Donald Trump and global warming. Not what you would call your match made in heaven. Rather, the pairing harkens closer to the other location. That hotter destination often described as being in a more Southernly direction. The one with the pitchfork racks on the scorched walls of the foyer.  

Not only does the president not believe in global warming, he thinks the exact opposite is going on. Whatever that is. He’s not really sure. But it’s definitely neither warming nor global. Could be localized. Could be cooling. Still snows in New Hampshire in the winter don’t it?

His series of climate change denials have included calling it a hoax, blaming the Chinese, saying it could turn back on its own and claiming it was nothing but a spurious plot dreamed up by Crooked Hillary to make him look bad and he would have won the popular vote if millions of illegals hadn’t flooded the polls.

He pulled out of the Paris Climate Accords, even though hundreds of US corporations lobbied to stay in. Because apparently they have access to research that seems to indicate that the extinction of the human species might adversely affect quarterly dividends. Especially in the retail sector.

In their most recent report, the UN’s Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change announced an updated strategy: learn to live with it. Remember when they said that if something wasn’t done within ten years, all hell was going to break loose? Well, that was 16 years ago. So what they’re saying now is, the basement is already full of gas, we should concentrate on lighting the fewest matches.

Then Trump’s own administration was forced to issue the 1600 page 4th National Climate Assessment, which they attempted to bury by releasing it the day after Thanksgiving. You know, that blackest of Fridays when most Americans are recovering from ingesting enough calories to stuff a wooly mammoth. Speaking of extinct species.

That report suggests that unless something is done by 2100, 10% of our GNP could disappear due to environmental deterioration. There you go. See, that’s how you reach the guy. Focus on ramifications he can understand. And losing money would certainly be one of them.

So here are some other possible items of note to help convince Mr. Trump that climate change might not be the best thing since sliced bread.

Rising ocean levels washing through Mar-A-Lago would necessitate the refurbishment of a large amount of rooms.  

Increased humidity guaranteed to make his daily hair scaffolding ritual more complicated.

Might prove to be a major inconvenience for Sean Hannity.

Rudy Giuliani would dissolve into an oil slick that would dissipate and befoul beaches up and down the entire east coast.

Would definitely affect Melania’s complexion. And not necessarily in a good way.

Can almost guarantee it would interfere with the intricate electronics that allow Mike Pence to appear so lifelike.

Might prove to be a major inconvenience for Vladimir Putin.

Kellyanne Conway can’t float.

Scientists predict wars breaking out over dwindling food and water supplies and we all know how much he enjoys his snacks.

And finally, having the carts burning up on his golf courses might negatively affect resort revenues. Because as everyone knows, a dead member is not a dues paying member.

Sit the kids down. Let the dogs out. Prop the grandparents up. The nation’s patience has been richly rewarded, because the eagerly awaited list of the Top Ten Comedic News Stories of 2018 has been officially released. This truly is the most wonderful time of the year.

But first a caution: please do not confuse this list with the top ten legitimate news stories of 2018. No. No. No. They are as different as charcoal sketches of historic steam engines and a bucket of compost. Like golden-stitched, sequined blue jean jackets are to chocolate brownies. Bow ties and dirt bikes.

There are no wildfires or hurricanes or kids kept in cages or bone saws or cave dwelling Thai soccer teams, nor mention of the movie “The Happytime Murders” in this report. No casualties from the #MeToo or TimesUp movements. These are the stories that most lent themselves to (s)mocking and scoffing and taunting. So here they are, the Top Ten Comedic News Stories of 2018.

• 10. PROPOSAL TO GIVE TEACHERS GUNS. Brilliant idea. And the cure for concussions is hammers. It admittedly would add an interesting element to the faculty lounge. Might help parent teacher conferences resolve a little earlier. Of course then all the school employees would want them. And the librarians would demand silencers on theirs.
• 9. KIM KARDASHIAN MEETS WITH TRUMP. In May, the two broke the old record for largest assemblage of White House ass, set in 1978 when Jimmy Carter welcomed the Upper Michigan Donkey Basketball Champions. Five months later her husband Kanye West set the bar even higher. Or lower.  
• 8. KIM JONG UN & THE SINGAPORE SUMMIT. A win-win. Trump got a great photo op and Kim Jong Un got to leave North Korea and eat real food.
• 7. BOOKS ON TRUMP. 4 major publications and every one calls him nuttier than the hospitality suite at a squirrel convention. Stormy Daniels said his male member looks like a mushroom prompting a protest from the American Mushroom Institute. Apparently, every twenty years America needs to know the shape of the leader of the leader of the free world.
• 6. VLADIMIR PUTIN & THE HELSINKI SUMMIT. The president made Neville Chamberlain look like a mixed martial arts champ. He sucked up so hard he probably left hickeys.
• 5. UN LAUGHS AT TRUMP. After he claimed to be the best president EVER, they laughed. And because of translation delays, it was a slow ripple of laughter punctuated by the occasional guffaw.
• 4. WHITE HOUSE CORRUPTION. His malfeasance is so large it can be seen from space. Rick Gates testified under oath he stole money from Paul Manafort who stole money from Donald Trump who stole money from everybody. These guys are the Russian nesting dolls of crime.
• 3. THE KAVANAUGH HEARINGS. Women outraged for being disenfranchised and white men outraged for… having their entitlements challenged.
• 2. THE BLUE WAVE. Against all odds, the Democrats actually exhibited a pulse. The midterms were less of an election and more of an intervention.
• 1. DONALD JOHN TRUMP. Refuses to release his DNA to prove he’s a carbon-based life-form. The president calls his administration a finely tuned machine, which certainly sounds better than out-of-control dumpster fire but might be a little less apt.

Money. Moolah. Cash. Dough. Scratch. Dinero. Benjamins. Greenbacks. Cabbage. Lettuce. Gravy. Whatever you call it, nobody ever has enough of it: you, me, poor people, rich people and even, apparently, America.

Republican Senator Mitch McConnell says the country needs to slash entitlements because of our huge deficit. What he fails to mention is he’s mostly responsible for that deficit because of the $1.5 trillion corporate tax cut pushed through earlier this year. Kind of like the kid who murders his parents then begs the court for mercy owing to him being an orphan.

Of course, now, with a change in the House of Representatives, you got a better chance of a wounded gazelle taking down a pride of lions than getting the Democrats to sign off on cuts to Social Security and Medicare. Unless, of course, it would increase their reelection prospects.

Fortunately we have a president who’s good at monetizing things. After all, he ran a string of casinos and hotels and golf courses and beauty pageants and football teams and airlines and universities and made plenty of money, right? With only a couple of bankruptcies. Okay, 6. And a gazillion lawsuits, but still.

This nation needs someone who knows how to sell the presidency and the current occupant seems the perfect match. He’s already presented a Medal of Honor to the wife of his largest donor. If the rich are willing to drop big bucks for hunks of metal dangling from ribbons, we should do everything in our power to accommodate them.

There’s plenty more ways this Administration can raise money by offering items of interest for which the general public might be willing to cough up hard currency and here are just a few of the more marketable with fancy titles.

FIRST LADY MAKE OVER. An intensive one-hour beauty consultancy with the lovely Melania Knauss Trump.
RUMBLE IN THE TRUMPLE. Presidential son Eric will let you beat him at tic-tac-toe in the lobby of Trump Tower.
IMPEACHMENT POOL. A national lottery on what day the House will vote to impeach. Submissions closest to exact vote earn bonuses.
BEST FRIENDS FOREVER. High quality limited edition autographed photos of Vladimir Putin riding a horse shirtless. Not very limited.
WHY THIS NIGHT IS REALLY DIFFERENT PACKAGE. Ivanka Trump Kushner will attend your Seder and bring home-made matzo.
VICE PRESIDENTIAL SPA. A soothing back rub from VP Mike Pence. Note: cannot be performed in the presence of a woman.
ALTERNATIVE FACTS CAN BE FUN. Kellyanne Conway & Sarah Huckabee Sanders conduct a how-to webinar where they teach students how to dispute commonly held beliefs like gravity and nighttime. Self-delusion a pre-requirement.
PARS, PUTTS & PITCHES WITH THE POTUS. Round of golf with the Leader of the Free World. Mulligans not included.
MUNCHING WITH THE MUNCHKIN. Don Jr. will provide lunch at same restaurant table he ate with Natalia Veselnitskaya.
GRISLY IS AS GRISLY DOES. Private audio session with Mohammed bin Salman describing the action during Jamal Kashoggi’s “interrogation.”
REPRESENTATIVE YOU. Your very own US Congressional seat. (limited to residents of red states)
BOSS TWEETER. The president of the United States will mention you in a tweet.
BOSS SWEETER. The president of the United States will mention you in a tweet, favorably. Costs just a wee bit more.

One thing we should all be grateful for this year, is that Thanksgiving is making its annual appearance at the earliest possible point on the 22nd. And it could not come at a better time, conveniently laying down a soft muffling blanket of brightly colored leaves over the scorched ruts of one of the most contentious elections in our nation’s history and 712 days before the next most contentious election in our nation’s history. One that officially kicked off on Wednesday November 7.

The Fourth Thursday of November is the best of American holidays, a non-denominational feast of friends, family, food and football featuring six-story helium balloons on rope tethers jousting with lampposts. Where’s the bad? The first sanctioned appearance of Santa, for crum’s sakes.

And we do have much to be thankful for. 712 days until the next election for one thing. Also, we can’t forget to mention all the everyday ordinary objects, people and events that fill our lives and normally slide by unnoticed as we go about the important business of earning a living and carving out a future. Like the store-bought pumpkin pie topped by canned whipped cream that is undoubtedly the real culprit for the hour nap striking down the entire family after dinner.

So, unless you’re a large fowl that has recently been force-fed a glut of high protein grain then crowded down a path towards a big metal machine making scary swooshing noises, there is much to be thankful for.

And this is just the tip of the iceberg for some of the things that we, the Board of Directors at Durstco Industries are thankful:

For the fact that the Pilgrims chose to celebrate on a Thursday providing their descendants with a unique 4 day weekend to kick off the Christmas shopping season.
For spoonsful of peanut butter right out of the jar.
For the State of Florida. Can’t drive. Can’t count. All right Florida, we’ve had it.
Time to circumcise America. Just cut it off at the Georgia border and kick it into the Caribbean. 49 states. Works even better on the flag. 7 rows of 7 stars.
For Donald Trump’s unceasing efforts to provide daily comedic fodder on an hourly basis. Minutely.
For being alive during the Platinum Age of television.
For Turner Classic Movies’ obsession with early Barbara Stanwyck movies.
For a wife who understands that any decision made before the consumption of a third cup
of coffee is not binding by custom or law.
For perfectly turned, 6-4-3 double plays on bright summer afternoons with a Sheboygan brat in one hand and a cold Anchor Steam in the other.
For Thomas Jefferson who presciently predicted that America gets the leaders it deserves.
For Shake Shack now having 194 locations.
For Robert Mueller’s patience, perseverance, persistence and perspicacity 
For Jim Acosta because you need a blunt instrument to counter other blunt instruments.
For Aunt Lee’s lime Jell-O with carrot shreds and Aunt Hoogolah’s Dupamouche
For Chris Christie. Love him or hate him, he’s not going away and is too big to fail.
And finally, for the Newly Elected 116th Congress. Now that Democrats control the House, it’ll be interesting to see who they have bigger fights with: the GOP or themselves.

Closing in on the critical midterm elections Donald Trump unleashed a torrent of October Surprises in an attempt to motivate his base; throwing everything up against the wall including the kitchen sink. With a filthy green snake hanging out the drain.

He demonstrated he would say or do anything that could give him or the GOP the slightest emotional boost. He would lie. Cheat. Steal. Defame critics. Invent crises. Exaggerate enemies. Make stuff up. Mischaracterize facts. Promise impossible things. Defy the laws of physics. Dabble in magical realism. With an emphasis on the adjective and none on the noun. Call a spade a club. Call a rock a rifle.

The President initially tried bribing constituents by offering up a middle class tax cut that would take effect before the election only to be told Congress wouldn’t be able to enact it, what with them being nowhere near Washington and all, way too busy with the important American business of getting reelected.

He then switched to frightening voters by portraying an immigrant caravan as a marauding army, full of crime and Mideasterners. And he wasn’t talking about residents of Indiana and Ohio. He insinuated the immigrants were also bringing diseases into our country conveniently ignoring the fact that Guatemala has a higher vaccination rate than we do.

He further vows to send 15,000 troops to repel these hundreds of economic and political refugees who walked across 3 countries to apply for asylum. More troops than are currently in Afghanistan. Talk about using a sledgehammer to push in a thumbtack.

Lastly he promised to dismantle the 14th Amendment, which guarantees birthright citizenship to anybody born in America. When you consider his first wife Ivana gave birth to Ivanka, Don Jr. and Eric all before she became a naturalized citizen in 1988, it’s a good bet there won’t be much of an effort to make the repeal retroactive.

The Oval Office occupant went on to claim that we are the only country in the world that provides birthright citizenship, and he’s only off by about 30 countries. Said someone told him he can do that through an executive order, although legal scholars say whoever told him that, is nuttier than the hospitality suite at a brown squirrel convention.

Trump also executed a nifty midair pirouette jumping on the Obama Care bandwagon claiming to be a proponent of protecting pre-existing conditions, joining other gyrating republicans, some of whom voted over 60 times to get rid of them.

Since we’ve slid past October into November, nobody knows what surprises designed to energize his followers lie in store. Perhaps he’ll declare professional wrestling to be an Olympic event. Promise a hard rain of Susan B Anthony dollars. Announce the calories in a Big Mac have been cut in half.

Deputize all gun owners with explicit permission to shoot the hell out of anybody who “looks at em funny.” Make Sadie Hawkins Day a national holiday. Suspend gravity in rural areas of red states. Give Larry the Cable Guy an Academy Award Nomination.  

