Friday and immediately formed their vintage Buicks in a circle on the center lawn here at The Compound. They announced they were taking a defensive posture this time because of the mass of “humanity” they saw spread across the rest of the grounds. The Queen Bee among the group told me they felt they needed a place to fall back to just in case things get out of hand. This is The Compound. Everything gets out of hand. Constantly. Cousin Fred has dubbed their iron enclave Fort Apache. It prompted him to break out and don an old U.S. Cavalry costume he had hidden away for just such an occasion. Did I mention that said costume includes an authentic cavalry bugle? No? (sigh) Cousin Fred uses that now to blast out calls to the hordes here. Did I mention, hordes? Yeah, hordes. So beyond the Histrionic Historians, the Swarthy Texans, the Burning Man Refugees, and the Florida Gator Cult, we now have a pack of Soon-to-be-Former IRS Agents (they see the writing on the wall with The Trump), a herd of Rocky Mountain High Coloradans looking for a smoke shop (none here, this Oklahoma where we rely on the moronic state legislature to tell us what we should be doing since we’re all incapable of critical thought – that of course doesn’t take into account the pedophiles, perverts, and other bad elements among them), speaking of which there is also a huge body of fact finding moronic Oklahoma State Legislatures on a boondoggle here to learn from the “people” what we need and tell us about what a great job they’re doing in OKC. Oh, and there’s Cousin Fred. Blowing his F@#ing bugle at every opportunity! About the only time anything good happened on Saturday was when Friend Lamont from Western Arkansas showed driving a truck that was pulling a flatbed trailer with porta-potties. The law enforcement out on the road, seeing that they’re vastly outnumbered, apparently have called in reinforcements. There are cops from all over the state out there. They’re going to use this as a training exercise, me thinks. It won’t end well. So as the masses gathered yesterday and the Vintage Buick Princesses emerged from Fort Apache and began trying to restore order here at The Compound (they were beating the crap out of the miscreants [miscreants abound here] with their purses), I was beginning to think things couldn’t get any worse. Things did. And, no, O.J. didn’t show up…yet. Oklahoma City media sent the channel 4 and the channel 9 helicopters out here to get a view of the humanity squeezed onto The Compound. In the sky buzzing The Compound, we had channel 9’s SkyNews 9 HD (with Tornado Payne-in-the-Ass in the passenger seat, swearing he could see a wall cloud approaching from California out here – note: the sky was blue), along with channel 4’s Bob Moore Chopper 4 (with Hands Morgan in the passenger seat urging people to go south to get away from the impending storm – he was watching the video feed from channel 9). There were several near-mid-air collisions. Law enforcement on the road notified the FAA and NTSB to start en route…it was going to be a disaster! In the meantime, channel 5 was sending someone in an old pickup from OKC – they arrived early this morning. Channel 25 is still trying to figure out where Cosmic County is located. Finally, both helos set down in the north pastures and their respective pilots and passengers emerged, well one of the passengers. A fight ensued. Hands Morgan tried to remain in his seat. Tornado finally dragged him out with Morgan screaming…”…the teeth, don’t hurt my teeth…” Fortunately, law enforcement intervened. All hands were hauled to jail. The two helicopters remain in the north pasture. One of my dogs keeps running out there to pee on the landing skids. Things kind of settled back down here…well except for the unwashed hordes spread across The Compound and Cousin Fred blowing that F#@ing bugle. This morning he’s out on the road, blaring the mess call on the bugle and handing out donuts to the cops. Oh, the Wife, you ask? She’s up on the roof, cackling her fool head off, chain smoking filterless Pall-Malls, and swigging Old Crow rot gut whiskey. Where else would she be? Can’t wait for tonight when the real fun starts. That is all.  Wow…here we are, just a couple of days away from the commemoration of the Cabinet Saloon gunfight and The Compound is crawling with people. A large herd of swarthy Texans arrived yesterday. This bunch I like. They brought enough food (and are cooking it) to feed everyone (including the heavily armed law enforcement out on the road) for days. Fabulous news, I guess. Though the only thing they’re cooking is beans with bacon. Lots of beans. And they’re offering warm cans of Lone Star beer to down all those beans.
