Trump supporter Mike Jaworski, who was arrested in Chicago Tuesday for participating in the January 6th riot and storming of the U.S. Capitol that ended in the senseless deaths of five people and dozens of injured police officers, said that his defense team will employ the “mindless Trump goon” defense legal strategy. Jaworski was charged with assaulting a police officer, making death threats against multiple Democratic members of Congress and Vice President Mike Pence, destruction of federal property and entering a restricted area.
Jaworski told reporters in Chicago that his intentions were peaceful when he arrived in Washington, DC on January 6th in spite of the online death threats he made against various public officials before his arrival. He and his fellow members of the Paunchy Patriots, a militia group dedicated to protecting Americans’ Second Amendment rights and eating copious amounts of garlic fries, simply wanted to express their First Amendment rights to assemble and protest in their military tactical gear and carrying clubs, bear spray and zip ties.
“After hearing the President’s speech, I just sort of got caught up in the moment,” Jaworski insisted. “One minute we were peacefully chanting, ‘Hang Mike Pence’ and the next I saw this guy brutally beating a police officer with an American flagpole and…you know, since I have absolutely no will of my own or critical thinking skills whatsoever, I acted on Trump’s unfounded claims of a stolen election. And I told that Capitol police officer ‘We love you guys,’ but he got in my way so I had to stomp on his head because I’m just a regular, patriotic American who responds to Trump’s commands like a slavering Doberman Pinscher. But I certainly didn’t do anything out of malice. Do I regret the death threats? Sure, but who doesn’t get a little worked up after a six pack of Bud’, a couple of snorts of crystal meth’ and being exhorted to ‘trial by combat’ by Rudy Giuliani?”
Jaworski’s lawyer Mark Eldridge confirmed that “My client is simply a mindless Trump goon who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time with a lot of other mindless Trump goons after listening to a hostile, delusional speech by the President of the United States. He regrets his participation, but as a mindless goon he really has no responsibility for his actions.”
In the suburb of Westphalia in San Bernardino County of Southern California in the mansion of the Senior Pastor of the Cathedral of the Holy Lamb’s Divine Florescence there lived a youth of wholesome disposition and unpretentious simplicity named Candide. He was the offspring of the charismatic preacher’s sister Kimberly and a former maintenance worker at the church named Guillermo who was discharged shortly after Candide’s conception and quietly flown back to his ancestral homeland with a modest compensation package predicated on his promise never to return to the United States.
The pastor was one of the most renowned evangelical ministers in the country, addressed crowds of ten thousand exuberant believers every Sunday and enjoyed a seat on the President of the United States’ Evangelical Advisory Board. His perky wife presided over social events at the mansion and his minister son was every day coming into his own as the heir apparent to his father’s burgeoning congregation. His comely young daughter Cunegonde was vivacious and charming and was the talk of the church social scene. The dynamic youth minister Joel Pangloss had become a virtual fixture in the house since taking an interest in young Candide’s spiritual development, and perhaps more significantly, a relationship with the pastor with an eye to his future career. Pangloss had already published several popular books with titles like Be Even Better Than Your Best Self Now. Pangloss taught Candide that things could not be otherwise than they are, that everyone lived in the best of all possible worlds, and that through the Law of Attraction, one manifested one’s own reality for better or worse based on their positive or negative beliefs.
During one of his study sessions with Pangloss, Candide began applying his understanding of the Law of Attraction to Cunegonde, the pastor’s lovely young daughter. The smitten pupil imagined sharing blissful moments with her in the best of all possible worlds, and soon, his application of the law produced a pretext for the two of them to rendezvous in a dimly lit stairwell on the third floor of the pastor’s mansion. Unfortunately for the young would be lovers, the pastor happened upon them while on his way to a storage room, and Candide’s attempt at using the law of attraction attracted only several kicks to the rear from the outraged pastor, and he was unceremoniously driven out of the mansion.
Candide left the grounds of the estate with his suitcase and stood on the street, casting a melancholy glance back at the mansion where the fairest pastor’s daughter in all the world lived. He had no idea where he would go or what he would do. At that moment a landscaping truck pulled up in front of him and came to an abrupt halt. A middle-aged Hispanic man jumped out and looked intensely at Candide. “Mijo,” the man said emotionally, and suddenly embraced him. “What?” Candide blurted out. “They told me never to come back,” the man said, “but I had to see you.” Candide stepped back. “I don’t understand.” “Eres mi hijo,” the man replied. “You are my son.” Befuddled, the youth could only mumble, “But I thought…”
Just as he spoke those words, two large SUVs with the words Immigration and Customs Enforcement emblazoned on their sides lurched into a blocking position of the man’s truck. Five burly officers sprang out of the vans and grabbed the hapless duo. As they were dragging them each to separate vehicles, Candide shouted, “But this man is my father!” The officers slammed the doors shut without bothering to reply.