Then finally on Election Eve, announce that after speaking personally to God, the Almighty told him all his loving subjects should vote Republican. The question of whether he means God’s loving subjects or his own will be debated by cable news networks until Thanksgiving.

Be careful out there folks because we’re in the middle of the scariest time of the year when spooky, hollow-eyed, costumed creatures come begging for treats and if refused, threaten dastardly tricks. Meaning one of two things; either its Halloween or the following Tuesday is Election Day.

This year both diabolically sinister events occur within a week of each other. It’s an extraordinary conjunction of the fiendish, spine-chilling and horrifying. Two separate days when ghouls rule, eerie echoing noises are rampant and the whole nation flinches at the slightest change in barometric pressure. Scary. Scary.

The press, with its love of visuals, highlights the battle between the orange and black & red, white and blue as being exceptionally fierce. Right now we’re experiencing that rare rainbow of fright. With soothing autumnal shades blessedly awaiting us on November 7.

Color-coding the events may be the best way to keep from getting confused and dropping absentee ballots in plastic pumpkins or toilet-papering polling places. It also keeps us from getting robo-calls that encourage buying bigger Butterfingers, and Costco isn’t offering endorsements with every purchase in the extra-large, county-picnic, economy size. Although, we do seem to be stumbling near the latter. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

The weird thing is there are so many similarities between the late October/ early November activities. The two have much more in common than simply sharing the same linear space of a calendar page. You always hear people describe their experiences in politics and Halloween as being “scary but fun.” The smell of desperation and giddy excitement of pre-pubescent kids as the day approaches are a couple more. And Mitch McConnell is an honorary mascot to both festivities.

In order to insure your physical security and mental safety over the next 7 harrowing days, we here at Durstco, purely a public service, have compiled a list of other reasons why Halloween is so monstrously like Election Day.

• People really enjoy going around pretending to be somebody or something they aren’t. Even those who aren’t aware they’re wearing costumes.
• Greed is not only encouraged, but richly rewarded.
• Ronald Reagan and Mickey Mouse are perennial favorites.
• Zombies and vampires and miscellaneous blood-suckers wandering the streets everywhere you look.
• Many people will stay in their homes with the lights off to avoid the whole thing.
• Based on the results of the evening, both children and adults will be highly susceptible to future nightmares.
• Shocking surprises lurk around every corner.
• The really hard work goes on in the darkest regions where secrecy reigns.
• The more malevolent, wicked, diabolical and villainish, the better.  
  • There’s always one weird house that no body wants to go near.
• You run the risk of overdosing on candy or regret.
• The scariest faces are often found under the masks.
• Warnings not to get involved by mental health authorities are continually made, yet go unheeded.
• Boos and booze are regular attendants.
• MSNBC, FOX News and Turner Classic Movies all delight in running horror marathons.
• The shared goal is obtaining the mostest, bestest goodies, not caring a whit what happens to your fellow night crawlers.
• And the #1 reason why Election Day is like Halloween: this year, a major focus of both events will be a plump vegetable with orange skin.

For some unfathomable reason Donald Trump has worked himself into one heavy-duty lather over dictators. Strongmen. Warlords. Kingpins. His love of tyrants is tremendous. It is amazing. It is huge. The man relishes hugging despots. Vladimir Putin. Rodrigo Duterte. Kim Jon Un. Kanye West.

The president backed up his good buddy Mohammed bin Salman who assured him that Saudi Arabia had nothing to do with Jamal Khashoggi’s disappearance from their Istanbul embassy. Not only did the Crown Prince deny any involvement, “it was a forceful denial,” which means it has to be true. How could anybody lie when delivering a forceful denial?

The 45th POTUS trusted his pal so much he summoned all his public relations skills to offer up the opinion that the columnist might have been slain by “rogue killers.” Yeah. Sure. That’s it. Or maybe he was consumed by spontaneous combustion. Or struck by an asteroid. No, it was the one-armed man. He got stuck in a cave like that Thai soccer team. Flesh eating bacteria? Could have been another 400-pound fat guy on a couch.

We waited breathlessly for the president to rationalize that when it comes to investigative journalists and rogue killers, “you can find good people on both sides.” Surprisingly, he neither tried that or blaming Hillary Clinton.

Turkish officials claim to possess evidence that an autopsy specialist transporting a bone saw was among the 15-member Saudi hit team that dismembered and beheaded Khashoggi during an interrogation. Which you might think would hinder the man's ability to provide answers to specific queries.

Over a two week period, the Saudis furnished enough explanations to fill the trunk of a limo with room left over for the dismembered parts of many bodies. “We have no idea what happened.” “He left through the rear entrance.” “He’s fine, just sleepy.” “Fell down during an interrogation and couldn’t get up.” “Accidentally died during a fist fight.”

And if that last bit were true, it’s obviously his own damn fault. Only a journalist would get into a fist-fight with 15 guys armed with a bone saw. The man deserved everything he got.

Nobody knows how the Turks are aware of this. They too have spun enough tales to bore Scheherazade. First they floated the story that Khashoggi’s own Apple Watch recorded the deadly rumpus, which confused everyone including Apple CEO Tim Cook. The general impression is that there are more bugs in the Saudi Embassy than in the basement of the Smithsonian’s National History Museum.

The Saudis promised a thorough and transparent investigation, which is like letting Jeffrey Dahmer find out how that head got in his refrigerator. Finally they said the Washington Post columnist was dead but they didn’t mean to kill him. Some rogue killers got into their embassy and were torturing him when something went awry. Not their fault. Just an attempted rendition that screwed the pooch. Could have happened to any murderous regime.

Trump refuses to even consider slapping sanctions on the Saudis because “people are innocent until proven guilty.” This guy sees only what he wants to see, and mostly now he sees hundreds of billions in arm sales. He’s not just myopic, he’s a myopic ostrich, burying his head in the sand. In this case, extremely oil-rich Saudi sand.

It’s such a hoary old chestnut, the phrase should be roasting on an open fire right about now. “This will be the most important election of our lifetime.” We hear it every even-numbered November from every politician in every competitive race. The difference being–this time they may be right. This isn’t just an election. It’s an intervention.

If indicators hold true and the midterm elections are fair, Democrats should retake the House. The Senate is bit of a stretch, although marginally attainable. Victory in either chamber would allow opposition committee chairs to initiate investigations and rein in our current president’s more extreme impulses. Tamp down the chaos to a dull roar. Then again, if the election isn’t fair, many applications on the Canadian immigration website, currently bookmarked on computers, will be filled out.

The first Tuesday of this November is a straight up referendum on the current occupant of the Oval Office. Black and white masquerades as blue and red. And both angry hues are doing whatever they can to get out the vote by energizing the base in their own inimitable ways. Democrats are accusing Republicans of deliberately ignoring the intricacies of the health care debate while Republicans charge that Democratic mobs want to punch pregnant women in the belly.

The only thing everyone agrees with is the midterms can change everything and we need to focus on November 6. Eat and breathe and live and die for November 6. Hope and pray and steal and cheat for November 6. This isn’t brain surgery. It’s much more important than that.

So go out and vote for the person most like you. Vote for the person most unlike you. Vote for the person most unlike HIM. Vote for the candidate with the biggest plans. Vote for the candidate who couldn’t organize a take-out order from Sonic. Vote for the candidate you dislike the least. Don’t think of it as the lesser of two evils, but the greater of two lessers.

Just get out and vote. Vote like you’ve never voted before. Vote like it’s going out of style. Vote as if the lives of your children are at stake. Because they are. Vote like they’re going to take it away from you. Because they want to. Vote as if the whole world were watching. Because it is.

Don’t just talk about voting. Read about voting. Write about voting. Shout and flail your arms about voting. Encourage other people to read and write and shout and flail their arms about voting. Grab random strangers on the street by their lapels and shake them until they start spitting blood about voting.

Pay no attention to the billionaire PACs or the hacking Russians or our own Justice Department or the National Enquirer’s Pecker. We have to show up in such numbers that anyone even thinking of tampering with the election will be intimidated like a poodle in a rhinoceros paddock.

Democracy is a participatory sport, people. It’s not meant to be viewed from the bleachers. We have to exercise our electoral muscle before it atrophies. Use it or lose it. Get pumped up. If you don’t vote, you can’t bitch, and we do plenty of that, don’t we? Vote early. Vote often. Adopt a dead voter. Where? In Chicago. Vote hard.

Brett Kavanaugh’s pathway to the Supreme Court has been more circuitous than a drunken snake’s slide down a bobsled run. No matter whether you were in favor of the confirmation of the conservative justice or dead set against it, you have to admit the man overcame more obstacles than an Olympic hurdler training on a bombed-out alley in downtown Aleppo.

His journey featured enough lowlights to scorch the balls of the feet of a thousand centipedes, but the high point of the lowlights may have been the contentious hearing where the nominee ranted and raved and cried and sneered and loudly proclaimed he liked beer!

Deviating from previous self-portrayals as a sober non-partial umpire, Kavanaugh exhibited the temperament of a spoiled 5th grader who got caught in a lie, then tried overwrought indignation to bluff his way through. Methinks the lady doth protest too much.

In an effort to delay, deflect and defray, Arizona Republican Jeff Flake struck a deal with the rest of his Senate Judiciary Committee for an abbreviated FBI investigation into the sexual assault allegations before the full Senate voted. With an emphasis on the “abbreviated.”

More thorough investigations are required for dishwashing positions at suburban Applebee’s. The announced week-long investigation barely lasted four days, which is Senate-Speak for many months’ worth of arduous toil.

The White House purportedly limited the scope of the investigation, prompting Democrats to call the inquiry a travesty of a mockery of a sham. And for Republicans to call Democrats-predictable.

The FBI declined to talk to Kavanaugh or his accuser, Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, which is like not speaking to either the driver or the victim of a hit and run. Obviously, the administration preferred the FBI interview more trustworthy witnesses like Lindsay Graham, Mitch McConnell, Alex Jones and Kanye West.

After the report was submitted, to say the committee made it hard to read is like hinting that active lava makes a substandard base for a nice Hawaiian punch. This arrangement made “cursory” seem planted in concrete, threaded with steel webbing and encased in polyurethane.

All 100 senators, in one-hour increments were forced to share a single physical copy; probably a 3rd generation Xerox of a smudged mimeograph which could only be read in a darkened room. With the drapes closed. In 8-point type. Translated into Farsi. Printed in yellow.

In the wake of the Senate voting 50-48 to hand Kavanaugh a lifetime position on the highest court of the land, Donald Trump bragged “a lot of women are extremely happy.” Don’t know which women he’s talking about, but would hazard to guess more than a few of them share his father’s last name.

Explaining his use of a female human shield interrogator, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, Republican Chuck Grassley, claimed the reason more women aren’t members is because the job is a lot of work. Putting him in contention for this year’s “Clueless Male Who Breathes Misogyny In and Out Like Oxygen” Award. But, alas, he hasn’t even cracked the top ten.

Democrats pray these proceedings will produce a midterm wave of outraged females voicing frustration at being further dismissed and disenfranchised, while Republicans expect these proceedings to produce a midterm wave of outraged males who resent their entitlement being threatened.

The Brett Kavanaugh Supreme Court confirmation process has stumbled forward like a ten year old pushing a marble pedestal twice his size up a four-story stairwell. You could say that Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s allegations concerning Kavanaugh have sort of gummed up the proceedings. You could also say that blue meat best not be eaten raw.

The doctor claims that 36 years ago when she was a drunken 15 year-old at a high school party in a private residence, the 17 year-old future judge threw her on a bed and covered her mouth to prevent her screaming. He denies everything: being there and/or knowing the girl. He even tried floating an evil twin theory. The only argument he hasn’t trotted out is the Donald Trump defense, which characterizes the charges as being baseless because she wasn’t pretty enough.

The 45th POTUS who nominated him doubts the accusation as well. Then again, he doesn’t believe many women. Not any of the dozen women who accused him of sexual harassment. Not the women who claimed Judge Roy Moore attacked them. Not the other two women who have forward to accuse Kavanaugh. As far as the president is concerned, it’s not a “he-said, she-said,” thing but more of a “he-said, she-lies” deal.

A major hitch in the Kavanaugh proceedings is the visual aspect of the Republican majority on the Senate Judiciary Committee. All 11 members are white males. Not just white, but bordering on translucent. Their possible answer to these unfortunate optics is to hire a substitute, probably a female, to ask questions if and when the good doctor testifies. Going straight to the Stunt Surrogate Senator Solution.

Overall, the conservative response has been fluid, morphing from "she’s mixed up, it didn't happen," to "it might have happened, but it wasn't that bad," to "okay, maybe it happened and was bad but its way too late to do anything about it." The next position will inevitably be: "don't worry, he'll be fine ruling on cases from his prison cell."

Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell cautioned supporters not to worry about testimony or an investigation because “We will plow right through it” to confirm Kavanaugh as a Supreme. Giving the impression she’s a human speed bump the GOP machine is willing to run right over to reach their conservative agenda. With studded snow tires.

Committee chairman Chuck Grassley seems to be in a bit of a rush to confirm Kavanaugh to his lifetime appointment to the highest court of the land. He needs to get this over by the first Monday of October when the new Court convenes, and has arbitrarily imposed made-up deadlines to further harass the person who claims to have been harassed. Because, well, obviously she’s used to it.

Kavanaugh’s polling has sunk so low, you’d need the newest high-tech spelunking gear to detect it and then only through sonar. Six weeks before the midterm election and the GOP has taken dead aim at women. Smooth move.

Someone needs to remind this collection of clueless white guys that the 19th  Amendment gave women the vote a couple of years ago. 98 to be exact. Perhaps the 2020 Centennial Party will kick-off early, maybe this November 6th by plowing right through a few Republican males.

