At the conclusion of the House Committee on Oversight and Reform hearings; members will retire to the State Dining Room.
There they will be served juicy portions of LAMBASTED TRUMP ROAST accompanied by a variety of boiled Minions, both domestic and imported Russian varieties.
Dessert will follow, consisting of tax re-turnovers topped with scoops of chilled impeached mint ice cream.
Afterward; Bowls of collusion punch will be available along with hot “covfefe”.
The Mariachi Band members called,
“How do we get to TrumPHONEY Wall?”
An American Tourist amusingly said,
“You must practice walking dead”.
Practice. Practice walking tall.
If your destination is beyond the wall.
They practiced walking and singing toward –
The hopeful future, their travel’s reward.
About to set out on their walk
Reading the trail maps they had bought.
Showing trails – that had brought
So many like them – to their haven.
Just don’t get caught holding the thought
That: “Streets there are golden paven”.
Hardships you’ll face. So pick up the pace
toward this land you are craving.
A harrowing start buying the carts,
Then pushinq belongings in barrows.
Leave your hats, because you will find,
The tunnels dug there – are narrow.”
He said he would bring his business experience to the White House. He actually did.
He runs the government like he has run most of his businesses – into the ground.
This pretend President is playing a game of White House Monopoly, but with our money.
In his game, he is the Banker. He makes the rules, dealing out the sweetest properties to his cronies before anyone else joins the game.
We are pieces arriving late to the game. We can only circle the board, as all his special interest friends drain our savings.
We travel around its streets hoping the little pay we earn at the end of each week will be enough to keep us going.
Every time we think we are getting ahead, a tax bill arrives, rent comes due, or water and electric bills arrive, forcing us to deplete our savings.
Finding free parking brightens our week. A welcoming food pantry gives us sustenance; a winning lottery ticket gives us hope.
Is there any hope for our children?
Our U.S. National debt is almost 22 Trillion dollars.
This debt will rise further if we move forward with additional spending programs and tax cuts. Any tax cuts for the wealthy must not be paid for by taking funds from Medicare and Medicaid.
We need not only different budgetary and funding changes, but also a new Banker.
When do we get off his board?
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.
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.
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.
Trying to defend government funding to build his Wall on National television;
President “Wall Doo” babbled the following rambling and incoherent statement.
“They say a wall is medieval. Well, so is a wheel. A wheel is older than a wall, and I looked at every single car out there, even the really expensive ones that the Secret Service uses — And believe me. They are expensive. I said. Do they all have wheels? Yes. Oh, I thought it was medieval.”
One can only imagine the distorted images of fleeting memories that floated up from his past as he gave that speech. They flickered on the screen of his overly neglected brain.
Flashes appeared of his Nanny pushing him in his stroller, accompanied by his ever-present bodyguard.
Looking up and out from his stroller he sees Mexican laborers building a brick wall and a rod iron fence.
Remembering it clearly, being a college freshman at the time, “The stroller had wheels and those wheels brought me to that wall, proving that wheels preceded walls.”
“Historians pretend to know more than me, but what do they know. They read things in their books; I read things on walls.”
It must have dawned on him then, that someday that wall and fence would forever prevent his being wheeled beyond their restricting border.
Little did Donny realize that history was created in his mind on that day?
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.