After several weeks in a bleak detention center during which Candide was rarely allowed to shower and sometimes only given a wretched sandwich wrapped in plastic to eat for the whole day, Candide was deported to the border town of Hueco Asqueroso, Mexico. The city was one the most dangerous in the country, and the Mexican government pleaded with the United States to stop dumping deportees there in the middle of the night. But the U.S. government’s promise to protect its people from “bad hombres” was such that subjecting immigrants and even U.S. citizens of certain ethnic backgrounds to near certain abduction, extortion, torture, rape and murder was considered a trifle in addition to proving the toughness of certain prominent and flamboyant American political figures.
It followed that armed men stopped the bus that was transporting Candide and other deportees from the airport to a temporary transit station. Candide was dragged from the bus and a hood was placed over his head. When the hood was torn off, he found himself bound and on his knees before a couple of knife-wielding men in a dilapidated cottage. They graciously offered him a cellphone and explained that he should take advantage of this opportunity to contact sympathetic family members and get them to wire two-thousand dollars to them to prevent them from removing his private parts from his body and stuffing them into his mouth after his throat had been cut.
“Oh, Pangloss,” Candide thought. “How is it possible that in the best of all possible worlds I have lost Cunegonde, my home, and now my private parts? I really have to work on that Law of Attraction thing.” A slash to his face brought Candide out of his revery and he frantically punched in the number of the mansion of the Senior Pastor of the Cathedral of the Holy Lamb’s Divine Florescence. To his great astonishment, Cunegonde answered the phone. Her immense relief at hearing his voice was soon transformed to horror as his explanation of his dire situation was punctuated with his shrieks of pain. Cunegonde wired the money to the culprits as instructed without informing the senior pastor, and Candide soon found himself abandoned shoeless and bleeding on a desolate road.
The poor youth wandered for an indefinite period of time, sleeping in clumps of scrub bushes by the roadside, begging for food at isolated farmsteads, and enduring rain and winds. One morning as he was stumbling along, a kindly old man saw his pitiable condition, and gave him several chorizo sausages. With tears in his eyes, Candide clutched the sausages, fell to his knees and began devouring them right by the side of the road as the old man went his way.
Within a couple minutes, Candide was down to his last chorizo, and he stopped to catch his breath. Just as he did, another drifter, one far more scroungy and miserable than he was, hobbled along the road and came to a wheezing stop in front of Candide. The wretch’s eyes locked onto the remaining chorizo with such a hypnotic force that Candide gently handed him the sausage without a word. The creature attacked the sausage with such an animalistic fury that Candide arose and began to depart in disgust.
“Wait, Candide,” the specter cried. “Don’t you recognize me?” Candide whirled around in shock at hearing his name. “Don’t you know your dear Pangloss?” “What? Is it really you, Joel?” Candide inquired, scrutinizing the pitiful being for any sign of his buoyant old youth minister and life coach. “What dreadful misfortune has befallen you that you are no longer able to be better than your best you and are crawling along this desolate and dangerous road in lice-infested rags? Why did you leave the Cathedral of the Holy Lamb’s Divine Florescence? And what has become of my lovely Cunegonde, Nature’s masterpiece?”
“Miss Cunegonde is dead,” Pangloss replied. “Dead?” Candide spat out in horror. “How can that be? I spoke to her on the phone only a few days ago.” “The Cathedral was struck by disaster. The Senior Pastor contracted COVID-19 after defying the state health authorities and holding in-person services with thousands of people, and—” “Cunegonde died from COVID-19?” Candide demanded. “No,” Pangloss replied, “but the Senior Pastor and his wife both did—” “So Cunegonde is alive?” “No, the fire got her.” “The fire?” Candide queried desperately. “All of California is on fire. The El Dorado Fire swept through the Cathedral and reduced it to ashes in a matter of minutes. Cunegonde was asleep in bed when the fire struck. She never had a prayer.”
