Cousin Fred dragged off in handcuffs...raidS on The Compound...no HGTV...and biscuits...and you think you have problems?

Yeah, yeah…it’s Monday morning. Umm, is it Friday yet?

I tell you, this was a long, drawn-out weekend and not in a good way. The Compound was invaded twice over the weekend by jack-booted thugs descending from above in black helicopters. Both times allegedly because Cousin Fred can’t keep his libido in check…allegedly.

But, I digress…

So let’s see. For those of you who have been berating me for not posting anything on Friday, I can tell you that comms here were cut-off. All comms. There was a largish airplane circling this area all day Friday and into Friday night. It was apparently here to jam all cellular transmissions, cutoff satellite television signals (although DISH does a great job of that with their damned contract negotiations) and even block the broadband to/from The Compound.

Why was someone picking on little ol’ me, you ask?

Two words…Cousin Fred (allegedly).

Following the U.S. raid using cruise missiles to hit back at that f#@% Assad for murdering his own people with an apparent nerve gas, there is now a photo being circulated showing the “War Room” at The Trump’s golf resort Mar-A-Lago. Word has it that they were using a converted broom closet – “They’ll never think to look for us in here,” The Trump was quoted as saying.

Anyway, in the photo we can see The Trump and his advisors including ace son-in-law The Jared sitting around a cramped table in a cramped room (it’s a broom closet after all) with a mysterious array of white boxes in front of them. Lots of speculation about the white boxes of course. Well, I can state conclusively what those are, because I know (allegedly). They are some sort of secure communication devices, only not so secure (allegedly).

So in the middle of watching the action unfold in the eastern Med, the tension so thick you could cut it with a spork…Jared wondering who in the room forgot to put on deodorant…Reince the Prince Prius wondering why he took this job…The Trump thinking tactically about how he’ll take a few strokes off his golf game…in the middle of all that, a voice.

“Is Gigi there?”

“Who the hell is that?!” The Trump exclaims.

“It’s Fred, I’m looking for Gigi.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what, Fred, get off this seeeecure channel, we’re bombing the crap out of someone right now.”

“Look, I just want to talk to her. I won’t be long. I’ve thought it over and I know what I’m going to say to her.”

“Somebody get this guy off my secure channel,” The Trump screamed.

That brought (almost immediately) the orbiting signal-jamming plane. The first raid came at dawn on Friday morning. I stepped out onto the front porch with my first cup of coffee to find Cousin Fred face down on the ground in front of The Cab, his hands cuffed behind him.

The Men in Black were walking out of The Cab with boxes full of various electronic devices…any electronic devices. When they were satisfied they had gotten everything, including the Mr. Coffee with a special sensor that turns the hot plate on and off so the coffee doesn’t taste burned, they departed. Keep in mind, Cousin Fred was still handcuffed and on the ground as the black helo lifted out of The Compound.

Fortunately, for Cousin Fred, I have a universal handcuff key that I keep in my wallet (don’t ask). I unlocked his restraints – after a suitable amount of time (I had to finish my cup of coffee). He sat up rubbing his wrists and asked if he could borrow my iPad. I pointed to the still orbiting plane and shook my head.

The Wife came out with her first filterless Pall Mall of the day clinched between her teeth complaining that with the plane blocking our communications she can’t get HGTV. She muttered something about “weinbag men” before jumping into her Jeep and leaving The Compound, presumably to take up residence at that cheap motel on the edge of Shattuck.

So Saturday all was pretty quiet here. The signal blocking plane had departed The Compound’s airspace. I was watching a live shot on Trump TV from The Trump’s Florida golf course (wonder if he pays greens fees) when suddenly a cell phone in his back pocket began ringing. Perhaps it was Putin with a rational thought, you think? Think again.

I looked up to see Cousin Fred with MY iPhone to his ear. Next thing I hear is him asking someone, “Is Gigi there?”

The Trump throws his phone into a nearby lake where an alligator caught it in its mouth and disappeared below the water. The Trump then began beating his putter into the ground and cursing. At least I think he was cursing, The Trump’s channel kept beeping out his words. What a great channel.

I ran and hid in the storm cellar expecting cruise missiles to begin dropping all around us. I sat in the cellar and calculated in my head the flight time of a cruise missile to The Compound launched from the Gulf of Mexico. I had to take into account the time required for The Trump to gather his national security team in the converted broom closet before issuing an attack order and the prevailing winds and all, I figured it was safe to come out ‘round midnight.

The jackbooted thugs raided The Compound again on Sunday morning. I had just watched a report on TV about OU’s freshman quarterback and defensive back being arrested for public intoxication and thinking it’s beginning to look more and more like Switzer-era Sooners Football. Hey, maybe Mike Stoops should just start recruiting from the county jail down there for defensive players.

But then, here come handcuffs from above. This time they identified themselves as U.S. marshals and hauled Cousin Fred away. I toyed with the idea of acting all outraged and stuff and raising a fuss about jackbooted federal thugs dragging my poor stupid cousin away, but decided to make some biscuits instead.

That is all!

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