 Good morning everybody and happy…what day is it again? Oh, right, Tuesday! More importantly, it’s June 6…National Yo-Yo Day! Can you even buy a yo-yo nowadays? Newer models probably come equipped with Bluetooth and Wi-Fi capability.
Well, I’m up and running early this morning. Haven’t been to bed since 2:30 when we, here at The Compound, awoke to the sound of helicopters coming in from the east. But, hey, I wasn’t sleeping very well anyway, wondering why Scott Pelley is still on the air as the CBS Evening News anchor after we, at CCB, announced last week that he was toast. Was it all fake news? Curiously, CBS News is being very quiet on the matter. And, you know, maybe that’s the best way to handle fake news…just shut up about it. Eventually, it goes away. Well, you can be assured that we, here at CCB, will remain your best resource for fake news, no matter what. But, I digress… So…helos…2:30 AM…coming in from the east. I look out through the slats in the blinds to see three helicopters, one of which lands on the south lawn here, the other two take up hovering positions on either side. I can tell that the two that remain hovering are Apache gunships. The helo that landed keeps its engines running. Three figures emerge from inside. I figure it must be The Trump! I quickly tied the Spongebob tie that I bought on the east coast last month around my neck and moved to the front door. As I stepped out onto the porch, I noticed Cousin Fred with the Hairdressing Hydrologist Gigi in tow running out of The Cab and heading into the north pasture. Guess he figured The Trump was there for Gigi. The hovering gunship over that pasture followed them with its gazillion lumen spotlight. Three goons in Armani suits and expensive shades approached the house. The lead goon seemed pleased to find that I had already tied my tie. I met them at the top of the U-shaped driveway. The head goon spoke into his shirt cuff, “The pig is tied.” And then to me, “Follow us.” As we walked toward the helo, I lifted the legs of pajama bottoms to keep the sandburs off. The lead goon indicated that I should board the helo. I was about to protest that I wasn’t really dressed for a trip anywhere when I looked toward the back of the cabin and saw the Orange Hostess Cupcake himself seated behind a desk. “Hello there, Blogger Boy. Good to see you again.” I moved back through the cabin. On his desk was a gold cup filled with Sharpie pens. In front of him was a stack of folders, presumably containing work. He was dressed in an impossibly rumpled blue suit with a white shirt and dazzling red tie. On his feet were orange colored bunny slippers. “Uh…,” I said. “We’re just out for a nighttime flight op,” he said. “When I realized where we were, I told the pilot to sit this flying death trap down so I could have a sit-down with my best advisor.” “Uh…” “Comey’s testimony before Congress is coming up this week. Should I be worried? What should I do?” “Well…” “Not that I’m worried or anything you understand. I just hate bad publicity, you know? I suppose I could try to prevent his testifying before the committee. What do you think?” “Oh…umm…well.” “I mean I get enough bad publicity. There’s that pesky little mayor in London. You know, I make a carefully thought out observation about him on social media and look what I get. Everybody hates my guts. The guy should be thanking me for my carefully thought out observation. But noooo…” “Yeah, you know…” “I’ve got the ISIS crawling up my ass looking for polyps. Oh...oh…and then I find out that school in New York City was over two weeks ago. What the hell? But still no wife or son with me in the White House. It gets lonely there. What do you think I should do?” “You might try…” “And, by the way, why is that f**k Scott Pelley still on TV? I thought YOU said he was fired?” “Oh, well…” “Course, I guess even the best advisors and or Blogger Boys can’t be right 100 percent of the time. Am I right?” “I…” “How’s Gigi? Look what Spicy is doing for my hair! It hasn’t looked this good in a long time. I’ve pulled him completely off the air. He wasn’t doing me any favors. He’s better with the hair thing.” “Uh huh.” “Well, it was good talking with you Blogger Boy. You want a job? I’ll give you Spicy’s old office. A ton of dough to go along with it.” “Oh, no, but…” “Okay, Blogger Boy. I’ll check in with you later.” With that he spoke into the cuff of shirt. “The pig is ready for slaughter. The pig is ready for slaughter.” The three goons raced aboard, grabbed me and promptly threw me off the helo. I began running to the main house, hoping to avoid the rotor wash. As the helo lifted off the lawn, dirt and sandburs filled the air. The two gunships followed me with their spotlights until I was on the porch. They then departed to catch up to The Trump’s helo. Just another night at The Compound. That is all! Comments are closed.
|
Archives
March 2019
Categories |
RSS Feed