“Cunegonde dead,” cried Candide. “And how did you manage to escape the apocalypse at the Cathedral of the Holy Lamb’s Divine Florescence and arrive in this deplorable condition?” “Alas, I was obliged to depart the Cathedral some months ago as a result of spurious accusations of sexual harassment from one of my charges in the youth ministry who mistook some innocent displays of affection for something entirely different. Her misconceptions evolved into a rather unfortunate legal matter that unleashed various law enforcement entities on me, and the agreeable climate of Mexico beckoned to me.”
“Do you still think this is the best of all possible worlds now that the Senior Pastor and his wife have been ruthlessly cut down by the Coronavirus, Cunegonde has been roasted alive, and you have been unjustly persecuted and forced to live as a wretched beggar?” “My boy,” Pangloss replied with a shadow of his formerly winsome smile, “it is just such times as these that make my new book so relevant.” And with that, he pulled a filthy, tattered manuscript from his back pocket and held it up for Candide to see. “Never Settle for Your Best Self,” Candide read from the title page. “We must actively visualize the future we want for ourselves, Candide,” Pangloss told the youth with a tepid passion. “There are no accidents. We create our own reality.”
No sooner had the youth minister uttered those words than two coal black Humvees screeched up to the hapless pair in a cloud of dust. Masked men with bullet-proof vests and AK-47s leaped out of the car, flung hoods over the heads of our two philosophers and dragged them into one of the vehicles. They took off as suddenly as they had arrived and Candide, having some idea what was to come, discharged hot liquid terror into his filthy trousers, filling the vehicle with the acrid odor of urine. One of his new custodians slammed his head against the back of the front seat, but the stench lingered anyway.
When the hoods were ripped off the heads of Candide and Pangloss, they found themselves not in a dilapidated cottage, but next to a large swimming pool in the backyard of a colossal villa surrounded by eighty-foot palm trees. The armed men glared at them as they all stood there, apparently waiting for someone or something. Candide glanced over at the pool and noted that it had the seductive shape of a curvy woman’s body. Then a paunchy Mexican gentleman wearing a luxuriant, richly embroidered bathrobe strolled out of the house and approached them with a disarming smile. “Aqui estan los gringos,” said the apparent leader of armed men. “Pensamos que podrian interesarle.”
“Well, Gentlemen, welcome to my home. Mi casa es su casa,” the gentleman said wryly, his smile taking on a slightly sinister aspect. “My name is Miguel Hernandez de Guerrero, although some people around here call me El Carcinero Alegre…I believe that translates as the Cheerful Butcher in English.” Candide and Pangloss shifted uneasily and stared at the ground. “It’s wonderful to have relatives with money, no? My staff will help you contact your loved ones to acquire your repatriation tax. Don’t worry, they almost always come through.”
El Carcinero Alegre paused and looked quizzically at Pangloss. “Wait, do I know you, viejo?” Pangloss fidgeted nervously, and tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. “Yes, si, you are Joel Pangloss, are you not? You’re Joel Pangloss!” he shouted excitedly. Pangloss could only manage a weak smile. “Be Even Better Than Your Best Self Now! That book changed my life! I was reading it just this morning. That’s how I got…well, all this,” he said gesturing to his luxurious surroundings. “Este es el hombre que me hizo lo que soy,” he shouted joyously to his men as he wrapped his arm around Pangloss’ shoulder.
In no time the lucky duo was inside the Carcinero’s dining room, enjoying their first real meal in quite some time with plenty of wine. Pangloss shared his manuscript for Never Settle for Your Best Self, and Hernandez de Guerrero wondered excitedly when it would be published. Pangloss explained that the publication process had been interrupted by his legal difficulties, and that he needed to meet with his publisher in person as he was no longer accepting his phone calls. “Perhaps now the police have stopped looking for me, but I have no way to get to Los Angeles,” Pangloss opined. The Carcinero burst out laughing. “My friend, I have cargo planes making secret deliveries to Los Angeles every week. I can put you on a plane. It won’t be so comfortable, but no snoopy border agents, eh?” Pangloss looked over at Candide sagely. “You see what positive visualization can accomplish now, my boy?”
Within a few days, Candide and Pangloss were stiffly extricating themselves from a large packing crate on the cargo plane after its arrival in Los Angeles. After slipping down the ramp onto the tarmac, they were directed to leave the airport through a small hole in the fence on its outer perimeter. The sky was a nightmarish orange haze straight out of an illustration from The Book of Revelations because of the fires. They caught a cab and were making their way into downtown Los Angeles when a throng of protesters stalled their progress.
