For some time now, my husband and I have spent our evenings in our rocking chairs, watching reruns of "Upstairs, Downstairs", and wondering, "Where did the magic go?"
Then YOU came along, and one of the benefits (the only one, actually) of your tenure in the White House has been Friday nights. Now, each and every Friday night, we eagerly await the hour (which is exactly one hour after Wolf Blitzer signs off the air) when all hell breaks loose in Washington, D.C. Et voila! Enough excitement and drama to last us a whole week. Along with anxiety, uncertainty, incredulity, fear and loathing. Nuclear War Weekend was particularly stimulating.
However, I must say that last week's Friday night news dump - while impressive - was a little uninspiring. Which is odd, given that your spectacular performance as a human spittoon managed to outshine Hurricane Harvey:
You pardoned Joe Arpaio. (Which means you finally managed to do something that even God couldn't do.)
You let it leak that you'll be ending the Dreamer program next time you're in a bad mood. (Oh, yes, you did. I've known for quite some time now that you're one of the "leakers".)
You fired Comrade Gorka. (Won't do you any good.)
You made it official that LGBT people are no longer welcome to get their asses shot off in defense of the country. (Can the draft be far behind?)
The Wall Street Journal reported that Mr. Mueller thinks that two of your homies, Mike Flynn and Peter Smith, might have been in touch - on a nefarious matter - with a mutual friend named Yorgy, who weighs 400-pounds and sits on his bed. In Moscow. (No kidding.)
And you headed off to Camp David (I didn't know it had a golf course) during one of the biggest natural disasters in U.S. history. (The USA cap was a nice, though somewhat unconvincing, touch.)
But none of it was - you know - funny. Maybe I've just been missing The Mooch.
So I waited. And was rewarded.
Lo-and-behold, like manna from heaven, along comes Felix Sater, your bosom buddy and former "senior advisor". (Whyever did you let him print those business cards?)
I have a feeling that we're going to be hearing a lot about Mr. Sater in the future. He has all the makings of a great Trump sideshow:
He was born in Russia.
He's a New York real estate developer.
He has mob connections.
He was convicted of stock fraud.
He's an FBI informant. And he's currently cooperating with the FBI on an international money laundering scheme.
The stuff of dreams. Oh, this guy is going to sing like a canary.
But Mr. Sater's real claim to fame is that he once did a year in the slammer for - are you ready? - "assaulting a man with the stem of a broken margarita glass".
Trump will resign. And he will become the star of Bannon's new blockbuster show.
(Working title: "Swamp Thing".)
Each week, in an interview with Sean Hannity, Trump will decimate somebody in Washington who didn't want to play with him,
To the ecstatic delight of his base, who will never miss an episode.
(And who will never get over Trump's political failure. Or the Confederacy.)
Eventually Trump will become the new Rupert Murdoch.
(Like we need a new Rupert Murdoch.)
And maybe he and Melania will be able to go out to dinner in New York again.
Everybody wins. Except for:
Who, I predict, will be almost as miserable under President Pence.
Because he's almost as crazy as Donald Trump.
If you don't believe me,
This was probably the plan from the beginning, and got side-tracked because Trump liked being The President for a while. But that's not working out so well right now.
So it's time for Trump to go back to doing what he does best: being a somewhat goofy and supremely annoying media star. Much more fun that being president. Trump will again have adoring fans! fame! money! golf! Russian beauty pageants! and - as a private citizen - he can be as politically incorrect as he wants to be (which is, apparently, a lot), because nobody around him will be wearing a wire.
And even if they were, no one would care. A possible alternative future is that Trump and Bannon will just fade away into obscurity, a la Sarah Palin.
Please allow me a few moments of your attention before you drink yourself into your nightly stupor.
I hear that you really weren't fired today. Which I don't doubt for a minute. You left voluntarily, and who can blame you? With the White House starting to resemble the set of Dr. Strangelove, just how effective could you be? Now you are free to wage your "war" without that pesky Constitution to worry about.
Regretfully, your choice of words could be construed as throwing gasoline on the national fire, but that's in keeping with the grand plan, I guess. It will be interesting to see the results of your fiery journalism while waiting in checkout lines at Walgreens. (With an eye to their customers' continued good appetites, my grocery store chooses not to sell The Enquirer.)
I have a bit of advice for you in regards to your new/old job at Breitbart.
