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satire

Trump And Twitter Walk Into A Bar

twitter-company-statistics
~ 100 days @realDonaldTrump. Congratulations! What can I get you?

~ There’s nothing like a shot of tequila – believe me.

~ No sooner said than done.

~ Have them leave the bottle. We’ll be here awhile.

~ We will?

~ Yes. I do like Twitter.

~ It’s appreciated.

~ Short and sweet. If you can’t say it in a few words …

~ It isn’t worth saying?

~ You GOT it. I knew I liked this place.

~ The fewer the better.

~ I’ll tell you something about politicians.

~ Yes?

~ They love using a lot of words.

~ I know it.

~ They use words to hide things, not to tell things.

~ If you can’t say it in three sentences …

~Then why use four.

~ Politicians use a swamp of words.

~ And I’m draining the SWAMP.

~ Well, maybe not quite yet.

~ Trust me – I never knew there would be so much of it.

~ There’s no way of bombing it?

~ Not when I’m living there. AND I’m STILL living there.

~ Yes, indeed.

~There was talk of IMPEACHING my ass.

~ Wasn’t that the fake news?

~ And the real NEWS, too. SOBs

~ Guess you fooled them.

~ Part of the job of doing business.

~ So maybe we’ll drink about the next 100 days.

~ Hell if I know what’s going to happen.

The Emperor Has Too Many Clothes

colq1

 

Brigadier O’Donald decided that it would be a grand day to become Admiral of the Fleet – Lord High Admiral if he chose the hat with cockade and plume.

Nodding jauntily in the air, the plume put on an impressive display, as he either agreed, or disapproved, with a toss, or a shake, of his head. The dancing ostrich feathers would add a dashing air as he boarded his flagship and, with just the right mixture of stringent authority and well- tempered geniality, moved in imperious sweeps among the ranks of ratings on the aft deck.

He would, of course, be extra careful about the pitfalls awaiting a man with ornate dress sword and scabbard, among the steep steps and narrow companionways.

******

Wednesday was khaki day for Brigadier O’Donald.

It was the day set aside to remind him of the loyalty he must always retain from his men, for what was a leader without his troops? And as a treat – for really, the dull brown did not make for a very striking appearance – the would chose the tank commander’s uniform.

With its wide web belt and shiny black holster on the hip, flap unsnapped to reveal the butt of a wicked forty-five. And of course the black leather gloves, as befits a man at the controls of so much power, and the steel helmet polished to a mirror-shine.

The riding crop? Ah, the riding crop was debatable.

******

Today would have a parade. Massed men at attention with stiffly held rifles and fixed bayonets.

Brigadier O’Donald would have to chose carefully to represent his awesome power and responsibility. Cavalry boots are a must, raising half-way up the calf and resounding with silver spurs, steel-tipped toes and heels.

Then would come crisp black trousers, billowing majestically around the thighs, and kept up with a wide leather belt. He took care that each red stripe reaching the length of each leg was as straight as an arrow.

His blue tunic, he decided, would have only muted decorations and the minimum of gold braid entwined about his shoulders. He was – after all – a fighting general.

******

A civic reception is the time when Brigadier O’Donald will be on close display.
He believes he is at his most effective  when draped completely in white, save Рof course Рfor his highly polished black dress shoes (and, in truth, he favoured white even here, but feared such footwear was a trifle effeminate). White is striking by itself, but well he knew it made the perfect background for his medals and decorations.

He has trouble deciding upon which colour sash to wear across his chest, but finally chooses the emerald green – the reception is in the public gardens. He dons his silver-visored cap, and graces his bosom with the blue Clustered Palm of Valour; the diamond centered Star of Courage; the gold Pyramid of the Oaken Grove; and seven rows of bars and campaign medals.
There are no visiting Heads of State, so he need not be too brilliant.

DE

(image)http://images.csmonitor.com/csmarchives/2011/02/COLQ1.jpg?alias=standard_600x400

 

Joebama Walk Into A Bar

gilbert-scott-bar

~ What’s your poison, Joe?

~ I think it’s a rum night.

~ Any reason?

~ It’ll encourage me to give him a rum for his money.

~ Joe. You know you’ve got to stop.

~ Yeh, Boss. In January.