Be very careful, because it’s getting crazy out there. You don’t want to end up collateral damage accidentally straying into the path of the newest dance craze sweeping the Republican Party. Closely related to the St. Vitus Dance, it is characterized by rapid, uncoordinated jerky movements and commonly referred to as the Donald Trump Two-Step.

It’s pretty simple really: swing your arms back and forth, take one step forward, turn right, turn righter, take one step back. And repeat. Kind of like the Twist meets the Mexican Hat Dance meets the Hokey Pokey, with a heavy emphasis on the Pokey. The goal is a lot of movement without any discernable directional advancement.

There’s an election coming up, and the threat of a Blue Wave is spooking conservatives like cobwebs in a closet with the lights out after midnight. So this spasmodic twitching is the direct result of pressure being applied from behind as well as the front, the left, the right, the in and the out. Candidates are suffering from the dreaded Trump Sandwich Effect.

The dilemma is whether to be caught in a clinch, slow-dancing with the president, which works in some red districts or to waltz away so far, the Chief-Executive can’t even be seen due to the curvature of the earth– the norm in almost every swing district. There’s a third option, the stutter-step of trying to have it both ways leading to the tortured choreography that a passing priest might describe as demonic possession.

This is a problem similar to what Democratic office-seekers experience with Nancy Pelosi. The difference being, she rumbas a little more under the radar. Unfortunately the president thinks he’s John Travolta and can’t help discoing into every single spotlight event whether he’s asked to or not, including hurricanes.

Florida GOP senatorial candidate Rick Scott, fox trotting in a dead heat with incumbent Democrat Bill Nelson, was forced by his state’s demographics to disown the president’s statement that his enemies inflated Hurricane Maria’s death toll in Puerto Rico to make him look bad. Paul Ryan said there is no reason to dispute the numbers. And he’s not even running for office. You don’t need a weatherman to tell which way this wind is blowing.

Each and every GOP candidate has to make the decision whether to risk insulting Trump’s base or the intelligence of normal ordinary human beings. Hence the development of this dance of dishonor. Samba of shame. Hypocritical hula.  

Whenever Mister Trump shoots out a crude tweet, says something demonstrably false or acts with an oafishness normally attributed to drunken grizzly bears, his loyal backers gravely announce being mildly offended and issue a statement that sort of, but not really, criticizes his behavior. Then claim to be totally satisfied with his intention to make amends, even if he hasn’t said anything to that effect.

It’s the Donald Trump Two-Step, where you bounce up and down and move in and out, bopping and weaving so you never assume a single position long enough for any to get a bead on you.

The good news is this slam-dance marathon only lasts another 7 weeks. The bad news is many will drop either from exhaustion, confusion or by tripping over their own feet. Or to be more precise, the Oval Office rug cutter’s size 12s.

Let us take a few minutes to talk about the most underrated holiday of them all: Labor Day. Poor baby. It gets less respect than a MAGA hat at a Bernie Sanders rally. Like a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie in the Great British Bake Off. Or a Super Soaker at a Northern Idaho gun show. Trailer for a Pauly Shore movie at the Tribeca Film Festival.   

We treat it as the runt of the holiday litter without any proscribed traditions. Every year we wing it. No fireworks or clock-watching countdowns. No designated animal to eat or steal chocolate eggs from. No piece of vegetation to kill and either trim or gut. Maybe a couple parades so that politicians can get some waving-from-a-convertible exposure two months before the election. But that’s about it.

Probably got something to do with being the seasonal signpost for closing the door on summer and staring down that long cold hallway to the deep dark heart of winter. The First Monday of September means the fun has expired and a big dollup of dreary is in the offing. The darkening of the light is nigh. The dividing line between wanton abandon and studious application. Raking dead leaves versus cutting verdant lawns.

The last pair of swim trunks has been worn outdoors and corduroy jackets are being pulled out of boxes from the basement. Time to take down the screens and chop a big cord of wood. Watermelons are replaced with pumpkins on the floor next to the produce bins. And holy moley catfish, there will be pumpkin. Spices, pies, dental floss, yogurt, vodka and Smashed Pumpkins marathons on the radio.

What we tend to forget is the meaning of Labor Day. Twenty-four hours we set aside to honor not the dead, but the living. This is not a paean to grieving heroes who have left us, but rather rejoicing at being a part of a larger functioning whole. Because when Americans pull together, we can accomplish anything. Even estimating the timing of the coals for a perfect medium rare Porterhouse.

It’s a calendaric conundrum. To celebrate what it is we do for a living by taking the day off. Just one day out of 365 for the nine to five heroes that keep this country humming so they can sit back, relax and enjoy that unique moment where it’s okay to toss around both the baseball and the football.

To hang with families and friends before squaring our shoulders and getting back to the job of earning a living and carving out the future. Democracy isn’t easy. Takes a strong back and an indomitable will. And pumpkin spiced lattes.

So Happy Labor Day everybody. Have a great one. Wear your flip-flops. Tap a keg. Char some hot dogs. Because this ain’t no patent leather shoes, champagne and caviar kind of holiday. This is the real red, white and blue deal.

A quick vacation for all of us; blue collar, white collar, clergy collar, no collar, dog collar. For anyone who’s ever busted their butt to put some food on the table and cover a mortgage with maybe a little left over for a 10 year-old’s birthday party featuring an appearance by some college student dressed as Spiderman. Hey, a gig’s a gig.

It’s almost impossible to measure the corruption surrounding Donald Trump these days. It is huuuuuge covering the White House with a blanket of sleaze deep enough to bury the 6 foot three inch unindicted Oval Office co-conspirator to the point he’s going to need a two-foot length of bamboo to continue breathing.

His legal problems are growing like mold on the northwest corner of a Hawaiian greenhouse wall. Proliferating like that plastic garbage patch in the Pacific. In the same state of flourishment as dandelions after a week of thunderstorms on a Southern Illinois compost heap.  

Paul Manafort was just found guilty on five counts of tax fraud, 2 counts of bank fraud and one count of failure to disclose a foreign bank account. A single jury member was responsible for deadlocking the 10 other counts, and somehow all 12 let the defendant totally slide on his incredibly bad taste, incredibly ignoring a $15,000 ostrich-skin jacket and a haircut stolen from Gordon Gekko.

At almost the exact same moment, Michael Cohen pled guilty to 8 felonies implicating the president in two of them. He received a plea agreement and is rumored to be making plans to testify against the president. They’re turning on Trump like preschoolers on a piñata with a rack full of Louisville Sluggers.

One of the normal procedures for urging cooperation from co-conspirators is to offer leniency to culpable family members. And considering the lies and misdirections and conflicted testimony already in play, even Tiffany and Barron are probably seeking outside representation. The family that commits crime together, serves time together.

And knowing the 45th POTUS’s philosophy of one-way loyalty, the only accommodation he’s likely to make is to dedicate an entire cell-block at a federal facility for members of staff and family. Probably try to brand it, by calling it the Trump Wing. The next family get-together is bound to feature looks as auspicious as the last shots of the season finale of a telenovela.

These were not mere junior staffers who shared the ignominy of attaining convicted felon status on the same day, but Donald Trump’s former campaign manager and personal lawyer. MAGA now stands for Many Are Growing Anxious or My Attorney Got Arrested or Mueller Ain’t Going Away.

In response, our Mob Boss President railed against the prosecutorial strategy. “It’s called flipping and it almost should be illegal” then called Cohen “a rat” while praising Manafort as still being “a good man.” He predictably resorted to his trusty Rainman refrain “No collusion. No collusion.” Starting to sound like a broken parrot. But baring his teeth like a cornered wolverine.

Meanwhile, in San Diego, the second congressman to endorse Trump’s campaign, Duncan Hunter, was indicted on 60 federal charges, following in the footsteps of the first congressman to endorse Trump, Christopher Collins, also indicted by the feds. Don’t know who the third congressman to endorse Trump was, but chances are high he’s looking over his shoulder about once every six seconds.

All this proves is not only was Trump unable to pick the best people, he couldn’t even pick the best crooks. He keeps choosing crummy criminals. We can expect Bob Woodward’s book on this one to be titled “All the President’s Con Men.”

The ongoing warfare between Omarosa Manigault-Newman and President Donald Trump is more scarily delicious than an underbaked blueberry muffin covered in strawberry marshmallow sauce and wasabi sprinkles. This DC Battle of the Network Stars is escalating into mouth-to-mouth combat between the Master of Sleazy Opportunism and his star pupil. “Take the pebble from my hand, grasshopper. Hey, put the knife down. Oww.”

Working with the Donald for 10 years and being fired 4 times by him has certainly taught the lady a thing or two. She’s the Frankenstein monster that he and reality television created. An intern who perfected the same kind of oblivious character assassination and complete lack of moral integrity as the Aerodynamic Coif himself. She has out-trumped Trump. He must be so proud.

After she revealed secretly recorded conversations including her own firing in the Situation Room, the president called Omarosa a lowlife and a dog. Live by the scheming treachery, die by the scheming treachery. All this is detailed in her book about her time with the president, with the understated title of “Unhinged.” The next book will be called “Crackers and Nuts.”

Trump’s lawyers contend she signed a non-disclosure agreement and have threatened to sue. But legal scholars argue she didn’t work for him, she worked for the American people and NDAs are not applicable or enforceable. And considering the multitudes of officials who’ve already left, negative books are going to rain down on this administration like an avalanche of righteous bile. When Dorothy was in Oz and said “people come and go so quickly here,” she might have been talking about the 45th POTUS’s White House. 

The New York Times reports Ms. Manigault-Newman may have 200 other tapes and claims to be able to get her hands on the legendary recording of the New York City real estate developer casually tossing around the N’ word on the set of “The Apprentice.” Spokesperson Sarah Huckabee Sanders said she can’t guarantee there’s not a tape of Trump using racial slurs. And when SHS starts distancing herself from the boss, it’s time to hunker down deep enough to feel the heat of hell on your backside.

America doesn’t need a secret tape to tell us that Trump is a racist. His birther stance, statements after Charlottesville and lifetime of actions are proof of that. Then again, even if a tape does surface, his supporters wouldn’t care. They’d rationalize that its okay for him to use the N’ word because he was just quoting rap lyrics. “Eddie Murphy made a career out of it.”  

Trump distracted non-stop coverage of his former aide’s charges by stripping former CIA Director John Brennan of his security clearance and the Washington Post reports he has plans to cancel the clearances of other critics to distract the media during unfavorable news cycles. So, in the next year, expect approximately 365 security clearances to be revoked.

But the prospect of further White House recordings has staffers trembling like a hyperactive weasel with eczema sliding down a ski jump. They routinely hear so much horrible stuff at work, who can be entirely positive they didn’t pull a Billy Bush and sycophantically agree with something absolutely dreadful said by someone else? Trump’s best people best be terrified.

During the 2016 presidential election Donald Trump famously proclaimed he would drain the swamp in Washington, but looking at the cast of characters he’s surrounded himself with, it seems more like he invited all his carnivorous reptilian buddies to come drain their bladders in the swamp and now it’s not only bigger but warmer as well.

Mr. Art of the Deal’s career is littered with pyramid schemes, reneging on contracts, unpaid loans, phony foundations, phantom donations, broken promises, deceit, mendacity, moral turpitude and bad hair. He is a parody of avarice spreading a culture of corruption so large it can probably be seen from the Hubble Telescope.

Trump is the King of Corruption. The Maharajah of Malfeasance. Good God of Graft. Captain Crooked. The Pharaoh of Fraud. The Overlord of Venality. The creator and originator of Orange Collar Crime. Wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t trademarked that. His insatiable greed and con-man ways give rich people a bad name. Okay, a badder name. Boss Tweed had nothing on this Boss Tweet.

You almost can’t blame his cronies. Once they ooze into the president’s orbit and see everyone else making money hand over fist, they figure they’d better get while the getting’s good. There’s only so much ripe low-hanging fruit. Not to mention lettuce.

Forbes Magazine suggests Commerce Secretary Wilbur Ross might have stolen upwards of $120 million and wrote that he could be “one of the biggest grifters in American history.” They also said he was a skinflint who’d pocket packets of Sweet’n Low in restaurants so he didn’t have to buy them. The kind of guy you see and discreetly lock up the silverware.

One of his “best people,” former EPA Director Scott Pruitt was forced to resign after a series of scandals that pegged him as more crooked than a dumpster full of bent wire hangers.

Like Health & Human Services Secretary Tom Price who also resigned under a cloud, Ryan Zinke, Secretary of Interior, loves to travel first class on the taxpayers’ dime and has left a trail of dodgy banking schemes in his wake. These guys are fast turning the swamp into a Jurassic Cesspool.

The first Congressman to endorse Trump, Christopher Collins (R-NY) was indicted for insider trading. Michael Cohen, the president’s fixer, is presently fixing to fix his fixee. Another early supporter, Duncan Hunter, is under FBI criminal investigation for using campaign funds for personal purposes. These guys are seriously threatening Nixon’s record for most Cabinet members perp-walked up a courthouse steps with a raincoat draped over their handcuffs. In one-third the time.

New York’s Attorney General is suing Trump and his three kids alleging the president used his foundation to benefit himself financially and politically. They also want him banned from running any charity in the state for 10 years for being reckless, unethical and just plain despicable.

During court testimony, former administration official Rick Gates admitted not only to committing crimes at the behest of Trump’s campaign manager, Paul Manafort, but also stealing from him. Manafort allegedly stashed his stolen money in hidden offshore accounts. And both are reported to have stolen from Trump who steals from everyone. This administration is the Russian nesting dolls of crime. And there you go, another connection to Russia. Coincidence? You be the judge.

We look forward to it for months. Calendars have been cleared, reservations made, and the anticipation in the house is so high, it vibrates like a chicken on meth strapped to a thirty year-old dryer set on spin. The Summer Vacation Trip is nigh. It’s a time-honored testament to all that is right about America. And often, not less than a little of what is wrong.

