I see a little silhouetto of a man...

​You know, people, sometimes it’s damned tough being me. Seriously. I moved back to rural Oklahoma years ago to escape the grind of daily life that was corporate America.

But, I’m finding that nothing has really changed except that I went from making several sacks full of dough to well…not very much really. I exchanged interesting, challenging work for well…Cousin Fred.

Montague, the composer that Cousin Fred hired to write the music for his opera project, Temple Houston: A Horse Opera in G-Flat and Four Octaves, has been on The Compound now for four days.

There hasn’t been a whole lot of music written, I can tell you that. There has been a great deal of arguing back and forth, mostly between the two of them as to what exactly makes an opera. For four days, I’ve had to listen to this crap!

Montague (the only name he uses) threw Cousin Fred’s yet-to-be finished libretto against a wall yesterday calling it “insipid intellectual fare written by a deranged philistine.”

With that, Cousin Fred pointed out that Montague hadn’t yet completed one melody that could be used for a pharmaceutical commercial on television. He added that at any rate, to Fred’s trained ear (snark) Montague had been plinking away at the electronic keyboard in B-Flat Minor.

That led to Montague informing Cousin Fred that only a “moronic tone-deaf fool” would compose anything in G-Flat.
To say there are creative differences between the two is a woeful understatement.

After Montague stormed off to the guest room and slammed the door (but not before insisting that his dinner be served promptly at 7pm), I took the opportunity to point out to Cousin Fred that Montague must be gone by tomorrow morning. The Wife returns from her latest fabulous vacation Wednesday afternoon.

Cousin Fred responded with a firm “harrumph” before walking out to Das Boot and slamming the hatch behind him.
Do you people see what I’m dealing with out here? Frankly, it’s all been a bit distracting for me as I have been following with great interest the trials (so to speak, so far) and tribulations of Scott Pruitt, The Trump’s Secretary of Energy.

Why would I care, you ask? I’ve been following Pruitt’s (less than) distinguished career since he was the Oklahoma Attorney General. Starting three years ago, we at CCB were the first to point to something called the Evidence Fund, the money coming from Oklahoma’s annual pay out from the Tobacco Trust Settlement.

So what, you ask? Well, to begin with, Pruitt’s Evidence Fund received millions of dollars annually from the state’s settlement funds. There is no accounting for how much the Evidence Fund contains or how it’s spent. Pruitt literally slammed the door on the state auditor when he wanted to audit the AG’s office. Inquiries made to the AG’s office turned up people who wouldn’t discuss the Evidence Fund.

And then came The Trump.

The Trump scooped up Pruitt, bag and baggage, to take the reins of the Energy Department. Controversy soon followed. First it was the $3.5 million taxpayer dollars used for his own security detail (“They’re out to get me, I’m telling you!”). Then there was the $10K in taxpayer money used to refurbish his office (“I want all new furniture in here, nothing to remind me of the Obama era”). And then, let’s see…oh yeah, he used a lights and sirens motorcade to get his squirrely ass to a restaurant on time for a reservation (“I’m hungry! Run over pedestrians if you must but get me there! Goddamned peasants!”)

I won’t even go into the first-class travel abroad or the special cone of silence for his office.

It’s been nothing but controversy since he arrived in D.C. And, still, The Trump won’t dump him. The Trump has certainly fired other secretaries who were less troublesome. Kinda makes one wonder what Pruitt has on The Trump, eh?

But now, the latest…Pruitt is under scrutiny again. This time for sending a trusted aide out on government time to purchase a mattress for him. And not just any mattress either. He wants a used mattress from one of The Trump’s hotels. Huh?

How f*$ing kiss-ass can you get? First of all, who the hell buys a used mattress? And, from a hotel? Again, huh?
“I tell you, Mr. President, I got a great deal on a mattress from one of your properties. I know, sir, that there wasn’t anything untoward going on with that mattress. I thank you, sir, for allowing your humble secretary the opportunity to buy a mattress that you farted on throughout the night. Thank you, sir, thank you. Truly you are the greatest farter of all time.”

Judas priest, I feel nauseous.

​That is all!
 

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