~ Messing with his head isn’t going to do any good.

~ It can’t do any harm.

~ True – we’re past that.

~ Gotta have a bit of fun.

~ Hillary could use a bit of fun.

~ I’m not a magician, Boss.

~ True.

~ Though I have a few riffs on The Glass Ceiling surviving Kristallnacht.

~ Joe!

~ Too soon?

~ Not even this time next year.

~ OK.

~ I’ll pretend it’s the rum talking, Joe.

~ OK. I’ll stick to dealing with the 45th.

~ My successor.

~ The old Pussy-Grabber-in-Chief.

~ Joe.

~ I’ve put a few “For a good time, call – ” notes in the washrooms.

~ Joe.

~ I left Melina’s phone number.

~ Joe!

~ Gotta have fun, Barack. There’s only so much rum.

~ True.

~ And I haven’t even started on Pence.

~ Joe!

DE

(image)http://www.stpancraslondon.com/media/1640/gilbert-scott-bar.jpg?anchor=center&mode=crop&quality=90&width=1120&format=jpg&slimmage=true&rnd=131129703970000000&height=549

~

Hillary And Trump Walk Into A Bar ~ The Election Closes In

lafnqroz

[It is the countdown, folks – so count along.]

~ What’s your poison, Donald?

~ I know what your poison is, Hillary.

~ What’s that?

~ You drink the Kool-Aid.

~ You’re the one who mixes it, Donald. I don’t touch the stuff.

~ It makes you nasty.

~ I’m starting to think you have a fixation on nasty women.

~ I like women.

~ You like to do things to women, Donald. It’s a big difference.

~ They love it.

~ They’d love to let you know how much they love it – I’ll grant you that.

~ So, you get all the women beating up on me, you think it will make you win?

~ A lot more than that is going to make me win.

~ What’s that?

~ You, Donald. You being you. Really, all I have to do is stand there and be superior.

~ They love what I say – the people you help crush. They just love it. Believe me.

~ They love it, Donald.¬† They love hearing it. But they look at you and they see something they don’t want.

~ What?

~ They don’t want a president who will take them down with him. That’s self-preservation, Donald. Something you’re good at.

~ There’s nothing wrong with looking out after yourself.

~ There’s something wrong about only looking after yourself.

~ You’re kinda hawt when you’re a know-it-all. We could have been quite a team. Taken over the country.

~ Team?

~ You know Рmarried.  I would have got you out of that pantsuit.

~ We would have to get something more than a marriage certificate.

~ What?

~ A murder/suicide pact.

DE

(image)http://www.madhyamam.com/en/sites/default/files/lafnqroz.jpg

Amazing Self-Help Reading Material Not Easily Found

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(image) http://www.artquest.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/pamphlets-shot_560_373_s_c1.jpg

 

Poetry From The Light Fixture is an illuminating book of verse from an electrifying author. The poet in question is a questioning poet, quarrying for answers in the rich loam of Earth’s mysteries. The instinct of a pollen-laden honeybee, coupled with the dynamic curiosity of a fluffy kitten, allow this poet to plumb the depths of inarticulate sensitivity, and give to us, grateful readers everywhere, proof positive that, yes, indeed, here is a mind that actually thinks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Security Through Fat
is yours for the asking. Never again allow people to to ridicule you because you’re a slob – you’re only a slob in their eyes. Security Through Fat will teach you that obesity is natural, layers of fat keep you happy and keep you pure. Fat means prosperity, means that you are successful in life. Eating keeps your mind off your problems. Fat people are jolly and fun to be with. Fat people are good for industry. Fat people keep our society going. Security Through Fat will open up a whole new world of pleasure and prestige for you.

And, while you’re at it, pick up Sex Really Is Dirty – free for a limited time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There Is No Death, you do not have to worry any longer. All these years – yes, even centuries – men have been afraid to die, and it has just been wasted time, because no one ever dies. Yes, There Is No Death, it has all been a gigantic hoax formed by various religions to make money. Death be not proud because death does not exist. You, too, can now do whatever you want: play with fire, race your car, make love to a rattlesnake – there is nothing to stop you because There Is No Death. Take that money you were saving for a casket, and join our club today.

There Is No Death delivered monthly – forever.

DE

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