A brief respite from, and reward for, working hard. A time to reconnect and bond with the family unit, creating indelible memories along with building up patience and pain tolerance levels. Beaches. Theme Parks. Barbecues. Water Slides. Campfires. Unseen vistas. Unfamiliar beds. Unusual insects. Fresh scars.

If your plans entail traveling without using an airport you should consider yourself luckier than Paul Manafort biting into a Get Out of Jail Free Card in his bologna sandwich. More comfort can be found on an Athens to Sparta diesel bus in the poultry section than on any domestic flight this summer.

They suck us in with those heavily advertised “Special Getaway Fares.” What they neglect to mention is the requirement to leave after six pm on a Tuesday with two stops and oh yeah, fifty bucks to check a bag, another fifty for window or aisle, ten dollars for every extra inch of legroom and five per bathroom visit.

And driving isn’t much better. Would rather stick a hand full of paper cuts into a vat of Tabasco sauce than hit the road between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Whoever said “getting there is half the fun” never tried finding a parking spot in a National Park or got stuck going up a mountain on a two-lane highway behind a rented RV.

However you plan to embark on your journey, here’s a few hints as how to minimize the pressure of interacting with families and friends non-stop, 24/7, for days at a time in exotic locales desperately seeking that elusive mythological goal – fun.  

HOW TO SURVIVE YOUR SUMMER VACATION.

It was quite a shock to see the President of the United States bend the knee to Vladimir Putin and act as obsequiously as a Little Leaguer standing next to Aaron Judge. Of course, when Donald Trump spoke while Vladimir Putin drank a glass of water, we all applauded.

In their joint press conference in Helsinki, Finland, Donald Trump made Neville Chamberlain look like a historical badass. He’s given slobbering lapdogs a bad name. Probably compelled Ronald Reagan to spin in his grave so fast you could light up the entire Eastern Seaboard.

Both conservatives and liberals expressed outrage and confusion to see Trump suck up to Vlad the Impaler so hard, many were surprised the Russian President didn’t sport hickeys the size of small manhole covers. Not saying Trump’s behavior was a bit smoochy but Melania has to be hoping he wore a condom.

And that was in public. We have no idea what happened at their extra-special, double secret, two-hour meeting alone. They might have dismissed the interpreters and let nature take its course in a joint session of the He Man NATO Haters Club.

Treated themselves to some horizontal refreshments if you catch our drift. Engaged in a little gland-to-gland combat. Played slap the pickle and assault with a friendly weapon. Spent some quality time bumping uglies. Violated the prime directive by engaging in the forbidden polka. Released the Kraken. Or as the kids say: got themselves some serious stank on the hang down.

Former Secretary of Defense Leon Panetta wondered aloud what exactly does Putin have on Trump? Do Russian banks own him? Might there be a video with a live boy or dead goat? Maybe it’s his family. Did Eric break a Russian mobster’s Tiffany Egg?  Is he the Manchurian President? Perhaps has one of those explosive implants under his skin like in a James Bond movie? Maybe his hairpiece is a sentient being designed by Soviet army scientists that has surreptitiously controlled him for decades.

Could it be a Montague/ Capulet sort of thing? One theory is he admires the former KGB agent for iron ruling his country for 18 years and wants to grow up to be just like him. More importantly, joining Putin as one of the richest humans on the face of the planet. That would wipe the smirk off Bill Gates’ face.

Supporters argue he’s playing a long-term game and is a stable genius chess master thinking six moves ahead. Or maybe he gets points for every Russian President suck-up and after accumulating enough he gets to invade one of those little aggressive nations like Montenegro or Albania.

After walking back his walk back and unsaying what he said he didn’t say, Trump charged anybody who criticized his groveling as wanting to go to war with Russia. Who knew he was a proponent of Make Love Not War? Besides Michael Cohen, that is.

It’s not right for Americans to have to worry our president is so deep in the pocket of Putin, he’ll be combing lint out of his hair until the midterms. And with a second summit announced for Washington DC this fall, our only solace is that he is unable to pass on too many critical secrets due to the fact he doesn’t know anything.

Q. What’s the skinny on the nomination of Brett Kavanaugh for Supreme Court Justice?
A. Chaos. Confusion. Mutual accusations of partisan politics. Exasperation. Pique. Rage. Intimidation. Slack-jawed lunacy. You know, the usual skinny. Standard operating skinny.

Q. How long did it take after Anthony Kennedy announced his retirement for things to get ugly?
A. Minutes. Seconds. Nano-seconds. A jiffy.

Q. Is there expected to be a confirmation fight?
A. Is the sky blue? Do ducks have webbed feet? Are the stones in the pockets of a dead mobster at the bottom of the East River round?

Q. Hunh?
A. That means yes.

Q. Okay. At the risk of sounding politically incorrect, doesn’t the term, “Justice Brett” kind of ring weird?
A. You got that right. Like saying Sister Mary Cinnamon. The Duchess of South Dakota. The John Goodman Swimsuit Calendar.

Q. President Donald Trump?
A. You said it, not me.

Q. Besides being 28 years younger how does the 53 year old Kavanaugh compare to the justice he’s replacing? 
A. He was a clerk for Kennedy. So he’s got that going for him. Rumor has it Kennedy only agreed to retire if Kavanaugh got the gig.

Q. So that whole job search and short list thing was just a sham?
A. One more example of the Oval Office Apprentice producing another exciting episode.

Q. What are the major differences between outgoing and incoming?
A. Anthony Kennedy was the swing vote on the Court, sometimes siding with liberals, other times with conservatives. The only swing Justice Kavanaugh is expected to provide will be from the near far right to far far right. If he were your father, you would have been grounded for infinity since the age of 12 for stealing cookies.

Q. How will Democrats fight the confirmation?
A. That’s the problem. They seem to be bouncing between multiple plans.

Q. What’s their initial instinct?
A. To cite the McConnell Rule, and follow the Kentucky Senator’s 2016 precedent that a vacant SCOTUS seat should not be filled during an election year and we should let the people decide.

Q. Well, that seems solid, doesn’t it?
  A. Well, now the Republicans maintain that a presidential election is much different than a midterm election but many suspect what they really mean is that a Republican nomination is much different than a Democratic nomination.

Q. Are there any fallback arguments?
A. One is to mobilize support based on his opposition to abortions rights.

Q. How anti-abortion is he?
A. Hard to tell. He claims to have no preconceived notions about it.

Q. Then he’s be the only person on the face of the planet who doesn’t. Anything else?
A. Still other Democrats are worried he’s Trump’s “Get Out of Jail Free Card” due to Kavanaugh authoring an opinion that said presidents are way too busy with affairs of state to attend to something so trifling as a criminal proceeding. And you can imagine Trump heartily agreeing in a tweet from a cart on the sixth fairway of one of his Scottish golf courses.

Q. Any other cunning strategies in the works?
A. The plan the democrats are most likely to follow is to fight amongst themselves until they forget what they’re fighting about and then lose focus. You know, the standard operating skinny.

You don’t need 20/20 vision to see that the whole world is waiting for the Democratic Party to push back against the tyrannical tendencies of the Trump administration. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Those of you with weak stomachs need to avert your eyes and keep all children sequestered behind closed doors at least until after the Midterms are over. Because the current state of the American Opposition Party, well, it ain’t pretty.

These pitiable progressives have managed to combine ineffectiveness with indecision. Add a sprinkle of incipient infirmity and a soupcon of both inert and inept, and you end up with a recipe for impotency, irrelevancy and extinction. A message that their candidates are finding increasingly difficult to sell to concerned constituents. “Join the Democrats. Just like you, we’re confused too.”

Watching them desperately bumble about these days is scarier than finding scorpions in your underwear. Like a letter from the IRS with a big red “Urgent!” stamped on the outside of the envelope. Or the sound of a gun being cocked in the dark. Nearby.

If this current liberal narrative were being chronicled on the big screen, it would qualify as the most boring horror movie ever made: another “Saw” sequel but one in which everyone sits around talking to their detached limbs and absolutely nothing happens. They are “The Walking Dead” without all the light-hearted slapstick.  

There is a growing consensus the Democratic Party should be stripped of the word “party” as it doesn’t really apply anymore. Certainly doesn’t fit in terms of celebration. There’s no frolicking or joviality or joy. Just finger-pointing, recrimination, and whining. Lots and lots of whining. “We can’t fight like him, we have morals.”

Then again, if you mean “party” in terms of a gathering of like-minded individuals, that too, leaves quite a bit to be desired. More like a loose collection of misfits who cluster together for the sole purpose of claiming not to like President Donald Trump. Or each other. And that’s about it. They don’t really stand for anything, not even the National Anthem.

You can’t even accuse Democrats of being afraid of their own shadow, because at this point they don’t cast one. Besides, it’s hard to see your shadow when your head is so far up your butt you can tickle your spleen with your elbow.

Not only are they not in the game, they don’t seem to be aware that one is being played. The Republicans attack with torches and pitchforks and the Democratic response is to introduce legislation to reform pitchfork safety standards.

“You should put corks on those. Phosphorescent for nighttime visibility. And if you insist on carrying torches, they need to be flame-resistant. At least one and three-quarters inches long. Should come in for around $12 a piece. I know a guy who knows a guy that can knock them out for six.”

So if you’re waiting for Democrats to stand up to this wanna-be third world strongman and establish any sort of resistance at all, you’d best be advised not to hold your breath unless you enjoy that certain bluish look most often associated with people no longer eligible for social security benefits due to the fact they’ve become altogether much too skinny and dead.

Hey everybody; you know all that anxiety that’s been building up? Well, just let it go and relax now, because the 4th of July is here. The Great American Holiday. The one with the noise and the colors and the hot. Now, it is summer. That’s what the 4th is. Not just the day we celebrate the anniversary of the birth of the best country in the history of the world but also the heart of the season of light.

No matter what the astronomers tell us, it’s not the solstice that signifies the beginning of our season of mayhem. Not in America. Its 0704, thirteen days later, when kids run amuck while parents drink beer out of cans and fall off of patio furniture. When families squeeze into minivans and travel long distances to get into fights over the logistics of eating fries at Mickey D’s and burgers at the King.

It’s when the senses are heightened. The smell of cut grass, the grip of a pair of sneakers, the sound of children playing volleyball on the beach, the tickle of butter from a roasted cob of corn dripping all the way down your arm to the elbow. The thunk of a Frisbee on the back of the head. The piercing cry of a loved one as they discover sand in the bed.

It’s a holiday that transcends normal political persuasions; a frozen moment in time when white wine sipping, NPR listening, Prius driving, Birkenstock wearing hippies stand shoulder to shoulder with country western listening, pickup truck driving, cowboy boot wearing, Coors Lite chugging rednecks, both groups clutching tiny American flags in a small town square watching a parade of bicycles with red, white and blue bunting woven through the spokes.

It’s beauty queens waving from the back seats of convertibles. And kids swinging on a tire tied to a tree over the bank of a pond. Slip and slides. Burnt marshmallows. Not getting dark til nine. It’s people deciding that any piece of clothing they can squeeze into, fits.

It’s the loudest holiday as well with marching bands and fireworks and the sizzle of burger fat dripping on the coals. The tinny mantra of a baseball game on an AM radio, wafting down from a porch. Motorcycles revving down the highway in packs. Politicians barking new promises through old bullhorns.

Have yourself one heck of a terrific summer and make it last. Swim and swing and swoon. Take long walks on unfamiliar paths. Buy a new chaise lounge. Watch or better yet, play a game of slow pitch softball. Char some flesh, either animal or your own or both.

Make sure you find time for a little bit of fun, because it won’t be long before we’re back at each other’s throats. You know, like Thursday the 5th. The same day the back-to-school sales start and all the sports channels start promoting football.   

And have a happy birthday America, you great-looking country, you. May be going through a tough patch here. But you know what they say; tough times never last, but tough countries do. And you probably hear this a lot but you still look pretty good considering you’re 242 years old. Could use a little work around the eyes. Then again, couldn’t we all.

People keep wondering how the hell did we get here? How did America become a country that forcibly separates kids from their parents? The answer is obvious: we got Trumped.

Since the election of the 45th POTUS, everything we know is wrong. Racism is good. Health care is bad. Coal is the future. Rich people need more money. North Korea is our friend and Canada and the Free Press- the enemy. Judges aren’t necessary; we can tell who’s guilty just by looking at them.

The very phrase “President Donald Trump” should be surreal. Like saying Pope Charlie Sheen. It’s a Saturday Night Live skit. One of those not very funny SNL skits they slap on after the second appearance of the band.

The Golden Canopy drags us down to his level and just when we think we’ve reached a new low, another sub-basement gets dug. In a year and a half we’ve sunk so low we can feel the heat on our feet from core of the earth.

Absurdity has become normalized. We’ve built up a tolerance to delusions. We’re constantly jonesing for another shot of narcissistic confusion. Turned into adrenaline junkies demanding our larger daily dose of preposterousness.

On April 6th, Attorney-General Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III announced the Administration’s Zero Tolerance policy. He then used the Bible to justify its policy of separating immigrant parents from their children. Citing the same passage the South used to defend slavery. Maybe the plan was to rent the kids out to corporate farms. That cotton isn’t going to pick itself, you know.

Trump and other Administration officials proceeded to hold a competition for the most ludicrous excuse with a veritable bevy of them. “The Democrats are responsible.” “We’re just upholding the law.” “Using kids as hostages is not our policy.” “The courts made us do it.” “Only Congress can undo it.” “Our hands are tied.” “The Torah says it’s okay.” “Obama did it first.” “The kids are drug mules.” “They’re tiny future rapists.” “Crooked Hillary is to blame.” “Mexico is to blame.” “Bill Clinton had an affair.” “911 was an inside job.” “Putin should be emperor of the world.” “What kids?”