People were marching through the streets chanting and carrying placards with the image of a black man on them because a few days earlier the police had shot him dead for the crime of reaching into his pocket to retrieve the keys to enter his own home. Soon, the cab could barely move, so Candide and Pangloss paid the cabbie and stepped out of the vehicle into the crowd. “My publisher’s office is not far from here,” Pangloss told Candide.
But no sooner had they exited the cab than a phalanx of police officers in black uniforms and full riot gear crashed into the demonstrators with clubs flailing. Candide raised his hands to block a baton blow and was immediately tackled by several officers. When Pangloss attempted to intervene, he too was taken to the asphalt, and several peace officers conscientiously applied their nightsticks with a vigor for which the Los Angeles Police Department is renowned.
Bloodied and nearly unconscious, they were handcuffed with plastic zip-ties, and thrown in the back of a patrol car and driven to the police station. “Congratulations, assholes,” said the officer driving them. “You’re going to be charged with assaulting a peace officer. That’s three to five in state prison. All your douchebag comrades will be out tomorrow with Mickey Mouse fines, but you’re facing hard time, and your dirtbag, court-appointed lawyer isn’t going to give two fucks if you wind up on Sodomy Row at San Quentin.”
They were booked into county jail and thrown into a holding cell. They collapsed on a bench exhausted, dispirited and in significant pain. “Well, Pangloss,” Candide ventured. “Do you still contend this is the best of all possible worlds now that the Senior Pastor and his wife have perished from the pandemic, Cunegonde has been roasted alive, you have been unjustly persecuted, I have been thrown out of the only home I ever knew, deported, abducted, tortured, threatened with castration, flown in a packing crate to Los Angeles, beaten by the police and imprisoned for the crime of stepping out of a cab? Is this where your positive visualization has gotten us?” Pangloss smiled and retrieved the tattered manuscript from his back pocket. “My boy, let me share something with you from Never Settle for Your Best Self.” Before he could open it, Candide punched him in the face.
The wretched pair spent a miserable night in the holding cell curled up on either end of the bench and in the morning, they were awakened by a dead-eyed brute of a guard who shouted, “Wake up, scumbags!” He opened the cell door and barked, “Let’s go.” They arose and shuffled down the bleak corridor after him like condemned men. “What new horrors await us?” wondered Candide.
They were led down a series of hallways and they both felt increasingly sick to their stomachs anticipating what was in store for them. At length, the guard opened a door and gestured for the two to go through. “Go!” Candide and Pangloss were shocked when they passed outside of the jail and found themselves in a back alley. When the door slammed behind them, they were utterly bewildered, and they raised their hands over their eyes to shield them from the sun. Suddenly they saw before them the apparition of Cunegonde standing in the street with a wan smile. Candide fainted dead away.
When Candide recovered, he found himself on a park bench with Pangloss and Cunegonde, who he now noticed was wearing a neck brace. “Is it really you? Is it really Miss Cunegonde I see before me, alive? Were you not roasted alive by the El Dorado fire as you lay in bed? “No, my sweet Candide, I was not,” she replied tearfully. “But Pangloss told me—” “After I wired the ransom for you in Mexico, my father found out and we had a huge fight. I ran away from home and—” “But the body they found in the mansion?” Pangloss queried. “My maid. She was so badly burned they couldn’t identify her and they assumed it was me.” Candide embraced her and wept for joy. “But what are you doing here?” he asked her. “Why did they let us go?”
“When I ran away from home, I was having some difficulties…I left home without my medication and—” “Medication?” Candide asked. “I take Xanax for anxiety and depression, and…well, after a couple of days without it, I started to feel really sick. A friend of mine said she knew where to get some without a prescription, and we wound up at a frat party at the university. Her friend gave me some non-prescription Xanax and then…well, things got a little bit blurry. I remember talking to this guy who was on the football team, having a beer…and then nothing…” Cunegonde’s voice trailed off, and a sickly look came over her face.
“I woke up naked, bruised and covered with vomit in a room upstairs at the frat house. The next day my friend warned me that there were several videos circulating online of three or four football players raping me as I lay unconscious. Not realizing that football players filming themselves violating drugged girls and sharing it widely over social media was customary rite of passage for them, I became quite upset. That’s when I tried to hang myself.”
“Oh, my sweet Cunegonde,” Candide said as he embraced her again. “Fortunately, the light fixture I attached the rope to collapsed, and I only strained my neck. My friend convinced me to go to the police so I told them the whole story and we showed them the videos. The police were very concerned about how this would impact the future of the fine young men who had raped me. The team was ranked number 14 in the nation, but a videotaped gang rape would certainly end any bowl hopes it was entertaining or at least consign them to one of the less prestigious bowl games like the Lubriderm Bowl.
