President Wall Banger
TrumPHONEY Wall
Monopoly Man
Presidential Harassment
“Poor me, I am so harassed.”
Yes, there is Presidential harassment, but it is being promoted by the President and his administration against governmental agencies that are only doing their sworn duty to uphold our Constitution and Laws.
“If there is going to be peace and legislation, there cannot be war and investigation.” the baby cries.
It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood in spite of President “Huff’n’PUFFs” blatant threat during his State of the Union address. The House Ways and Means Committee met today to start building a case to pursue trump’s tax returns!
It’s going to be hard for Huffy to stop it, because it turns out that an obscure provision in the Federal Tax Code gives the chairman of the committee unilateral powers to request tax information on any filer, including the President.
Note: When applying the phrase “Obscure Provision” to the Federal Tax Code they must be referring to all the writing contained within its pages, for most Americans can only comprehend the Title on its front page.
According to one committee aide, “The tax returns are only one evidentiary piece of the larger puzzle about the President’s finances.”
The larger puzzle they are referring to must be a JIGSAW PUZZLE because when the JIG is up, President “Lookada Otherway” will need a SAW smuggled into his prison cell.
Then again, they might be referring to the game show Wheel of Misfortune.
The Great Escape
Everywhere the President goes he hears about this Great Act. On newscasts, on radio talk shows, like the voice of Jacob Marley’s ghost, it calls out to his subconscious mind.
Even while strolling through the White House corridors, he hears his staff whisper about this great act.
“Boy! Everyone has seen this Act except me; something about handcuffs and impossible escapes. I just love a good magic act; must be in my showbiz genes.”
With the attention span of a sea sponge and intellect of a draining bathtub, our Commander in Deep hands a note to his secretary, “Send out an invitation to this Magic Act. I am dying to bring them here.
I keep hearing such good things about them and want to ask them to perform at the White House.
I am hoping they’re as good as that Hamilton Act, but with none of that Crappy Rap music.
After he leaves, his secretary opens the note and begins to read.
Send this out on my special White House stationery.
I am pleased to extend an invitation for your Act to appear here at the White House. If scheduling permits, I want your act to play out for me and my whole family.
It is signed: Donald J. Trump, President of the United States of America.
P.S. You will have to find the address to send this invitation to, I can’t be bothered.
Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the acts name.
It’s called the RICO Act.
The secretary rushes to get his stationary.
M.A.G.A. (Mayberry America Gone Astray)
Remember the days when strangers would show up in your town and be welcomed by everyone.
There was no such thing as gossip or hatred or bigotry or racism.
They’d be welcomed by the friendly Sheriff who would drop by with a freshly baked apple pie courtesy of Aunt Bee.
Sorry, Mayberry only exists in our minds, but we would be a better nation if we would only practice the ideals that the town portrayed.
A welcoming society is an improving society. It is an advancing society.
Mayberry, the TV show, with its early shades of gray moved on in later episodes to a better world full of vibrant colors, giving every follower a fresh new viewpoint, and enriching their lives.
“Mayberry America” should aspire to be more like TVs Mayberry.
ROLLING OUT deFENCE
Son of Frankentrump
Mrs. Frankentrump stitched her son together from an assortment of parts she had scavenged while on her rounds collecting coins from the laundry machines that her husband owned in the family’s outer-borough apartment buildings.
The thought of building a son was a tantalizing idea to Mrs. Frankentrump, as Mr. Frankentrump seldom crossed paths with her. Large real estate deals were his only desire lately.
She purposely made her collections at night, steering her Rolls-Royce through the dimly lit outer boroughs.
She had paid enormous sums of cash to shady morticians and a few corrupt medical examiners. They always had a chilled selection of parts for her to choose from when she stopped by.
Slim Pickens, though, the week she needed to find feet for her son. The only pair available was from a deceased Rodeo Cowboy.
A rodeo was a rare event in the boroughs. So, when one came to the fairground located on property her husband had developed, Mrs. Frankentrump could not resist going.
The cowboy had been thrown from his horse and while getting up was crushed against a wall.
Ironically that very same wall had been built by Mexican laborers hired by Mr. Frankentrump the summer before.
The cowboy’s feet came with spurs.
The head and brain came last. The head came from a boy that had been in a tragic accident on Halloween night.
A large pumpkin had plummeted seven stories from the balcony of one of Frankentrumps apartment buildings.
It landed directly on the head of a teenager below. He was snorting Adderall at the time and probably didn’t feel a thing.
The top of his head was totally crushed in; however, she thought it was still an excellent choice for he had nice facial features.
It was only much later in life, that her stitched together son, Donny as he would be named, discovered the answer to a deeply personal question.
The impact of that giant orange pumpkin had permanently fused DNA into the epidermis of his head.
At last, two brains became available and Mrs. Frankentrump would finally be able to stitch her son’s remaining parts together.
Excitement welled up in her as she approached her car carrying the two jars each containing a brain. She would now be able to choose the better of the two for her son.
She trembled, as her motherly endeavor neared its completion. As she was loading her car one jar slipped from her arms, splattering its contents at her feet. Now only one remained.
The handwritten name on the jar was mostly illegible. It appeared that the brain had belonged to a person named Abby Normel.