The problem was the optics. Kids in cages may look good on paper, but it doesn’t play so well on TV. And the rest of the Republican Party has tied their future to him with knots that would earn a boy scout merit badges. These enablers have already revealed themselves to being anti-logic, anti-environment, anti-democracy and anti-fidelity. What difference does anti-family make?

Under pressure from his own party, especially from that select group of members up for election in November, the President signed an executive order to change the policy he claimed wasn’t a policy and couldn’t be changed.

And both Republicans and Democrats are planning partisan political ploys to highlight evidence that the other side is using the immigration crisis as a partisan political ploy coming up in the Midterms.

Then to put the oddest of exclamation marks on the proceedings, the First Lady visited a detention center while wearing a $39 jacket that had the words “I don’t really care. Do U?” painted on the back. And the overwhelming response of seeing toddlers crying for absent parents was “Yessss.” At least she didn’t offer to bring the kids cake.

The president’s lawyers must wake up every morning wondering if they’re in the throes of a mescaline fever dream. Which altered reality will they have to deal with today? The legal ground melts out from under them and scary hallucinations swirl around mutating versions of the boss: the Donald Trump who changes his story more often than his underwear and the one who tosses away members of his legal team like used Kleenex.

They recently sent a letter to the Special Counsel asserting that Donald Trump is above the law. Not to be confused with the first Steven Segal movie, “Above the Law.” Although the two do have much in common: both think Vladimir Putin is a great guy and they are in similar physical condition these days.

The argument is the president cannot commit obstruction of justice, because as chief law enforcement officer of the United States, he is the justice department. King Donald. Not only incapable of committing a crime but incapable of being held accountable. Laws are for losers. Take the knee and kiss the ring.

The President tweeted that many legal scholars say he has the absolute right to pardon himself even though he won’t need to because he hasn’t committed any crimes. Similar to a “Get Out Of Jail Free” card, only better. More like a “Get Your Stinking Paws Off Me, You Damn Dirty Ape” sort of thing.

The good news is he probably won’t wear a crown and risk messing up his aerodynamic coif. But other royal trappings are imaginable: golden jewel-encrusted scepter, floor-dragging ermine trimmed robe and the serial discarding of wives who can’t provide a decent hereditary successor. And yes, Don Jr. and Eric, we’re talking about you.

He claims to possess special powers that immunize him from criminal prosecution. Apparently he was bitten by a radioactive spider at Camp David. And is willing to admit that everything he ever previously said in public was a lie. Wasn’t under oath, so it doesn’t count. And if he does lie under oath, who cares? Who’s going to arrest him, Jeff Sessions? Dream on.

His defense has shifted more than the sands of the Kalahari during one of those windstorms they call a haboob. And speaking of boobs, Rudy Giuliani says the Deep State is framing the president and he might take the 5th if questions about crimes he didn’t commit get too close to disproving that.

Carl Sandburg famously said; “If the facts are against you, argue the law. If the law is against you, argue the facts. If the law and the facts are against you, pound the table and yell like hell,” and Rudy is the best table pounder in the business. As anybody from New York can tell you, this guy leaves splinters.

Trump’s lawyers also claim the president is too busy to answer questions, although the Supreme Court knocked down that claim when Bill Clinton invoked it, and he didn’t spend one-sixth of his presidency at a golf courses. One tenth, maybe.

They’re throwing up alternative defenses like hyperactive Rhesus monkeys flinging feces at a zoo. Not only can’t he be constitutionally prosecuted but the prosecution is a conspiracy. The FBI is full of jack-booted thugs and his hands are too small to fit on the Bible. Can’t wait for them to float the diminished capacity defense. That one might be easier to sell.

Many readers have protested this column’s tiresome history of taking cheap shots at the expense of our 45th President. So today we reverse that distressing trend and endeavor to travel the high road with an in-depth analysis of one of the most critical problems confronting the nation today. His hair.

Normally, focusing on a person’s physical characteristics is considered out of bounds, and just not cricket, but because Donald Trump’s favorite weapon is denigration, we’ve decided to play by his rules. He’s the one who has called opponents;  “a slob,” “short and fat,” “crazy,” “ugly,” “the face of a pig” and of course, famously mocked a disabled guy. The new rules are that there are no rules.

Besides, you could say the very key to the man is his golden canopy. Look at it, no, really, give it a gander: everything about it is wrong. The color. The shape. The texture. The intended result. The scalp underneath. How, in the rotor wash of the Marine One helicopter, it reaches for the heavens like a sentient shrubbery signaling a secret society of Navajo Code Talkers. Not to mention his unshakeable and groundless belief that it looks good.

In his unique aerodynamic coif, we can see Donald Trump’s entire philosophy of leadership. The Tangerine Combover can be viewed as a microcosm of mane. His propensity for false fronts. Not caring what anybody else thinks. Reliving past triumphs. Railing against common sense and decency. Brash, uncompromising, slightly surreal and totally cut off from reality. It’s all there.

America has questions and it’s time our Commander-in-Chief answers them. What is it really, on his head? A wig, a weave, implants, extensions, a merkin, Tribble, carpet sample or a piece of pelt from the belly of a marsupial? Remnant of an especially beloved therapy animal?

Does he wash it, dry clean it or have it regularly replaced through a subscription service? Is it housebroken or need to go outside for a walk twice a day and does he have to sing or rock it to sleep? Also, who carries around the antidote in case that thing stings somebody?

And, despite using modern technology and being afforded the privilege of the office, exactly how much time does it take to recreate his groovy haircut from the Master of the Universe 80s? With drastically fewer resources?  Got to be at least a half-hour every day. That means three and a half hours a week. And he’s been president for 70 weeks, which works out to be 245 hours. A little over 10 entire days.

Think of the things that he might have accomplished with an extra 10 days. He could have fired five or six more Communication Directors. Bungled more foreign relations with allies. Maligned a larger amount of Cabinet members. More time for tete-a-tetes with Sean Hannity. “You hang up.” “No, you hang up.” Played another 40 rounds of golf.

Barbers and hair stylists around the world also have a burning professional desire to know-how to achieve that frontal swoop? Hair spray? Stitches? Staples? Scaffolding? Stainless steel rivets? Glue? That would explain a lot. He’s had that haircut since getting out of military school. Sniffing glue for that long cannot be good. No, not good at all.

Many readers have protested this column’s tiresome history of taking cheap shots at the expense of our 45th President. So today we reverse that distressing trend and endeavor to travel the high road with an in-depth analysis of one of the most critical problems confronting the nation today. His hair.

Normally, focusing on a person’s physical characteristics is considered out of bounds, and just not cricket, but because Donald Trump’s favorite weapon is denigration, we’ve decided to play by his rules. He’s the one who has called opponents;  “a slob,” “short and fat,” “crazy,” “ugly,” “the face of a pig” and of course, famously mocked a disabled guy. The new rules are that there are no rules.

Besides, you could say the very key to the man is his golden canopy. Look at it, no, really, give it a gander: everything about it is wrong. The color. The shape. The texture. The intended result. The scalp underneath. How, in the rotor wash of the Marine One helicopter, it reaches for the heavens like a sentient shrubbery signaling a secret society of Navajo Code Talkers. Not to mention his unshakeable and groundless belief that it looks good.

In his unique aerodynamic coif, we can see Donald Trump’s entire philosophy of leadership. The Tangerine Combover can be viewed as a microcosm of mane. His propensity for false fronts. Not caring what anybody else thinks. Reliving past triumphs. Railing against common sense and decency. Brash, uncompromising, slightly surreal and totally cut off from reality. It’s all there.

America has questions and it’s time our Commander-in-Chief answers them. What is it really, on his head? A wig, a weave, implants, extensions, a merkin, Tribble, carpet sample or a piece of pelt from the belly of a marsupial? Remnant of an especially beloved therapy animal?

Does he wash it, dry clean it or have it regularly replaced through a subscription service? Is it housebroken or need to go outside for a walk twice a day and does he have to sing or rock it to sleep? Also, who carries around the antidote in case that thing stings somebody?

And, despite using modern technology and being afforded the privilege of the office, exactly how much time does it take to recreate his groovy haircut from the Master of the Universe 80s? With drastically fewer resources?  Got to be at least a half-hour every day. That means three and a half hours a week. And he’s been president for 70 weeks, which works out to be 245 hours. A little over 10 entire days.

Think of the things that he might have accomplished with an extra 10 days. He could have fired five or six more Communication Directors. Bungled more foreign relations with allies. Maligned a larger amount of Cabinet members. More time for tete-a-tetes with Sean Hannity. “You hang up.” “No, you hang up.” Played another 40 rounds of golf.

Barbers and hair stylists around the world also have a burning professional desire to know-how to achieve that frontal swoop? Hair spray? Stitches? Staples? Scaffolding? Stainless steel rivets? Glue? That would explain a lot. He’s had that haircut since getting out of military school. Sniffing glue for that long cannot be good. No, not good at all.

We now offer up a few choice words concerning the Continuing Investigation Being Conducted by Special Counsel Robert Mueller, and those words are: Happy Birthday baby! You are now one whole year old. Who’s the big boy? Why, you are. You’re the big boy. Yes, you are.

Traditionally the present for a first anniversary is paper, but you don’t need any more of that, considering the voluminous file cabinets full of documents already collected and stashed in triple-locked, humidity-controlled warehouses all over the leaky swamp that is Washington. With the promise of more witnesses o’plenty to be interviewed including some grifter named Donald Trump.

The modern alternative gift is a timepiece, but neither can that be a need as half the civilized world keeps reminding you how late it is while pointing at watches and clocks encouraging a modicum of alacrity. Conservatives want it over the same way liberals want the administration over. Everyone’s looking for closure.

But we all know there is no timetable for justice. This could be your first at bat in an extra-inning game. Might just be “A- Atrocity” in the Encyclopedia of Malfeasance. The initial downbeat of a drumstick at a 24-hour, jam-band concert featuring Phish, Widespread Panic and Dave Mathews.

One unintended consequence of your tornado of an investigation is it’s spawning other sister twisters. The Southern District of New York spun off its own study into the affairs of Trumpian lawyer Michael Cohen who seems to have as many grisly secrets as the Demon of Fleet Street’s cellar.  

Then the president demanded Rod Rosenstein look into the secret FBI informant who infiltrated his campaign, claiming he was a spy planted by former President Barack Obama. In other words, he wants to investigate the investigation. And knowing 45’s penchant for creating chaos and muddying the waters, we can next expect a call to investigate the investigators who are investigating the investigation, investigatively.

Thus far, 19 people and 3 companies have been charged with crimes including a national security advisor, 13 Russians, a couple of random aides, the son-in-law of a Russian billionaire and the president’s former campaign manager. 5 guilty pleas have been entered which means the chances that people are talking their heads off is about equal to that of finding seagulls in a dumpster behind a fish cannery.

The President insists the whole thing is a “witch hunt, witch hunt,” probably referring to a case of mass hysteria, not implying he is the victim of witchcraft. Although, he does seem a bit agitated by Robert Mueller’s Evil Eye not to mention intimidated by his freakishly large hands.

The administration’s designated barky dog, Rudy Giuliani, claims Mueller hopes to wrap things up with the obstruction charge by September 1st. That could be either wishful thinking or a public announcement to goose the Special Counsel into pooping or getting off the pot. Fish or cut bait. Jump or don’t.

Some are waiting for you, the birthday boy, to tire out and take a nap while others are counting on you to perp-walk the entire Trump administration into federal custody with trench coats draped over their handcuffs. No pressure. Happy Birthday Investigation Being Conducted by Robert Mueller. And many mooooooooore. Blow out your candle big boy. Who wants cake?

Robert Mueller has many questions for the president. The New York Times released a list of 49 for which Donald Trump hopefully has answers that can assist the special counsel’s investigation into Russian interference during the 2016 election. Although the New York City real estate developer may know nothing at all. A situation many folks say… chances are high.  

The president has announced various positions on the potential interview. One: he looks forward to testifying under oath. Two: he will refuse to answer and plead the 5th Amendment to protect against self-incrimination. Three: something in between which could include ignoring a subpoena and/or refusing to admit the existence of anybody who may or may not be named Mueller.  

His lawyers have voiced similar diverse opinions. Some maintain he should testify and get it over with and others warn he’s walking into a perjury trap. Which, experience tells us, to the 45th POTUS, is any question asked, especially under oath.

It may very well turn out that the only time Trump told the truth in public was when he said if we voted for Hillary, we’d end up with a president under criminal investigation. Sure enough, a plurality of the country voted for Hillary and now the president is under criminal investigation. “Lock him up.”

Nobody’s sure who leaked the list to the press. At this point, it’s all guesswork. Perhaps Mister Special Counsel himself, or someone in or near the White House? The assignment editor at MSNBC? A disgruntled craft services worker from the National Review? Melania? Unnamed sources are blaming well-placed insiders.

And why was the list leaked? To lower expectations, raise them, lull participants to sleep? Is this a double blind or major feint or are they letting the Commander-in-Chief know the nature of the questions to give him time to construct alibis and motivations other than furthering his own future and fortune?

Mostly, the questions sound like typical prosecutorial gobbledy-gook. “Who? What? Where? Why? When? Hunh?” “What were you thinking when whatisname did the thing with the guy at the place?”

None of the preview inquiries mention Russian hookers, so, obviously it’s not a complete list. And in the spirit of helping, we here at Durstco have come up with a few more questions that should be asked because inquiring minds want to know.

