"See, folks, fake news!" he tweets. "If the Dem's V. P. demonstrated how to clean an assault weapon, press rats would be on it like editors on cheese.
"But my war wounds? Nothing!"
A tuft of grey-gold hair blows down from atop The Donald's head and hangs by a thread before his open mouth. His eyes cross to focus on the tuft. Then, he commences chewing on it.
"Move over, Mexico," he speaks between the strands. "I'm hearing a lot of people saying it."
Our dream family tableau descends on a golden escalator in a manner befitting American nostalgia:
"Streets paved with gold,"
Barr calls out, like some dreamy field hand of yore.
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Miller responds,
"Immigrants done been told."
Out in front of them, bent-back and whisking away obstacles in their path, are Republican Party regulars led by stunned-face Moscow Mitch McConnell, of Kentucky. Pulled behind him on a velvet pedestal stands Nikki Haley, of South Carolina, wearing a Cheshire Cat grin and a tarnished golden leash. Next, rolling about on the pavement giggling their patriotic support, comes Lindsey Graham of South Carolina and George Santos, New York Republican once removed.
Toe-and-heel men follow, then spokes-critter lawyers for powerful chambers of yes-and-maybe contributors. They clear the walk as it grows more shadowy with each step of their boots and sweep of their brooms.
"For the goal of smaller decentralized government," Moscow Mitch laughs, slapping the fat former Attorney General across his ample back. The fat former Attorney General shakes his wattle and hoots out puffs of laughter. The two look rather like broken-down old steam engines loping along the rails.
"After us?"
Moscow Mitch calls out.
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"Who cares what floods!"
the former A.G. responds.
They giggle, waddle, wobble, and fart off down their goldbrick road.
Back in the shadows quietly walks Mike Johnson of Louisiana's Fourth District, uttering nary a word critical of Trump nor Trumpeter.
Kushner's 'backchannel cable' spools on then off again ~ fully out of anyone's oversight.
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A mustachioed face claiming National Security Portfolio opens an electric notebook. A Google map glows into focus showing Roseate Spoonbill migration routes.
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Roseate Spoonbill |
"With no fear of blow back," the mustache whispers in The Donald's ear.
"We can lace migratory feeding sites with chemical-castration drugs that will threaten a final solution to their endangered numbers!
"This," he tells The Donald while leaning so close his mustache takes on moisture from The Donald's nibbled hair.
"... this will convince the last doubters that America means business.
"Mad business, yes, but business!" he adds.
"A plausible crazy man can win the game," The Donald twitters. "Ask those New York bankers of mine!"
Ivanka brushes, smiles, and speaks not. The Son-in-law spools and speaks not. The escalator escalates.
We awake from our dream with the real Conductor calling:
"Lafayette next stop!"
Sylvia stretches her arms overhead, and steps off the train and to the side ~ away from the traffic pouring out behind her. Lafayette is the train's only smoke-stop between New Orleans and Houston.
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Sunset Limited, Amtrak #1 New Orleans to Los Angeles Smoke Stop, Lafayette Louisiana |
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"And there are good people on both ends of the lynch mob's rope," a large woman wearing a big red hat tells a small following of similarly crowned women. They are smoking cigarettes and heading to the train bound for Houston.
~ www.LEJ.world ✍️
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