Though I'm sure you and Mr. Trump are gleefully cooking up all sorts of nasty surprises for those you perceive to be your enemies (quite a list, I'm sure), you guys are apparently missing a very important point. The reality is that you are SO far gone many people would consider it a fucking badge of honor to be defamed in one of your...um..."news" stories.
In fact, if you really wanted to "crush" some hapless member of the "opposition", all you would have to do is casually mention that he or she is a friend of yours.
How easy is that?
Now, back to your double Maker's Mark. On the bright side, you can day drink again.
I find it interesting to read that you were so angered by your Fearless Leader's recent display of spectacular ignorance that you were rendered speechless for 48 hours.
Call me a cynic, but I think you were just checking the polls.
Curiously, you are suddenly being characterized as a "pro-civil rights" Republican (which is certainly news to the Americans who came of age after your midlife crisis) in the popular press.
Nice try, and you have a helluva PR team.
However, in my own mind, nothing will ever be able to erase the many times I've seen you, since the inauguration, photographed with a smug and satisfied smirk on your face, apparently pleased with Yam Man's sundry attempts to decimate this planet.
Sorry, dude. What goes around, comes around. Ask Anthony Scaramucci, who - I think - finally understands karma.
(Sorry, ladies, I try to leave you out of this, because I think there's a possibility that you've been abused and/or brainwashed, and I don't like to rail against my sisters, but I've had it.)
Dear Mr. Trump,
White supremacy and Nazism are not "sides". They are enemies of the United States. Of humanity. Of civilization. And the people, the common citizens, who come forward to protect us from them should be hailed as heroic.
Alt-left? Nobody's buying that. Well, maybe Ann Coulter is buying it, but...'nuff said.
You, who cry big crocodile tears over our military, and now desecrate everything they've ever fought and died for, how do you sleep?
Call me divisive, but I have no intention of "uniting" with this evil. Or communicating with it. Ever.
And that includes you.
Enough. You need to resign. Right now. Though that may deprive me of the pleasure of seeing you - and your minions - going to jail, I'm willing to make the sacrifice.
P.S. The eye protectors you wear during your spray tans are making you look like a big orange raccoon.
The Donald Trump Phrasebook and Dictionary (see previous post) has been amended to include the following entry:
"others of different militant perspectives
1.people who object to white-supremacists and neo-Nazis;
2. people who read books;
3. people who can count by fives all the way to a hundred;
5. and anybody else who didn't vote for Donald Trump."
Thank you, Mike Pence, for your contribution to my humble lexicon.
For the record:
You look like you're made out of PVC and would get slimy in the rain.
You talk like someone in the throes of an LSD flashback.
Your wife is quite right about not letting you drink when you're out of her sight.
I'll bet you spend hours watching your Big Orange Daddy in the White house (looking as vapid as possible, so as not to alarm him), whilst spinning fantasies about him having to seek political asylum amongst the Uzbeks.
And thinking about how thrilled Americans would be to have you as their president.
You're wrong about that. Many Americans have carefully checked the line of succession and - God help them - are trying to figure out how to get to Orrin Hatch.
It appears that Rex Tillerson and Nikki Haley have convinced you that your wrestling match with North Korea isn't playing well with a whole lot of people, and now you're bored, and you're figuring that maybe you can just dump the whole fiasco on Sweden or China or someone, and move on.
Well, all I can say is that was a half-a-bottle of whiskey wasted.
Probably, Mr. Tillerson and Ms. Haley - after assuring you that they love you to pieces - also pointed out that the rest of the world just considers you to be America's very own little Kim Jong Un. A pain in the ass. But with a shorter attention span.
Not easy to find a dog to wag these days.
However, with various investigative agencies knocking on your golf club's door, you'd better come up with something.
And like a gift from heaven, that rascal Maduro in Venezuela has started acting up. I'm guessing that most of people in the United States, being as clueless as a Nevada parole board about anything that goes on in South America, give a damn if you bomb Venezuela.
What's not to love? Venezuela won't fight back. And there's lots of cheap oil to be had, you get to play with your new toys, and you'll finally WIN something. Maybe you could send Donald Jr. there to be president for a while. Just 'til the heat dies down.
With Venezuela you can thump your chest as much as you want, causing paroxysms of patriotism amongst your not-too-bright base and another bump in your approval ratings, though I'm sure that your professed feelings of compassion for the people of Venezuela are as genuine as your cartoon machismo.
I'm also sure that, up until yesterday, you wouldn't be able to pick out Venezuela on a map, given a pop quiz.