• Is Stephen Miller the result of an Army-science breeding program that mated rabid wolverines with poisonous fungus?
• What’s the deal with your hair?
• In your estimation, who has the more annoying mustache: Ty Cobb or John Bolton?
• What are the chances Dennis Rodham will be appointed ambassador to North Korea?
• What was Stormy Daniels like in bed?
• Was Rudy Giuliani trying to help? Isn’t adding him to your legal team like throwing a hippopotamus onto a trapeze team?
• How are things with Melania? Any truth to the rumor that all the knives have been removed from the East Wing?
• How come your ties hang down to your knees? Is it a peripheral vision thing? • Is Corey Lewandowski your love child?
• Have you ever seen Mike Pence exhibit an actual pulse or is he the product of reverse taxidermy?
• Was James Comey’s freakishly large hands one of the reasons you fired him?

You don’t need a degree in psychoanalysis to figure out that Donald Trump defines himself by his adversaries. The media. His staff. His family. His Cabinet. The intelligence community. College graduates. Democrats. Other Republicans. Mexicans. Muslims. Women. Muslim women. Mexican Muslims. Women who are Mexicanish. The rest of the world.

But his worst enemy is not any of these obvious targets. Its not Godzilla, King of the Monsters or Chris Christie. The winner is, drum roll please… himself! That’s right. The POTUS’ biggest and baddest foe is the man in the mirror. Donald John Trump. Or one of the pseudonyms he’s used: John Miller. John Barron. David Dennison. Melania’s first husband.

Our 45th president claims to be a stable genius but his major talent is getting in the way of his own agenda. The man is congenitally unable to keep from stepping in so many pools of effluvium that he leaves a trail of stink that would knock a flock of buzzards off a line of porta-potties on the last day of Coachella. Shoots himself in the foot so often, his nickname should be Stumpy.

Instead of embarking on a victory tour to celebrate arranging an upcoming tete a tete with Kim Jong Un, arguably precipitating detente between North and South Koreas, and averting a possible nuclear showdown, he once again conspired to distract folks from the happy to focus on the sad. He’s become so adept at that misdirection thing, he is unable to turn it off. The boy can’t help it.

Recently, the former New York City real estate developer went on Fox News’ morning show and had a meltdown the size of a glacier hosting an active lava flow. His performance gave train wrecks a bad name. It got to where the loyal sycophants at Rupert Murdoch’s propaganda machine were forced to cut him off mid-rant. “We know you’re busy.” Worried he was digging his own grave they snatched away the shovel.

One of his frenzied tirades claimed Michael Cohen hardly represented him at all. “A tiny, tiny little fraction” of his legal work but was involved in “this crazy Stormy Daniels deal.” Which sort of destroys the defense his other lawyers (with a larger fraction of his business) had been preparing.

Then he insisted the payoff money didn’t come from campaign funds. Even though he earlier had denied any relationship with the porn star and claimed to have no knowledge of the money. The legal consequences may be more complicated than assembling an Ikea bookcase using water-soluble twist-ties in place of screws. 

This penchant for playing Solo Demolition Derby is convincing the rest of the GOP to get the hell out. 39 Republican congresspersons have already decided the only running they’ll be doing this November is for the hills. And even then, many worry about being arrested for leaving the scene of an accident.

The man suffers from such a tertiary case of Foot in Mouth disease he probably saves time by flossing with his shoelaces. Trips over chalk lines painted on the floor. Provide enough rope and this guy will hang not just himself, but everyone around him as well. Plank by plank, he’s building his gallows high and wide enough to accommodate an entire political party.

The followers of Donald Trump are many things. Loyal, rabid, focused, committed, single-minded, self-righteous, rabid, and oblivious. And rabid. Many folks have gone so far as to call them zombies. “Truuuump. Truuump.” The major difference being these Walking Dead are not interested in brains.

They have no doubts. They back their glorious leader 100%. His poll numbers will never drop below 35 indicating a hard bottom that matches his hard head. During the 2016 campaign he famously said he could shoot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue and wouldn’t lose any supporters and that may be truer today. And if he wants to demonstrate how that would go down, you’d need a lottery to pick from the thousands of zombies that would volunteer to help prove it.

It was no secret that he was a philandering lying greedy cheating businessman who stiffed contractors and sued everyone else when they voted for him. He’s a New York City real estate developer. They are to choir boys what glass shards are to lace. What gum is to hair. Cement and crockery.

And they will countenance no argument. Doesn’t matter what you use: logic, reason, math, ethics, decency, convention, protocol, science, history, physics or gravity. He’s their guy. They don’t care what he’s done or what he’s accused of doing. If Ronald Reagan was Teflon, the 45th President is a space age polymer dipped in polyurethane and covered in weasel grease.

The best example is while the Russian collusion investigation is being hammered out in the background, the President gets hit with multiple accusations of using money to silence women who claim to have had affairs with him. And nobody cares. No impact at all. The focus centers on the lawyer who arranged the payoffs. Misdirection managed.

Obstruction of justice? “Who cares? They all do it.” Shady business deals? “So what. They all do it.” Did he kill anybody? Not… did he have anybody killed? Did he personally kill anybody with his bare hands? And even if he did, “so what? They all do it.”

Trump could push an old lady in a wheelchair down three flights of stairs and his supporters would argue till they were blue in the face that he was giving her a series of chiropractic adjustments. If he was caught burning down an orphanage his people would claim he was simply restoring the heat that dastardly Obama Administration was selling to illegal aliens.

Former FBI Director James Comey wrote a book that charged the president was a congenital liar and unfit to lead. And the zombies complained that Comey’s timing was suspect and that he was an attention junkie. And the font in the book was pejorative. Then Trump said the release of the Comey memos vindicated him. Although they didn’t. At all. In any sense. This guy would claim victory after being decapitated. He’s the Black Knight from the Holy Grail. “It’s only a flesh wound.”

And if he eventually fires Robert Mueller or keeps firing a series of Assistant FBI Directors until he finds one that will fire Robert Mueller, Republicans would continue to back him because his zombies do. Not even a stake to the heart would work. Of course that presupposes the existence of a heart. No brains, no heart, just “Truuuump. Truuump.

You don’t need a weatherman to see that the storm clouds gathering around Team Trump are serious. And since the only permanent member of Team Trump is The Donald himself, this squall is shooting straight down Pennsylvania Avenue, with that hard-candy shell of a hair-helmet above the chair behind the desk in the Oval Office, square in its crosshairs.

The tempest is dark and swirly with fierce offshore winds like one of those Nor’Easters that’s ravaged New England the last couple months. Several systems of individual flurries have begun to merge, taking on bulk and velocity, threatening to escalate into one of those upper echelon categories of blizzards.

The kind with golf-ball sized hail that leaves dimples on car hoods and white-out conditions shutting down interstates. And American radar models forecast enough downpours to bury the president up to his ears. The European models indicate a larger depth.

The barometer is dropping precipitously on several fronts. Bimbo Eruptions multiply like thunderheads on a midwestern summer afternoon including one suspiciously named Stormy. Raising the sticky question of whether paying to kill a salacious story constitutes illegal campaign contributions or just being real smart.

The recent raid on the offices of Trump’s longtime personal lawyer, Michael Cohen, which seized records and perhaps recordings, has staffers quivering like a shaved poodle duct-taped to the foul pole of Wrigley Field during a night game in April. Nobody knows what sort of shenanigans Cohen was up to, but everyone suspects he is a consigliere with secrets. Fredo’s consigliere.

Former FBI Director James Comey’s new book calls The Great Pretender not just a liar, but an orange unethical dangerous Mob Boss liar with baby hands. The President, in response, tweeted that the professional Boy Scout from the Justice Department is a “leaker and a liar” and a “slimeball.” Not an epithet normally heard coming from the highest office in the land.

That’s right, the guy who paid a porn star $130,000 to keep quiet about the affair they had while his third wife was pregnant, called someone else a “slimeball.”  Which is like a hooker calling the queen a whore. Or Martin Shkreli complaining he’s being gouged at the prison commissary. Shouting that the other guy has dust on his lapels from the middle of a pig-sty.

And although his sentence was commuted by George W Bush, Scooter Libby was never pardoned for his convictions of perjury, obstruction of justice and lying to the FBI. So perhaps President Trump remedied that situation as a signal to his associates that he doesn’t think these crimes are very important. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge. “Don’t worry boys. I got your back, your front and your sides.”

His own party is pulling out the bullet-proof umbrellas. Fearing a blue wave the size of a nuclear-powered tsunami, Speaker of the House Paul Ryan didn’t just ditch the ship but the pier and the entire harbor itself.

And slowly riding in on the horizon… Mueller is coming. Mueller is coming! And it can’t be too comforting that special prosecutor Robert Mueller bears a slight resemblance to the Night King from Game of Thrones. Right about now Donald Trump might be best served by looking for a fire-breathing dragon. Maybe that’s what John Bolton is for.

Like Cirque de Soleil, the Donald Trump Circus has many touring productions. The Oval Office. The White House. The Cabinet. Both Republican held Houses of Congress. It’s a wacky zany five-ring spectacle chock-full of tightrope walkers, ethical contortionists, trained animals, morally challenged acrobats and logic jugglers. And don’t forget the clowns. Lots and lots of clowns. The US Marine Band should be playing “Hail to the Chief” on a calliope.

Wherever POTUS 45 goes or threatens to go or even mentions that going might be a possibility, the cameras don’t miss any of the kinetic lunacy. All action choreographed by the Golden Canopy in his role as Ringmaster Deluxe. He is a world-class expert in prestidigitation and knows his part well. Which may be why the cast changes faster than free beer disappears at a frat party celebrating a homecoming win over Alabama.

The Trump Circus performers are replaced at a rate that would shock an assistant manager on the graveyard shift at McDonald’s. John Bolton has stomped into the Big Top as our new strongman. The man with the scariest mustache in the world. Due to be our third National Security Advisor. The second one almost didn’t quit. First one-still under indictment.

Bolton’s credentials consist mostly of sucking up to his new boss like a turbo vacuum cleaner on pharmaceutical strength steroids. When appointed Ambassador to the United Nations by George W Bush, Bolton described his approach as one of Tough Love. With the emphasis on the adjective. Others call it Rabid Foaming at the Mouth With an Unattached Ear Hanging Out of Your Teeth Love. Geek Love.

Secretary of State Rex Tillerson was fired for many reasons: arguing with the boss, disagreeing with the boss and calling the boss a moron. Which goes down in a relationship as well as a foot-long fish bone. And Secretary of Veterans Affairs, David Shulkin says he was fired for resisting the privatization of his administration’s care but the White House claims he resigned. Sounds like someone doesn’t want to pony up for unemployment.

Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III, our Attorney General and Scott Pruitt, the Director of the EPA, are not just skating but performing triple axels on thin ice. Sessions in deep elephant doo-doo for recusing himself in the Russia Matter and Pruitt for renting an apartment from a lobbyist who had multiple clients with business in front of his department. Pretty much the definition of conflict of interest. Seriously, look it up.

In the first fifteen months of this current production, we’ve lost 3 White House Communications Directors. The Secretaries of State, Veterans Affairs, Health & Human Services. 2 National Security Advisors. One Deputy National Security Advisor. An Attorney General. An FBI Director. Deputy FBI Director. Director of the CDC. Director of the Office of Government Ethics. Director of NASA. Director of National Economic Council. Chief of staff. Chief strategist. Chief aide to the Chief strategist. Chief usher. The Surgeon general. Umpteen personal aides, two turtle doves, a Priebus and an Omarosa.

Some worry that the Ringmaster will run out of lackeys, minions and stooges. But no matter how many quit, resign or slink off quietly in the night, never fear. There’s plenty more replacement toadies that can be called up from that junior league circus known as… Fox News.

Easter is a most peculiar holiday, which is saying something, considering so many other religious festivities litter our calendar. For instance, it’s the only one with pink and lavender decorations. Also, no other holy day shares such an obsession with hardboiled eggs, chocolate bunnies, jellybeans and plastic grass. And it boasts a singular connection to bonnets.

Another odd aspect is Easter’s ability to travel, falling on the Sunday after the first full moon following the Vernal Equinox. Meaning it can roll from March 22 to April 25. Sort of like your weird Aunt Hazel who visits every year about this time, but can’t commit to a date until she nails down the cheapest bus ticket.

The celebration goes back, back, back to olden timey days when our pagan ancestors paid homage to a goddess named Esther who was prone to dance to honor the season of fertility and had a proclivity for hanging out with bunnies, which sort of explains the egg connection. The egg being a symbol of fecundity with the promise of abundance. Be fruitful and multiply. Bringing us back to the bunnies. Chocolate seems to have been a recent addition. And not an altogether bad one.

Besides being the Anti-Halloween, Easter is the oldest of Christian celebrations, and possibly based on the Jewish holiday of Passover. It’s a very serious enterprise interweaving death and rebirth but for many of us, the spring festival harkens another resurrection. The mark of a different new beginning. When Christ comes out of his cave, sees his shadow and baseball season starts.

It happens every spring. Forget about your robins and cherry blossoms and those spongy yellow marshmallow peeps that taste like how day-glo sponges look, it’s the first crack of the bat in a regular season game that’s the true harbinger that a season of plenty is nigh.

Winter doesn’t officially expire until that moment each roster’s ace hurls a three-inch diameter clean white sphere with 108 red double stitches sixty feet and six inches in anger. The longer days and warmer temperatures are just a byproduct of the Boys of Summer getting an early start.

Because when folks throw out the phrase, “wait till next year,” this is the moment they were talking about, when our souls and rosters have been refreshed and every parishioner and patron awakes anew with a theoretical chance to go the distance and win it all. To joyously hoist a heavenly trophy and spray champagne into each other’s eyes in a thoughtless waste of perfectly good sparkling wine.

It’s a marathon quest to survive a brutal 162 game season and best all the other teams to reign as World Series Champions. Although that anointment continues to be suspect with 29 of the 30 teams hailing from the USA, and the remaining one- Canadian, which many consider, American Lite.

