The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Compassionate conservatism finally reared its tired head this week when Wilbur Ross, the billionaire Commerce Secretary wondered aloud why these government workers forced to work without paychecks were lining up at food banks instead of running down to their local banks and applying for a loan. Trump’s economic advisor, Larry Kudlow, referred to these folks as volunteers. “They honor us. And they do it because of their love for the country and the office of the presidency and, presumably, their allegiance to President Trump.”

Where, you wonder, is Marie Antoinette these days? Have no doubt the peasants of France honored her with their love and allegiance to the King. You know, before they sliced their empty heads off in the blood-soaked streets of Paris. The Trump Court, chock-a-block full of billionaire know-nothings, makes the Parisian Court at Versailles look like a convention of physicists. The only thing sadder than this latest spectacle of insensitivity would be if the French had actually voted for Louis the 16th, hoping he’d honor his promise to bring back the Stone Age to his countrymen. Marie married the little frat boy when he was 15. Melania at least waited until Trump was a bit older. It’s no coincidence that the Trump mansion is decorated in wildly lurid French baroque. Well, maybe Louis didn’t have a gold toilet, just a nice chamber pot. Or a helluva outhouse the peasants could keep clean when they weren’t lining up for royal loans.

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My favorite TV attorney of all time is America’s Mayor, Rudy Giuliani. The man gives fresh meaning to the appellation for lawyer, Mouthpiece. Trot him out on Fox every day or so and he has no problem getting both feet in there. Clarification? Of course he’s got a new clarification. Tomorrow he’ll clarify the last one. You have to ask yourself, how did a guy who waded into the Tower debris after 9-11 and become a national hero decide to make a clown of himself in no time flat? The man had it made in the shade.

Apparently he missed the big spotlight, the daily bath in self-praise, the adulation of a nation. So when an even huger narcissist than himself came along, why not hop right up on the stage and play the slobbering sychophant? And … to boot, the mayor is an attorney. A prosecutor. A person with an insight into how Mueller and his team might be strategizing. What more perfect sidekick for the Donald?

It is amazing how Clowntown continues to ram yet another Bozo into the Volkswagen. Sure, some are forced out the tailpipe; okay, most are forced out of the tailpipe, but few are given a public forum that diminishes the Trump’s face time and those few are gone quickly if the Man deems their performance upstaging. Nobody upstages the Donald. Nobody! Well, except maybe Rudy, at least so far and who knows for how much longer. Even the Prez must realize he has the absolute worst, most imbecilic attorney in the entire United States. Better, maybe, to ask for the last hire of the New York Public Defender’s office, plead penury since no one can see his tax records and hope for someone with an IQ above 80 and an attention to detail beyond a third grader.

Although, you have to admit, they make a perfect pairing. Maybe even better than Pence and his ventriloquist. Mueller could probably wrap the investigation up early, just put Rudy on the stand for a couple of days. Sure they’d find Trump guilty of a dozen felonies, but any jury you could imagine would be lenient. Nobody deserves Rudy. Not even Trump.

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Today I am announcing that I will not, I repeat, will NOT be running for the Presidency of the United States. And I know what you’re thinking, it’s just a shrewd tactic to make my apparent non-candidacy stand out against that multitude of those who have thrown their hat into the ring. My hat, beat up and bent, will stay firmly on my unbowed head. But believe me when I say if nominated I will not run, if elected I will not serve.

I don’t blame my fellow citizens for viewing this coming 2020 election as a wild card, anything goes, who-knows-what kind of race. If Donald J. Trump can boast about grabbing women’s genitals, can bully and tweet insults and pejoratives, can make the White House a locker room for frat boys and country club clowns, can use the office for financial gain for himself and his family, well, the door is wide open for just about anybody with even an erratic heartbeat and an IQ above that of an orangutan with a comb-over on its simian butt.

95% of the country would qualify as Presidential. And at least half of Congress. The Democratic debates in the fall of two years from now will look like the starting line of the Boston Marathon, maybe enough time to give everyone’s name but not much left for parsing issues of the day. But since they’re all eminently qualified in a post Trump campaign era, I want to make a small suggestion to the folks in the smoke filled rooms who usually handicap these horse races. A Lottery.

Yes, a Lottery. Americans love throwing the dice. They love Wheel of Fortune as much as they love throwing a few bucks every week at the Lotto. Why not start, oh, about a year prior, spin the Giant Wheel with maybe a thousand candidate names, pick a semi-finalist every month, all leading up to the Final Spin, see who will run against Mike Pence. By then Mike’s handlers should have found a semi-talented ventriloquist who can avoid moving his lips and will sit unobtrusively beside him as the Vice Presidential candidate. And yeah, I know, just thinking about an opportunity to debate someone of Mr. Pence’s caliber will bring out even more candidates. Probably as many Republicans as Democrats. Is this country great again, or what?

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