Welcome to the late-night flatulence hot-spot of the world. The Swarthy Texans are here to convince the spirit of Temple Houston to come back to Texas, “where he belongs.” I’m a bit nervous that if the spiritualists aren’t able to conjure the spirit of Mr. Temple, that the Swarthy Texans will dig up his grave and remove his remains to Texas. I’ll have to keep an eye on them, but in the meantime, I’ll eat their damned beans. Later, toward evening, a bunch of Temple Houston wannabes (they prefer the term, impressionists) showed up. All dressed in frock coats and big hats and with reproduction (non-operational) side arms. By eight o’clock, they were full of beans and beer and were squaring off with a smallish pack of historians who somehow wandered onto the place. “I outshot Billy the Kid in a shooting contest,” claimed one of the wannabes during his impression of Temple Houston. “Did not. Billy the Kid was already dead when that supposedly happened,” retorted one of the historians. “Did so happen!” “Did not to infinity! I know! I am a historian!” On and on that went. I quietly asked one of the Swarthy Texans to slow down on handing out the cans of beer. The Burning Man refugees have begun building a jackrabbit effigy out of toothpicks in the middle of the main lawn. Glad to see something productive from that bunch. Previously, they just kept walking around lighting matches and throwing them on the ground. Fortunately, it’s too wet here for anything to burn. Still no sign of geriatric Buick drivers. We received word late last night that they are gathering in Mobeetie, Texas and will follow the “Temple Trail” here to The Compound. That news of course started the Temple Houston wannabes with choruses of "Mo-beetie Mo-beetie Mo-beetie!" And you people still wonder why I drink? Okay, here we go…NEWS ALERT! It’s a good news, bad news NEWS ALERT! Ready? Okay, first, the good news. Researchers believe they have found the actual St. Nicholas! The real deal! <cricket sounds> Hey! We aren’t making this up! Now, the bad news, he’s not at the North Pole. He’s in Turkey. Now, the even worser bad news - St. Nick…him dead! So researchers after years of pain staking work believe they have located the final resting place of Saint Nicholas beneath the floor of the (are you ready for this?) St. Nicholas Church in the Antalya province of Turkey. Using ground penetrating radar (gotta get one of those – maybe I can find the hidden Mason jar of money buried on this place by a bootlegger back in the 40’s), they believe they have found a tomb secreted beneath the centuries old mosaic floor. The real St. Nick was known for his acts of kindness to children, which of course led to the legend of the bearded man in red. Staff at the St. Nicholas Center (yes it’s real and it’s non-profit) aren’t so sure. The government of Turkey isn’t so sure either. Suppose there’s more to gain if St. Nick’s tomb is never found than if it is. Note to self, start a non-profit center in 2018. Maybe the Center for the Study of Bean-Induced Flatulence. I’ll bet I could get a grant for that! I’ll follow it up with a book and tour, “Profiting from Your Non-profit: Pirates Abound!” Oops…gotta go. The Swarthy Texans have challenged the Fijians to a round of mumbly-peg with Bowie knives. Don’t any of these people sleep? That is all!  Alrighty sports fans, things are certainly heating up here at The Compound. We have a group of madcap, madcap I’m tellin’ ya, Fijians down at the southeast corner of the main lawn. I hear a lot of grumbling from that camp…people questioning when stuff will begin happening. I’m afraid to tell them it probably won’t. Nothing worse than an angry, disillusioned Fijian.
There are the members of the Florida gator cult camping on the far eastern area of the north lawn. They’re all adorned in their dried gator skulls and make weird snorting sounds upon greeting one another first thing in the morning. Probably about time for the gator cult to get new head gear. The stuff they’re wearing is getting pretty ripe. Oh, and there’s the refugees from the Burning Man festival…they’re camped here and there as they just try to figure out how to get home. They all seem so confused, yet beatific. I guess there is some amount of bliss in synthetic hallucinogens. The only real problem with them is that they keep trying to light stuff afire. Cousin Fred assured me that he and Gigi will keep an eye on them. Everyone, of course, awaiting the arrival of the Secret Ladies Society for the Study of Earthly Psychic Occult Phenomena (SLSSEPOP) – that group of ancient women from all over the country. They’ll bring order to this rabble. We’re eagerly awaiting their arrival in vintage Buicks. Even the law enforcement sitting across the road in front of The Compound are anxious to see this. In case you’re new to CCB and/or are otherwise uninformed as to the mission of these spiritualists…it all stems from a happening here at The Compound last February, soon after Cousin Fred raised the Cabinet Saloon replication (aka, The Cab) on the north lawn. The idea was that the spiritualists saw The Cab as a portal through which the ghost of Temple Houston would return. Nothing happened. The spiritualists, being spiritualists and always up for a party, figured to return on the anniversary of the infamous (notorious?) Cabinet Saloon gunfight in which Mr. Temple and Jack Love shot it out with the Jennings boys. That anniversary is this Sunday. Can’t wait. Things got off to a weird start last