But from now until halfway between the Autumnal Equinox and the Winter Solstice we will make our pilgrimages to those cathedrals of worship and ritually feast on the warm canines and quaff exorbitantly expensive beer and raise our voices to sing that most holy of hymns, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Because this is that magical time, when the slate has been wiped clean and hope springs eternal. Play ball. And don a bonnet.

And once again the crowd goes wild with a bad case of March Madness. The phrase is usually associated with the wacky zany antics surrounding the NCAA college basketball tournament. But this year it doubles as a description of the equally nutty loony goings-on in and around the White House. Following immediately on the heels of January Madness and February Madness.

The month of March proverbially comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, but this big cat of chaos is marking its territory and might require a length of extra large litter boxes longer than a Pentagon hallway. In the first three weeks of the month, the White House has demonstrated all the dignity and competence of a drunken mountain lion with irritable bowel syndrome working Sudoku.

Here’s a sampling of daft incidents gone down thus far in March.

• White House Communications Director Hope Hicks resigns after admitting telling little white lies for the President. “No, really. Your hands are huuuge.” “I love your hair that way.” “Yes, the whole country is behind you.”
• First Son-in-Law Jared Kushner is stripped of Top Secret clearance. Doesn’t matter: Ivanka’s the heavy thinker of the family.
• Economic Advisor Gary Cohn leaves to protest new tariffs on steel and aluminum. Because what successful billionaire needs economic advisors?
• President’s lawyers obtain a restraining order to keep a porn star from talking about the $130k she received to keep an affair with the president quiet. Thereby making it louder.
• Trump’s personal aide, John McEntee, is escorted from White House grounds after security clearance is pulled due to possible financial crimes. But don’t worry, he’ll be back. Fits right in.
• President Trump stuns staff by announcing summit with Kim Jong Un. But if he doesn’t read, how do they prep him for these meetings? Will they use hand puppets?
• President Trump calls MSNBC anchor Chuck Todd “a sleepy son of a bitch,” and African-American Congresswoman Maxine Waters a “low IQ individual” giving him a near insurmountable lead to repeat in this year’s “Vulgar Lout of the Year” award.
• The President fires FBI Deputy Director Andrew McCabe two days before he retires with full pension benefits. Because it’s not enough to be vindictive if you can’t throw in a little petty.
• Trump mocks Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau by bragging he made stuff up in a meeting. Leading many to believe next meeting will be less cordial. President Trump may be forced to assemble his own poutine.
• Says the reason Conor Lamb won the special election in Pennsylvania was because the Democrat “was like me.” Funny, the new Congressman doesn’t look like a racist, misogynist, xenophobic, incompetent blowhard.
• President Trump lifts ban on importing elephant tusks into the country. So no matter what happens down the line, Don Jr. and Eric won’t go home empty-handed.
• The day after Secretary of State Rex Tillerson criticizes Russia, Trump fires him in a tweet. The moral being; you can call the president a “moron,” but don’t badmouth Vlad the Impaler.
• Nobody’s panicking because we did survive the past 14 months and the smart money is on April Madness leading to May Madness, June Madness etc. etc., all the way up to your normal election-year November Madness. Which this time around promises to be exceptionally hysterical.

Okay, Democrats, settle down. Drop the confetti and back away from the champagne. Stop punching each other in the arm, making with the whoop-whoop noises. Straighten your tie. These celebrations need to be put on hold. They are as premature as counting your chickens before they cross the road to a bridge that hasn’t been burned yet.

Sure, you might have had a few encouraging outcomes in some special elections and early midterm primaries, but those are as fleeting as the New York City Ballet dreams of an overweight third-grader in her first pair of toe shoes.

Do not be deceived into thinking that reclaiming the House of Representatives in November is a fast-break, slam-dunk because if anybody could blow a lead this late in the game, it’s you. And, the Atlanta Falcons, of course.

President Donald Trump’s approval rating could sink lower than the pressure-release screw on the bottom of a submarine sewer hose, and Democrats still couldn’t stir the electorate with a crowbar the size of Chile.

You are the kings and queens of tying your shoelaces together and tripping over your own feet. Have the killer instinct of mud. Possess the uncanny ability to pluck defeat from the jaws of victory through the tiniest dental window. Hold the Guinness book record for accidentally rolling over on the self-destruct button and blowing everything you stand for to smithereens. On that rare occasion you take a stand.

And right now, multitudes of ways to throw a monkey wrench into the midterms remain within your grasp. It may be over a half a year away. But to you do-gooder, pooch-screwing, over-thinkers, it’s a lifetime.

The following is not just the tip of the iceberg of ugly scenarios that are possible but the crust on the nostrils of the dead donkey curled around the tip of the iceberg of ugly scenarios that are possible.

WAYS THE DEMOCRATS COULD SCREW UP THE MIDTERMS.

Lousy candidates. As we’ve seen in the past, your bench is full of them.
Horrible timing. You people would wear Yankees hats to Fenway Park on Nickel Beer Night.
Dearth of issues. You attempt to paint yourself as Republicans with a brain and a heart. Failing to realize that lacking a brain and a heart is the GOP’s base appeal.
Trusting the media. Yes, many reporters and correspondents are smart liberals. But most of their bosses are smarter conservatives. Who love Donald J. Trump for being a dumpster fire that attracts eyeballs.
Getting drunk at the prom and wrecking daddy’s T-Bird again.
Barbra Streisand. At the last minute she tries to help.
Hillary Clinton. Writes another book.
Exhibit Fear. Don’t ever forget the electorate can smell it.
Stormy Daniels. Entices Bill Clinton and/ or Anthony Weiner into being pen-pals.
Trivial stuff. Huge ugly public fights over whether the latest presidential rebuke should be printed with black or blue ink.
Eating your own. Does the term Al Franken have any meaning here?
Nancy Pelosi. She talks for another 8 hours causing people to remember, “oh yeah, she’s still the Head Dem, right?”
Two words. Bernie freaking Sanders.
Underestimating Donald Trump. Especially his allure to that segment of America that believes professional wrestling is legitimate.
And finally: Two more words. Elizabeth freaking Warren.

Like most arranged marriages, the blessed union between Donald Trump and the Republican Party turned stormy even before Ms. Daniels arrived on the scene. The bride and groom were barely acquainted, had little in common and truth be told, didn’t much care for each other. The engagement period featured fights, insults, accusations of infidelity and salacious hand measuring. Outside of that- a match made in heaven.

So it seems a bit disingenuous that the GOP claims to be shocked, shocked to find itself in a world of hurt a year after stumbling down the aisle with their fair-haired groom. Even clashing couples are compelled to abide by that whole “for better or worse” proposition. And lately, the emphasis has been on the latter.

The upside included the honeymoon of controlling the House, Senate and Oval Office for the first time since George W. had to ask Dick Cheney for a hall pass to use the West Wing lavatory. But that blissful period had a shorter life than the Harvey Weinstein Defense Fund Kickstarter campaign.

The downside was being unmasked as the race baiting, xenophobic, misogynistic hypocritical party of the rich they’ve spent decades trying to disguise. Our current president didn’t ruin the Republican Party, he lifted the rock they were hiding under. The evangelical community even gave him a mulligan for a porn star payoff. #MeToo.  

And neither do any of the maids of honor or groomsmen seem happy with the in-law situation. Everybody is supposed to be nice to them, but nobody can figure out what Jared and Ivanka do, except loot the gift table and make withering suggestions on which of their new colleagues need eyebrow sculpting. Many suspect their sole function is emotional support. They’re the White House therapy dogs.

A few who stood proudly next to Donnie John at the altar in November of 2016 are suffering from a tertiary case of bridal remorse. They regret climbing into bed with a notorious serial abuser, especially considering their entire pre-nuptial agreement consists of Mike Pence.

But most supporters are making such incredible ethical contortions they’ve probably sparked interest from recruiters at Cirque de Soleil. These tortured explanations run the gamut from claiming that Obama was worse to the charge that Hillary would have been worser.

There’s little talk of annulment; they go out of their way to excuse his unacceptable behavior and blatant ineptitude. They know how vindictive he is and shudder at the kind of alimony required to shut him up. Also, there will not be joint custody of his base.

The list of rationalizations are as recognizable to the staffs of battered women shelters as skunk scat is to urban gardeners. “He’s new at this.” “But he loves me.” “He didn’t say that and even if he did, he didn’t mean it.” “You can’t judge him by his hair.” “That’s just Donald being Donald.”  “Doesn’t sweat much for a fat guy.”

Problem is, the midterm elections are looming eight short months away and the entire wedding party has to weigh whether to trot out rehearsal dinner photos to demonstrate fealty in the tradition of “love, honor and obey” or risk a primary opponent from the right with a malicious hankering to introduce them to that whole “til death do us part” part.

President Donald Trump tossed out some wacky nonsense about arming teachers which encouraged the press and public to go nuts debating this ludicrous suggestion, totally ignoring commonsense remedies like banning civilians from purchasing weapons whose sole function is to kill the most people in the shortest time. The man is not as dumb as he looks, which at last count was considerable.

That was just one of the president’s multiple responses to the latest in a distressing series of school shootings. He was all over the map like a class of apprentice cartographers in the belly of a garbage scow during a category 4 typhoon.

First he said we should arm teachers, then yelled at the mainstream media for saying he said we should arm teachers, then he said we shouldn’t just give teachers guns, but bonuses. And snacks. Not rulers. Or pencils. Stationary targets, yes. Stationery, no.

During a listening session with relatives and survivors of various school massacres he was photographed carrying a cheat sheet reminding him to say “I hear you.” His staff is apparently aware that hearing people in a listening session is not his first instinct. Listen, is what people do to him, not he to them.

Trump also promised to focus on mental health issues, forgetting that one of his first moves as POTUS was erasing rules that restricted some mentally ill from purchasing firearms. Like Germany complaining they don’t have any decent Jewish delis anymore.

“Now is not the time to politicize the gun issue.” Why is the time to talk about guns always later? “Now?” “No, later.” “Now?” “No, later.” And repeat. Now is the time to talk about mental health issues. Voting to fund programs to deal with those issues is a different story.

The NRA says the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun. The problem with good guys with guns is a lot of them believe in that whole “kill ‘em all and let god sort ‘em out” school of thought. Except that security guard outside the Parkland, Florida high school.

Giving guns to teachers, what a great idea. Probably cut down on tardiness, note passing and backtalk as well, not to mention making faculty meetings and parent teacher conferences a lot more interesting. The penalty for truancy is a flesh wound.

As with most of 45’s ideas, details were murky, but this plan could easily lead to arming janitors, crossing guards and cafeteria ladies. Although many would argue that school lunches were already weaponized during the Reagan Administration.

Besides, 20% of American teachers equals 700,000 people. Do they all get the same gun? Would these teachers going heavy be appointed or volunteers? Or would most folks offered guns spontaneously develop bone spurs like somebody else we know? 

Think back: how many of your high school teachers would you have confidently armed? The ex-Marine wrestling coach? The English teacher who spaced out during John Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn?” The librarian regularly hitting her flask behind the stacks? Sister Mary Uzi?

And you do realize that once teachers start carrying Roscoes, it’s only a matter of time before kids themselves feel the need to start packing. “I’m going to study hall. Cover me.”

We all know what “cherry picking” is. Sifting through available evidence to pluck out the bits and pieces that support one particular narrative while ignoring everything that reinforces the contrary. Also known as selective amnesia. Or advertising.

It is used in movie reviews all the time. “An execrable breakthrough in atrocious direction and a new cinematic low in non-achievement,” becomes “A Breakthrough Cinematic Achievement!” 

It happens in real life as well. Like when dad keeps talking about how he was first to change the baby’s diapers. Even though mom was hospitalized at the time and he didn’t touch another in the 2 years since. The letter, but not the spirit.

You can claim pretty much anything, because chances are, nobody’s going to look up the original and that holds especially true when the original is classified. “Look what I got right here. No, you can’t see it. But trust me, it’s as awful as skunk-flavored popsicles.”

And that is exactly what the White House has done by releasing the controversial Republican Intelligence Committee Nunes Memo but withholding the Democratic response, which fills in some of the controversial gaps. This sneaky behavior has become so prevalent amongst our major political parties that it’s acquired a special name: practitioners call it… politics.

To prove that two can play that game, let’s counter with some opposition cherry-picking. Here’s what happens when the words from Donald Trump’s highly regarded State of the Union Address are isolated and rearranged:

“Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, Members of Congress, the First Lady of the United States, my fellow North Koreans, criminals and terrorists and pregnant homeless women: Less than one year has passed since I first stood at this podium, in this evil chamber of pain and sorrow, and since then our nation has been witness to the most dangerous menace that threatens our world: my administration.  

I will be asking Congress to assist American car companies to continue building and expanding plants in Cuba and Venezuela and also to increase the height of my package. Only in times of tragedy will this nation turn to rogue regimes like the United States Senate. I will not repeat the mistakes of past administrations that got us into this dangerous position. I will make other shameful and depraved mistakes.

No regime has oppressed its own citizens more totally or brutally than the cruel dictatorship that is Texas. One of my greatest priorities is to ensure floods and fires and storms, devastating hurricanes and a hail of gunfire. And wage stagnation until they experience the pains and scourge of hardship.

So tonight I extend an open hand to work with members of especially cruel gangs of illegal immigrants so that America’s forgotten middle class can be eliminated through opioid and drug addiction.

The final pillar is that our wonderful families will be sentenced to years of hard labor by the savage gangs of our Afghan partners along with China, Mexico and New Mexico. I have foolishly caused the loss of many innocent lives, am a reckless disgrace and must get treatment. Complacency is the surest path to evil. Thank you, and God bless Russia.”

Hey, those are his words. Sure, some stuff got left out and the order was changed around a bit. Just like the Republican memo.  