The police repeatedly told me that the videos were somewhat blurry, and that prosecuting the popular gridiron stars would certainly be a traumatic experience for me. And then one day I was watching the news and I saw footage of you two being beaten and arrested by the police. I immediately went back to the police station, and I told them that their heroes would find themselves in the Lubriderm Bowl in January if you two weren’t released.
“Thank you for saving us!” Pangloss blurted out. “Is this your best of all possible worlds, Pangloss?” Candide demanded harshly. “Where rapists go free so they don’t have to play in the Lubriderm Bowl ?” The formerly winsome youth minister shrugged and replied, “It is what it is.” Just as he said that, a policeman came rushing out of the exit toward them. He barked, “You’re Pangloss?” at the startled philosopher. “Well, yes, I am, but—” “I have a warrant for your arrest,” the officer snapped. Cunegonde arose and stepped between Pangloss and the officer. “We had a deal,“ she said. “On the assaulting a police officer charge. My warrant is for the sexual assault of a Miss Cecily Wilkinson on May 31st at the Cathedral of the Holy Lamb’s Divine Florescence. Get up, Pangloss.”
Pangloss stood up abruptly, inadvertently knocking Cunegonde into the officer. The officer shoved Cunegonde roughly out of the way, and Candide jumped up, pushing the policeman back. Enraged, the cop charged Candide but Cunegonde punched him hard in the side of the head, sending him hurtling to the ground. The officer hit his head on the cement when he fell and remained motionless on the sidewalk as the stunned trio looked on. Just then some other policemen stepped out of the exit, and spotting their colleague unconscious on the deck, they pulled their revolvers out and started racing toward the three of them. They sprinted off in terror, just managing to round a corner before their pursuers caught up to them.
Rounding the corner, Candide saw with horror that they had turned into a dead end. But parked on one side of the street was a long tractor trailer attached to some kind of vehicle. The trailer had a door slightly ajar near its rear. “Come on,” Candide shouted to them, gesturing toward the trailer. They threw themselves through the door and Candide slammed it shut just as the police came around the corner. The cops frantically ran past the trailer and continued down the street. It was dark and cold in the trailer, and they couldn’t see much. Suddenly, they heard the roar of the vehicle’s mighty engine, and the trailer lurched into motion. “Yes!” Candide shouted, as the lucky three were transported out of immediate danger.
But as the trailer moved along the road, a faint light turned on, and as they shivered in the cold, they beheld a horrifying sight. Lining either side of the trailer all the way up to the front of the compartment, there were shelves rising up to the top, stacked four high with large, dark lumps. More careful examination of one of the closest lumps revealed a black, plastic body bag clearly containing an occupant. Cunegonde gasped. “It’s a morgue truck,” she whispered. “A what?” Pangloss shot back. “A FEMA morgue truck. They ran out of room in the hospitals and morgues for COVID victims.” “Listen,” Pangloss said, but Candide cut him off and seized him by the collar. “If you tell us one more word from Never Settle for Your Best Self, you’re going to wind up in one of those body bags!” Freeing himself from Candide’s grasp, he choked and replied,” I was just going to say we’re probably on our way to pick some more stiffs.” “We got to get out of here!” Candide cried.
But fate had already chosen their method of escape. As the thirty-foot trailer rode along the highway behind the FEMA vehicle, it attracted the attention of a number of people driving the same direction. A convoy of trucks and SUVs with huge blue “TRUMP” flags fluttering from behind their cabs and out their windows was rolling down the road and crept up on the rear of the trailer.
The red-capped drivers and passengers began feverishly communicating with cellphones and walkie talkies about the odd vehicle and its enormous trailer. It was clear to them that since the coronavirus was a government-inspired hoax or alternately a bio-weapon devised in a Chinese laboratory that produced a virus far less deadly than the common flu, the vehicle must be part of Deep State operation to instill fear in the local population and perpetuate the tyranny that had compelled freedom-loving Americans to wear face masks and practice social distancing.
As stalwart patriots, they were compelled to act. Accordingly, several of the lead trucks worked in tandem to run the vehicle and its trailer off the road. The vehicle and trailer rolled down a precipitous embankment, flipping over several times and finally bursting open like a pinata against a huge cement pillar that supported an overpass, spilling bodies, medical equipment and wreckage all over the side of the highway.
