Trump Wiretapped by His Microwave Oven Television Star Monitored by His Own TV Set
These are the days of miracle and wonder
And don’t cry baby, don’t cry
Don’t cry.
So sang Paul Simon on The Boy in the Bubble.
These are the days of lasers in the jungle
Lasers in the jungle somewhere
Staccato signals of constant information
A loose affiliation of millionaires
And billionaires and baby , don’t cry
Don’t cry.
Aw, who’s crying now? Trump’s apologists are all over the jungle these days trying to mop up the mess he left accusing the prior president of wiretapping Trump Tower. Kellyanne Conway, as always the most entertaining of the surrogates designated for bidet overflows, suggested what he meant was that this is the day of wiretapping microwaves, everybody knows that now and that was only one of many possibilities. TV sets, I-phones, dishwashers, baby monitors, talking toilets, who could possibly say for sure which smartass device was doing the surveillance bidding for that lowlife Obama?
She sure didn’t know, but she was not, she insisted with some petulance, Inspector Gadget. Next question? I know what you’re thinking: she’s the mole burrowed in the Trump administration clandestinely working for Saturday Night Live. Deep Comedy. Staccato signals of constant misinformation tailormade for another hilarious sketch.
There is a boy in the bubble, all right, so deeply out of touch with reality it probably should scare the bejabbers out of us, but … what about those poor folks who pinned their hopes to this guy,
It’s a turn-around jump shot
It’s everybody jump start
It’s every generation throws a hero up the pop charts
Medicine is magical and magical is art
The boy in the bubble
And the baby with the baboon heart?
Me, I feel sorry for the baboon.
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