Another week of the latest reality TV show to torture the masses, ‘The Harlequins of Washington’, has thankfully ended. The histrionic personality of Faux-President Donald Trump has yet to abate and find its happy place. Trump is the “Typhoid Mary” of the current political arena: infected, contagious, absurdly disgusting and in obvious denial. Where’s Louis Pasteur when you need him?! Or maybe Jeffrey Dahmer. Oh, Great Candelabra! I guess I shouldn’t be so brutally honest. But the unbridled scribe in me often takes over my brain faster than Germans at a beer festival.
Yet, every day of the week – including weekends and holidays
– the U.S. and the world are treated to regular puny-worded rants from the American
Putin. Trump is quicker to name-slur his
adversaries – “Crooked Hillary”, “Lying Ted”, “Little Marco” – than he is to
produce his tax records. Which, by the
way, have yet to be removed from whatever subterranean vault they’re being
housed in at Trump Tower.
The schizophrenic weather and temperature fluctuations that have traumatized Northeast Texas in recent months have left the Chief and many other locals swaddled in a morass of mucus, madness and melancholia. I dragged my carcass into visit my doctor this morning, hoping for a shot of some life-altering tonic: cortisone, Vitamin B12, hydrocodone, Don Julio tequila.
Afterwards, I realized our ‘Dear Clown Leader’ could use
much of the same; just inject a slew of medications into his fat ass – a process
that could last for days – in a concerted effort to nourish his pickling
cerebral cortex into some semblance of normality and subsequently (hopefully) save
the world.
Alas, dreams are always a good thing. Never give up on them! Now, I’ll steer my haggard self from national news broadcasts, partake of some Don Julio, and embed myself into another reality TV show; one with considerably more plausibility – “Ancient Aliens”.
Chief Writing Wolf 