When Candide regained consciousness, he found himself buried under a mound of bodies, some of which had escaped the stifling confinement of their body bags in the crash and now were draping their pale, frightful appendages over his body. He screamed and jumped up, wiping some blood and other unidentifiable bodily fluids off his face. Not far off, he saw Pangloss freeing himself from another Twister pile of cadavers. “Where’s Cunegonde?” He shouted in a panic. They ran madly across the grisly crash site scattered with corpses, some still bagged and others sprawled out on the ground halfway out of theirs like zombie butterflies squirming out of their cocoons.
Finally, they caught sight of Cunegonde, lying on the ground near the body of an old woman and weeping. They raced up to her. “Cunegonde, are you all right?” Candide asked gently kneeling down next to her. “It’s my Aunt Gertrude,” she snuffled, nodding toward the old woman. “I didn’t even know she was sick.” “I’m so sorry, my sweet Cunegonde.” Candide and Pangloss glanced at each other, and as the formerly winsome youth minister was preparing to say something, Candide shot him a warning look. “Let’s go,” Cunegonde said resolutely as she arose abruptly. “Where?” Candide asked. “Gertie lived in a cottage out in the country. She gave me a key and invited me to stay with her whenever I wanted. We can stay there.”
The bloodied survivors cleaned themselves up as best they could at a nearby gas station restroom and caught a bus out to the country. Exhausted, they stumbled up the country road to Aunt Gertrude’s neglected but still charming cottage. Candide was delighted to see that it had a vegetable garden in the front yard. They entered and the three of them collapsed and slept like the dead for nearly a full day afterward.
After they all had recovered somewhat, Candide began tending to the vegetable garden. Cunegonde ordered some sourdough starter online and began baking savory, warm loaves of bread. Pangloss managed to buy some free range chicken from a local farmer and they had a celebratory dinner. “Everything has happened for the best in the best of all possible worlds,” Pangloss mused, raising his glass of Cabernet. “After all, if you had not been kicked out for the love of Ms. Cunegonde, had not been deported, kidnapped, tortured, threatened with castration, flown to Los Angeles in a packing crate, beaten and arrested by the police, forced to hide in a morgue truck and nearly killed in a horrific freeway accident, then you wouldn’t be here now eating free range chicken, fresh brussels sprouts and home-baked sourdough.” “Excellently observed,” answered Candide. “But we must cultivate our garden.” And then he punched Pangloss in the face.
As a prominent conservative Republican politician, I feel it is my duty to address the unpleasantness that occurred at the U.S. Capitol yesterday. It is critical for all of us to register our distress at what happened in a vague and oblique manner, taking care not to reflexively point fingers in anger at those who actually stormed and desecrated the building.
After all, it is not as though they carried banners or wore distinctive clothing or hats indicating who they were or what their possible agenda was. We should not assume that just because they came straight from President Trump’s afternoon harangue telling them to go to the Capitol and that “we’ve got to get rid of these weak congresspeople” that that somehow influenced their somewhat overzealous actions in attacking Capitol police officers, storming the building, raiding lawmakers’ offices, stealing furniture and other souvenirs, carrying weapons and Confederate flags inside and leaving threatening letters.
The disruption of the ceremonial reading of the electoral college votes yesterday was an unfortunate incident brought about by the mysterious divisiveness and hyper-partisanship we are experiencing in this country. We all need to tone down our rhetoric and stop treating one another as enemies the way the fake media, the enemies of the people, the radical left socialist anarchists and Satanic pedophiles who run the Democratic party have done.
While violence is never the answer and all deaths, injuries, destruction of property is regrettable, these things can happen when credulous patriots are inundated for months with phantasmagoric conspiracy theories that could have been conjured up by a slavering street preacher on a bad acid trip. But we cannot simply ignore the delusions of our fellow citizens who believe without any evidence in an enormous voter fraud conspiracy involving multiple state election officials of both parties, election workers all over the country, judges of both parties in some fifty different courts in five separate states (including some appointed by President Trump), the Attorney General of the United States, the media, Hillary Clinton, China, Hugo Chavez and former members of Menudo.
So I implore you. Please let us all duly phone in our our dismay, check off the platitude boxes on bipartisanship, collegiality, love of country, and then continue on exactly as before.
America-hating, radical leftist groups with poor hygiene are looking forward to terrorizing good, clean, conservative, white American citizens come January 20th, according to statements from various unshaven bolshevik traitors. “Joe Biden’s 47 years of posing as a centrist, moderate Democrat have finally paid off,” Ian McCormick, National Director of the Gay Socialist Jihadi Drum Circle announced Saturday morning.