During the State of the Union Address, President Donald J Trump said many hopeful things including that he wants to work with Democrats. Yeah, right. He wants to work with Democrats the same way a five year old with a magnifying glass wants to work with ants. The way a coyote wants to negotiate with a nest of baby ducks. Think incoming ballistic missile and South Pacific atolls.

A week later he called this very same group treasonous. And what heinous crime against the state did they commit: they neglected to stand and applaud during the boasts and exaggerations of his amazing, tremendous, fabulous speech. But nobody took the charge seriously. Why? Because his words mean nothing.

It continues to amaze how people pore over his statements, looking for clues to future behavior based on what’s been previously said. It doesn’t matter. The man never tells the truth. Only what’s expedient. Pundits point out, “previously he said this,” And “let’s not forget he said that.” Go ahead- forget that. He has. Or will.

After a year in office and a lifetime of his self-satisfied, publicity-seeking mug thrust in our faces, people remain oblivious that if the muse moves him, he will reverse course and adopt a totally different position. 180 degrees. In a New York minute. Often during the same interview.

You can’t make a plan based on what comes out of his mouth because words don’t matter to him. He has no respect for them. They’re all made up of the same 26 letters. Letters that can be used to write other words. Words that don’t assist the cause. Hence, he will say anything. To anyone. Any time. Anywhere. Anywhy. Anywho.

He’ll do it for various reasons. Whatever helps at the moment. To carve an advantage. To distract. To buy time. Energize the base. Protect a deal. Create confusion. Stay in practice. Make himself look good. Even if he said he was lying, he’d be lying.

Pity the poor people who work for him, trying to say positive things, handicapped in supporting his goals and beliefs, because they have absolutely no idea what those could be. Except that he’s pro-Donald.

He was against the war in Iraq. That wasn’t him on the Access Hollywood tape. The President of the Boy Scouts called him. Remember how he was going to release his tax returns? He never planned to release his tax returns. Saying he would, was simply a stall. Soon other scandals erupted and the press began asking other questions and tax returns fell by the wayside. And so on and so on.

So when the President says he not only plans to testify under oath in the Robert Mueller investigation but that he’s looking forward to it, don’t believe him. That’s what he thinks people want him to say. Now. It is neither a confirmation that he will testify or a warning he’ll do everything in his power to keep from doing testifying. Could be either/ or. It could mean nothing. Probably the latter.

Maybe he’ll change his mind. Maybe he won’t. There is no way to tell. The man has the integrity of a drunken weasel in a chicken coop. He would rather lie than eat ice cream. And he likes ice cream.

Any grouping of American taxpayers: including at least one white guy wearing a suit, somebody in a blue work shirt, and one senior citizen.

One shot glass per person. Everybody brings their own, grouped on a table in front of TV. No matter who brings what, white guy in suit chooses first, work shirts pick next, then everybody else except senior citizen who goes last.

Much beer.

Bowl of guacamole and chips. If women are playing, they should make the guacamole and take care of the beer.

Everybody antes 5 bucks.

RULES OF GAME:

• Every time Donald Trump says the words “collusion,” or “fake news” drink a shot of beer.
• Whenever the president sniffs, slurs or mispronounces a word, drink a shot of beer. If he gets name of a world leader wrong, drink two shots of beer. If he blows name of a cabinet or family member, chug an entire beer.
• Whenever DT mentions the brave members of our armed forces, stand up, salute with your right hand and drink a shot of beer with your left.
• For every reference to golf or one of his golf resorts, drink a shot of beer. Two shots if the resort is mentioned by name.
• If Speaker Paul Ryan or First Lady Melania is caught napping on camera, the last person to stand up and sing “Wake Up, Little Susie, Wake Up” drinks two shots of beer.
• Every time the president mentions Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama the last person to grab his throat in a choking motion drinks two shots of beer.
• When the camera finds Kellyanne Conway, everybody throw chips dipped in guacamole at TV. Anybody who gets a chip to stick on her face is exempt from drinking 2 shots of beer. 3 shots if it looks like a little beard.
• If, during a standing ovation, the president claps for himself, take turns drinking shots of beer until the audience sits. If he winks or points to the camera make it double shots.
• For every actual emotion Mike Pence displays besides smug satisfaction drink a shot of beer.
• Whenever the president mentions “building the wall” drink a shot of beer. Multiply the shots by the number of syllables in the adjectives used. “Big wall” means one extra shot. “Beautiful wall,” three more shots. “Tremendous, fantastic, amazing wall”- you figure it out.
• Predict the number of applause breaks. After the speech, drink number of shots of beer equal to difference between your estimate and actual number. The average is 80.

EXTRAS

1. If Chief of Staff John Kelly’s transmission link breaks and Trump begins to mumble excerpts from Hugo Weaving’s soliloquy in the first “Matrix” on how humans stink, everybody gets to kick white guy in suit once.
2. White guy in suit gets to kick old person twice just on general principles.
3. If the president uses a heartfelt story of a senior citizen’s grace under pressure to illustrate a point, the elder gets 15 seconds to kick white guy in suit. 30 seconds if Trump reveals the anecdotal senior is in the audience AND sitting next to an astronaut or member of the Trump family. 45 seconds if it’s Tiffany or Barron.
4. During the Democratic response, woman players should clean up.
5. Remaining guacamole and chips go home with senior citizen who also gets to keep the Tupperware container.
6. White guy in suit takes pot.

It’s been quite a year. The exact reverse of that whole “time flies when you’re having fun” thing. These last twelve months have slogged by like cold molasses riddled with bat guano dripping through a tightly woven bamboo sieve. Seems like decades since Donald Trump became the 45th President of the United States. Shouldn’t he be termed out by now? 

After a mere 12 months, his problems have stacked up like a bouquet of bombs from the Acme Co. being wafted aloft by helium balloons approaching an archery range for easily distracted pre-teens. Anybody who watched the televised White House bipartisan meeting can tell you the former reality TV star exhibits a mastery of his office on the level of a duck-billed platypus playing a harpsichord.

His administration has been marked by division, derision, indecision and a distinct lack of supervision. Confusion, seclusion, delusion & collusion. Lazy, hazy, crazy: cheesy, sleazy, wheezy, breezy and enough turmoil to make the entire world both uneasy and/ or a little queasy.

During the first 365 days of Dopey Donald’s Reign of Error, we have survived an unending stream of blatant lies, graphic insults, myopic intransigence, illiterate cluelessness, overt racism, monumental chaos, nuclear intimidation and a general coarsening of the culture to where the evangelical community is forced to reconcile a porn star payoff with its own staggering sense of self righteousness. Futilely.

In the recent book, “Fire and Fury,” author Michael Wolff intimated that 100% of White House insiders believe their boss is a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic if you catch his drift. The wheel is spinning but the hamster is dead. Snuck into the gene pool while the lifeguard was chatting up the girl who runs the hot dog stand. Has the same mental capacity that God gave a bucket of hair.

Then, as if to stamp the book with his own fuzzy seal of approval, the former New York City real estate developer demonstrated that no matter how many allies he antagonizes, family members he insults, staffers he impugns, fellow Republicans he alienates, or conventions he flaunts, his own worst enemy remains… himself.

Attempting to stem backlash from Wolff’s book, the president tweeted, (and these are quotes) that he is “like, really smart.” And a “stable genius.” A statement that most experts interpret as meaning he’s really good with horse manure. Which probably comes in handy when interacting with Sloppy Steve Bannon.

Trump also twisted himself into a rhetorical battle with Kim Jong Un over whose nuclear button is bigger. When we all know it has to be Ivanka’s dad, who needs the larger expanse to accommodate his diminutive hands. These two should be locked into a cell on an abandoned freighter in the South Pacific so that they can measure and get it over with.

Then the brief government shut down precipitated an eruption of the Blame Game that witnessed both Republicans and Democrats flinging mud at each other with so much excess hitting the president, many referees questioned the actual target.

Senate Majority leader Mitch McConnell said “I’m looking for something the president supports” making it sound like a mythical beast. Less unicorn– more dodo bird. And all this has gone down in the first three weeks of 2018. Fasten your seat belts folks, it’s going to be a bumpy year.

Time for a few choice words for the not-so-dearly departed year of 2017. And those words are… “You sucked. Go away. Stay there. Keep it moving odd numbered year. Don’t linger. No dawdling. Forget about sticking around to watch us shudder whenever the sight of something orange triggers a flashback. Bury your shadow in a deep dark cave. Forget it Jake, it’s Chinatown.”  

The beginning of January is when America dons its rose-colored glasses and anticipates wondrous possibilities in the future pages of our new calendar. So now let us forecast a few of the fabulous events in store for the next twelve months. You can call them predictions, prognostications or prophecies but here at Durstco we prefer to think of them as dead solid certain sure things.

In the year 2018:

Kellyanne Conway will top the bestseller lists with a book entitled, “How to Lie Out of Both Sides of Your Two Faces Even When People are Watching.”
In response to another school shooting the NRA calls for the closing of all schools.
Robert Mueller announces that he has discovered a secret panel in Vice President Mike Pence’s head that is directly controlled by a Siberian bear trainer. 
Hillary Clinton, after 18 months of twice-daily therapy sessions, finally allows herself to let it go.
Donald John Trump continues cutting programs for the poor so rich people can have more money. Through a series of tragic financial reversals, the 45th President dies destitute.
Mitch McConnell’s face actually does freeze like that.
The Internet becomes so user-friendly, trend-setting techies find themselves superfluous and go back to being annoying nerds living in their parents’ basements.
The airline industry is revolutionized by the introduction of discount tickets that require passengers to pedal.
Disney purchases Fox News and children in Disneyland are treated to character breakfasts with their favorite right wing talk show hosts. Sean Hannity is especially popular as Goofy.
LeBron James is voted the best middle linebacker in the NBA.
A 400-pound fat guy on a couch goes on The View to apologize for hacking the 2016 election. Although expressing sincere regret, Joy Behar still beats him senseless with a chair leg.
The stock price of Purdue Pharma crashes, after it is revealed their new drug to combat PTSD (President Trump Stress Disorder) is simply double strength OxyContin.
After heading in multiple directions, the Democratic Party finally buys a compass and sets it to the polar opposite of Donald Trump, helplessly collapsing in a heap after taking six steps.
After Steve Bannon is dismissed then rehabilitated in the eyes of Donald Trump 14 separate times he secures a lucrative sponsorship deal with Duncan Yoyos.
Michael Wolff writes a best selling sequel to “Fire and Fury” called “No, Really, I’m Telling You, He’s Bat Guano Crazy.”
Every single athlete at the Winter Olympics is disqualified when tests reveal the South Korean snow is laced with sake.
Ivanka Trump polishes her Oval Office bonafides by loop watching Gary Oldman in The Darkest Hour in order to imitate his growl. Jared finds it sexy.
Oprah loses thirty pounds.
In the wake of a DC blizzard, all non-essential federal workers are encouraged to stay home and nobody in the White House reports to work. Including The Donald. No one notices.

Hey!!! Sorry. Just trying to rouse everyone from their tranquil basking in the afterglow of the most wonderful time of the year. You know, the one where the retail industry celebrates swimming in black ink while the rest of us pray the frigid temps delay the bills a mite longer.

During this postsacred season of super sell-a-thons, many remember sharing our blessings with the less fortunate. But what about the more fortunate? For they truly are the forgotten men and women of the holidays. Fortunately the Republican Congress took care of them with a huge Christmas gift tax reform.

So, to continue our representatives’ thoughtful good works, let us take a few brief belated moments to offer up our much anticipated wish list that endeavors to fill the gaps left by Santa’s sack and detail what folks should have found under their tree in a very special episode of Will Durst’s Xma$ Gift Wi$h Li$t. With many items conveniently now on sale.

For Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III. A research sabbatical to Vostok Station in Antarctica.
For Melania Trump: A Nobel Peace Prize for not slapping her husband’s hand away every time they’re in public.
For Roy Moore: A return to the bench adjudicating the daily shenanigans at the Gadsden Mall Food Court.  
For Speaker of the House Paul Ryan: One gift certificate for a surgical procedure to remove that unsightly lump of Freedom Caucus hampering his stride.
For Kim Jong Un: If Trump’s approval rating falls any further, a bunker near hell.
For Donald Trump: Noise canceling headphones so he can drown out the cacophony of negativity surrounding him.
For Kevin Spacey, Harvey Weinstein, Louis CK, Charley Rose, Matt Lauer, Dustin Hoffman, Brett Ratner & Jeremy Piven: Lunch with Roman Polanski in Paris but no return ticket.
For CNN: More Russian investigation revelations. Either that or another summer of shark attacks. Or best of all… Russian sharks.
For Sarah Huckabee Sanders: A stainless steel muzzle along with detailed instructions on how to self-install.
For Fox News: More Benghazi investigation revelations. Either that or another winter of the War on Christmas. Or best of all… Happy Holidays from Benghazi.
For Dennis Rodman: An all expenses paid trip to the Winter Olympics so he can take a side trip to North Korea to save the world.
For former Minnesota Senator Al Franken: A job opening at Saturday Night Live.
For Vladimir Putin: A year’s supply of treats for his lapdog.
For Mexican President Enrique Pena Nieto: A tremendous wall to keep United States citizens from overrunning his country.
For Republican Congresspersons facing midterm elections: Retroactive Snapchat technology that allows any photo of them with President Donald Trump to instantly disappear.
For VP Mike Pence: A strobe light to use at press conferences to give the appearance of movement.
For the CEO of Equifax: A new password that is not his wife’s birthday.
For Medical Science to study: Donald Trump’s brain. Sean Spicer’s mouth. Steve Bannon’s heart. And Chuck Schumer’s spine.
For Anthony Scaramucci: A big bag of coal.
For Colin Kaepernick: A job in the Canadian Football League.
For California Senator Dianne Feinstein: At least two more terms. Because you can’t have an effective government without one nonagenarian to remind us when history starts repeating itself.