 Happy Friday everyone!
You know what I love about America…er, Canada? Those Canadians have a special sense of humor when it comes to making fun of us. Take for example a new lawn ornament (pictured) with the head of White House Spokesperson Sean Spicer that you can hide among your shrubbery. If you’re a rabid conservative who fails to see the humor in that…thhhppppppttttttt. It’s genius, I’m telling you! Appears Spicy may be on the steep slope to a lesser role in WH communications. I saw on a news outlet this morning that he is expected to have less public exposure following The Trump’s return from overseas. That was followed by another item that said The Trump is not planning to allow as many daily press conferences after his return. Ugh, we’ll be back to the days of media reporters having to resort to “Unnamed White House sources said today on condition of anonymity…” which I’m sure this administration will pursue with a vengeance. Eh, it’ll give the new FBI director something to do…you can’t investigate Russian ties to the White House if you’re hunting White House aides. Of course, I MAY have had something to do with those decisions. I was just dozing off last night when there came a rap on the door. It was the three goons in expensive shades and black Armani suits. They shoved their way inside. The one in front asked, “Do you have a tie now?” Without a word, I produced my SpongeBob tie. Even flipped the micro-switch to light it up. “Put it on and tie it long.” I pointed out that I was in boxers and a t-shirt. Hardly appropriate attire for formal wear. At that, the other two goons set upon me, tying my tie for me. After a quick inspection, the head goon spoke into his cuff, “The pig is tied.” Soon thereafter, the Hostess Orange Cupcake himself stepped into the room. It was The Trump. He looked at me and said, “Nice tie, Blogger Boy. Remember me?” I was too stunned for words at first. He was using the name he pinned to me as I accompanied him on his first campaign stop in Shattuck. “Of course, I remember you Mr. President.” With that, he smiled. Reminded me of the white cream filling inside of Hostess Orange Cupcakes. “I’m here because I need advice. You’re a clever lad. I read your blog daily. Very funny, very insightful, very fake news.” “Why, thank you…I think.” The questions started. “What do I do about this damned Russian ties investigation?” “Nothing as long as they’re SpongeBob SquarePants ties.” No response. I tried again. “Nothing. Say nothing more. Deny everything. They have to prove it, if there was some wrongdoing.” No response. “What about the Comey firing?” “It’ll blow over. Do nothing. Say nothing. Deny everything. They have to prove you did it to impede the investigation, if in fact that’s what you did.” You could have heard a pin drop. He continued, “What about the brouhaha over my passing classified material to the Russians?” “So what? You’re the president. You can do whatever the hell you want. It’ll blow over. The allies who gave us the info will get over it. Tell the media to go F themselves.” At that, he nodded. “What do I do if they won’t let me do nothing? The pressure is getting incredible and distracting.” “You can always resign and go back to doing whatever the hell it was you were doing before.” Again with the nods. “You want a job?” “Oh no…I’ve had enough of this place. I’m headed back to Oklahoma.” “I need someone like you on my staff. You tell it like it is. Plus, I’ve heard the story of you telling that intelligence reporter from the New York Times to go F*** himself when you worked in the White House years ago.” “Mr. President, that was then, this is now.” “You know, there were 100,000 tornadoes in Oklahoma earlier today. Why would you want to live there?” “Uhhh…it’s a challenge?” “Every airport in the state was destroyed by bad weather. You have no place to fly to.” “Uh, but…” “I’m president, for now. I can shut down air traffic in and out of the state of Oklahoma. Just like that,” he said snapping his fingers. I stood there like an idiot in my boxers and yellow SpongeBob tie. How do you respond to something like that? “Well, I guess you can go home. But, I want you to consider coming to work for me. And, promise me I can call you up whenever I need advice.” “Uh, sure. I promise.” “Good. Now I have a surprise for you, Blogger Boy.” “Uh oh,” I thought. One of the goons turned and opened the door. Cousin Fred’s long lost flame, the Hydrologist Hairdresser Gigi stepped through. I looked to The Trump, who said, “Take her with you when you go. She belongs with you. Spicer will be doing my hair from now on.” So, there it is. Now I’m stuck with Gigi. Cousin Fred will be delighted. The Wife not so much. On the other hand, we can certainly use the help with the upcoming Clustering of Gigolos Music Festival in the summer. This is my last day in Northern Virginia, will return to The Compound tomorrow. That is all (for now)! Comments are closed.
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