“He’s given us the secret head nod in one of his speeches that is the command to march into the suburbs on January 20th and utterly eradicate the homes of hard-working, God-fearing, tax-paying, Constitution-loving real Americans. We’re going to burn their Bibles and put them into camps where they will be forced to study Mao’s Little Red Book and eat watery gruel with dirty chop sticks. After six months, the ones who can recite the book from memory and are free of lice and the crabs can join our drum circle.”
Hi, I’m Ted Cruz, United States Senator, and I’ll be teaching a two day Master Class in Sycophancy and Groveling on January 20th and 21st, 2021 at the Lubriderm-Citibank Arena in Dallas, Texas. You can take the course online or you can come in person and expose yourself to unmasked Coronavirus deniers while learning the secrets that will make you a world class sycophant in just two painless sessions.
But why learn from me? What are my credentials? Surely there are more debased, obsequious flunkies than me. Lindsey Graham, for instance, rolls in shit on Trump’s command. How could I possibly be a more cringing, servile lackey to President Trump than that? Let me explain.
President Trump grievously insulted my wife, my father and myself, and yet I continue to crawl on my belly like a whimpering dog to service President Trump’s erratic, narcissistic demands whenever and wherever he makes them. Can you imagine Lindsey Graham putting up with Trump calling his wife ugly and still cravenly doing his bidding as I do? Okay, Lindsey hasn’t found Mrs. Right just yet, but you see my point.
In addition to juxtaposing an unflattering photo of my wife with a pretty one of Melania in a tweet, Trump implied my father was buddies with Lee Harvey Oswald and may have been mixed up in the assassination of President Kennedy. On top of that, he accused me of “stealing” the win in the Iowa caucuses during the 2016 Republican Primaries by means of fraud. Does that sound familiar? Is that not the very thing I offered to go to the Supreme Court to argue on behalf of President Trump over the 2020 election?
How can a person whose wife was publicly humiliated, whose father was slimed with a heinous smear, and who was himself accused of the crime of election fraud, turn around and peddle his wretched soul off to the very miscreant who ultimately crushed him in the primaries and dragged his family into his personal psychological torture bunker just for chuckles?
You really have to be a person with a pudding-like inner core, utterly devoid of any convictions or integrity and so desperate for success that you will gladly oblige your most bitter enemy in a flamboyant, graphic display of self-abasement that would make a macabre vignette in a Hieronymus Bosch triptych. If you can do that while still pretending to be a man of principle who waves the Bible and the Constitution around in public a lot, you’ll have something really special. I can help you get there. See you in January.
Celebrated film maker Woody Allen has been abducted from his Manhattan townhouse by a gang of fans of his older work. The kidnappers issued a communique Monday morning to law enforcement and the media stating their intentions. It reads as follows:
Whereas Woody Allen’s films have grown more stale than the air in the doomed Russian submarine Kursk in its final hours over the last forty years, we, the fans of his older films, vow not to release him until he signs a pledge not to make any more movies for the duration of his natural life or until the expiration of my two-for-one meal coupon for Nate Zipsky’s Burger Emporium, whichever comes first. We take this extreme measure not with any sense of existential dread, but rather with a gnawing anxiety that absent our actions Mr. Allen would even now be contriving another screenplay on his Olympa SM-3 typewriter in which a magician uses a Chinese cabinet to facilitate the unseemly relationship between a neurotic older man and a nubile, innocent blond waif with an inexplicable taste for the music of Cole Porter. Duty demanded that we act to preserve the legacy of his great earlier films. Are not those who stand idly by while crimes against art are committed complicit? And if not, shouldn’t they at least be compelled to sing the Dutch National Anthem while standing naked and being pelted with anchovies by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir? Thus far Mr. Allen has refused to sign the pledge but he is becoming more pliable by the hour after being forced to perform isometric exercises to the music of Mitch Miller. We feel confidant that he will render his John Hancock soon and spare the film world the further tarnishing of his majestic oeuvre. For this we expect no plaudits, although we wouldn’t balk at a weekend at the Ritz-Carlton with a couple of Swedish airline stewardesses.
President Trump’s legal team will be holding a press conference that will precede a highly anticipated cockfight at a yet to be announced abandoned factory in Philadelphia on Friday. A sudden change of venue was required after the Hideaway Motor Court Motel backed out of offering its ballroom as the site of the event for unexplained reasons. Rudy Giuliani, the stalwart captain of Trump’s “Elite Strike Force Team,” insists that this time his crew will share the shocking, explosive evidence of massive voter fraud that handed Joe Biden the presidency that it failed to produce in two previous press conferences.