night when there came from The Cab a loud bang followed by a long figure stumbling out the front door. The campers all grabbed their bottles of rye whiskey and moved forward, offering said rye to what they thought must surely be HIM. It wasn’t. It was Cousin Fred, drunker than Cooter Brown. He lurched forward to the edge of The Cab’s porch and promptly face planted into the ground. The spiritualists, certainly disappointed but no less enthusiastic, returned to their tents to await something, anything. Someone give them a sign! I hate making excuses for Cousin Fred, but the pressure of the care and feeding of our guests is really starting to get to him. It reminded me of a guy I read about up in Wyoming who after police arrested him for public drunk for his own health, welfare, and safety. Police after all are so good about incarcerating people for their own good. He claimed to be a time traveler from 2048 who came back to warn all of us that aliens will soon invade earth. Now wasn’t that nice of him? He told police that the aliens gave him all the liquor before his time travel back to us. Wasn’t that thoughtful of those aliens? At least the poor guy was wasted on someone else’s dime. The cops may have bought into it (the law in Wyoming is so clever – don’t you watch Longmire?), but Travelin’ Man became increasingly disturbed when he realized it was only 2017. He was aiming for 2018. With that, the lead investigator become increasingly suspicious of his story and Travelin’ Man was locked up (for his own good). Actually, Travelin’ Man had a blood alcohol level of 0.136…friends, that’s loaded to the gills. Kind of like Cousin Fred, who is still face down in front of The Cab. Oh, he’s okay. I can hear his snoring inside the main house. That is all!  Happy freakin’ Monday, everybody! It’s going to be a wild week here at The Compound as we welcome spiritualists from all over…well, the world. The Fijians arrive the other day. They have set up camp in the southeast corner of the main lawn.
I had a conversation last night with a couple of folks from Fiji. I was curious as to what drew them to festival (such that is) that commemorates the Cabinet Saloon gunfight between Temple Houston, Jack Love, and the Jennings Bros in 1895. I was informed by Mark that according their traditions and alt-history, Temple Houston visited Fiji. Really, said I? Yes, said Mark, we traded him a bunch of relics for samples of rye whiskey and a few rounds of .45 long Colt ammo. Mark said that Mr. Temple seemed fascinated that some cannibalism on the islands still existed at that time. He offered his hosts several bottles of Texas hot sauce…for their “gastronomical explorations.” He then reportedly disappeared. Yep, vanished. Thin-air. Gone. Perhaps Mr. Temple was concerned that he would be the main fare at that evening’s meal. Mark delivered his alt-history views with a straight face which told me to stifle my snarky comments (this is a very big man). Hey! Speaking of alt-history, our president, The Trump, seems to be rolling out his own special brand via Twitter. At least, he is tweeting in between crashing wedding parties at his luxury golf course in Jersey. But, more on that in a second… So, I have a friend (hard to believe, I know), we’ll call him evetS, who leaves tomorrow for a trip to Tokyo. He told me he is praying that The Trump can keep his mouth shut for the seven days that he’ll be in Japan. So do I, evetS, so do I…at least that’s what I said yesterday. Overnight, The Trump has been atweetin’ like a mad man with superhuman thumbs (bet he eats spinach every night before bed). He tweeted that “our wonderful” secretary of state, Rex (Beerpong) Tillerson, was wasting this time trying to negotiate with the “Little Rocket Man”, aka, Kim Jong Uno. He went on to advise Tillerson to save his energy, that he (The Trump) has other plans for KJU. This coming on the heels of announcements on Saturday by Beerpong that the U.S. had opened a backchannel convo with NoKo to negotiate a ratcheting down of the rhetoric and putting the nukes back to bed. So, there are two ways of looking at this: 1) The Trump is just plain crazy and is tweeting himself (and by extension, us) into a wartime footing; or, 2) after Beerpong opened the back channel, NoKo went quiet, and the ever-impatient The Trump tweeting like a Hostess Orange Cupcake fool is trying to sucker them back to the backchannel. I keep wanting to give the guy (The Trump) some credit. Maybe it’s because I can’t believe the American people, who are by and large a herd of woefully undereducated, poorly informed sheep (present company excluded, of course), would elect a lunatic. But, what do I know? So, yeah, I hope its option two. There is nothing to be gained by starting a war… Oh wait, I almost forgot. So the evidence that The Trump is rolling out his own special brand of alt-history…pseudo-history…basic-nonsense is in another tweet (always with the tweets) in which he claims Kim Jong Uno has been a colossal pain in the a** to every president since Clinton (for twenty-five years). Hmmmmm…ummmmm…no, not really. Particularly, when you consider that this version of evil dictators named Kim has only been in power for six years. But, hey, we know what you mean! No problem! Dear evetS, suggest you pack your thermonuclear underwear. Oh, and drink heavily. The weird gator cult of spiritualists from Florida are due in this afternoon. Things are ratcheting up! That is all! |
Archives
March 2019
Categories |
RSS Feed