Those press conferences featured incoherent conspiracy theories and other attention grabbing peculiarities that the strike force will be hard-pressed to top. The first one was held in the dreary parking lot of a landscaping company on the outskirts of Philadelphia whose neighbors included a crematorium and Fantasy Island Adult Book Store. In the second one, Giuliani’s incomprehensible conspiracies were upstaged by the black hair dye oozing down the side of his face.
With the certification of Biden’s victory in the key states of Pennsylvania, Michigan and Georgia and the wandering attention of the public, the strike force felt it needed to up the ante and offer other inducements to generate interest in its faltering legal efforts. The added attraction of drugged up gamecocks slashing away at each other and spilling their blood in the dirt leaped out at America’s Mayor when he discovered the match was pending and he shrewdly seized the opportunity to showcase the strike team’s legal work by offering its presentation as an opening act. Giuliani also surmised that the likely availability of illegal Oxycontin to fans at the cockfight would make his conspiracy theories easier to grasp.
President Trump and his fellow Republicans have strong feelings about the massive voter fraud they believe robbed him of his rightful reelection to a second term. They feel strongly that it definitely happened and that it was really, really bad voter fraud in different states run by both Republicans and Democrats. They feel so strongly about it that they filed dozens of lawsuits in five different states based primarily on the super strong strength of those feelings. But judges from both political parties in all five states, while appreciative of the mighty and powerful strength of the Republicans’ feelings on the matter, have been asking the plaintiffs to present evidence to support those feelings.
But the evidence has been underwhelming to judges, who tend to have training in legal matters. A Trump campaign lawsuit filed in Arizona featured sworn affidavits that included the sentence “I believe my vote for Donald J. Trump and Michael Pence was not counted.” However, when asked under cross-examination in court, “Do you have any reason to believe your vote wasn’t counted?” witnesses replied “No.” Trump campaign lawyer on the case Kory Langhoffer helpfully offered that “This is not about fraud,” even though President Trump is shrieking fraud on Twitter every day and his howling Arizona minions are on the streets with “Stop the Steal” signs seemingly at odds with Langhoffer’s subdued courtroom statement.
Continuing with the no fraud theme, Trump campaign lawyer Jonathan Goldstein, when asked by Judge Richard Haaz in Pennsylvannia, “Are you claiming there is any fraud in connection with these 592 disputed ballots?” replied, “To my knowledge at present, no.”
But the Republicans made their biggest splash in the courtroom in Michigan where they unveiled 230 pages of sworn affidavits from poll watchers alleging irregularities in the city of Detroit, including a loud public address system, mean looks from poll workers, a big guy who seemed intimidating, and too many votes for the Democratic candidate in a predominantly African-American city where Biden won 94 percent of the vote. When asked if Republican poll watchers had attended a walk-through training session of ballot counting procedures in October, the plaintiffs’ lawyers said they had not.
The courtroom debacles have not daunted Republicans’ very strong feelings about voter fraud, however, and they are sure to continue pouring out their hearts in courts throughout the five states for the forseeable future.
President Trump is cowering in the White House since the election was called for Joe Biden on Saturday, too emotionally fragile to acknowledge the resounding loss the voters of the country have dealt him. Apart from putting in an appearance to honor veterans Wednesday, the Commander in Chief has been hunkered down on his presidential sofa, watching TV, firing off tweets alleging widespread voter fraud without evidence, and calling allies desperately seeking some sort of deus ex machina that will somehow turn the election around.
The President has said nothing about the escalating coronavirus pandemic, that hit a new daily infection record of 145,000 cases in a single day yesterday, has surged to more than 10 million cases in the United States and taken the lives of 240,000 Americans. Vice President Mike Pence, the nominal head of the Coronavirus Task Force, has not addressed the explosion of cases and the White House has failed to make all the reports of the task force available to the public.
Meanwhile, the president continues to shriek “fraud” on Twitter with no evidence just as he did when he accused Ted Cruz of fraud in the 2016 Iowa Caucus, and when he claimed that 3-5 million illegal immigrants voted in general election of 2016, and when he claimed Barack Obama’s birth certificate was a fake. Because that’s what he does. He lies. He is a liar. Or as much of the media like to say, he “falsely claims” things. Over and over and over.
