April 28, 2017

"The hackers were paid by the Trump organisation, but were under the control of Vladimir Putin[ ]"

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2017/apr/28/trump-russia-intelligence-uk-government-m16-kremlin

If that's true, and intelligence confirms this....holy balls.

And it needs to be shouted from the rooftops.

Why do I think that tidbit--and the possibility that it was confirmed--is what caused all the grim faces from the Senate Intelligence Committee after their FBI briefings a couple of months ago?

That's major, major, major stuff.

April 10, 2017

So you see the guy across the street viciously beating his wife.

Because you think time is of the essence, rather than just calling police, you decide you need to confront the guy yourself.

But before you go, you decide to call the guy's best friend (who you yourself are in debt to).

The guy's best friend calls the guy, and he runs out of the house before you get there.

And when you get to the guy's house, instead of checking on the wife, you just decide to kick over the guy's trash cans by the curb. To send a message.

And the next day you see the guy beating his wife again.

But it's okay. You don't need to do anything else.

Because you showed you were strong and decisive.

And that you sent a message.

March 23, 2017

LAW AND ORDER: DEVIN NUNES UNIT.

Title card: POLICE DEPARTMENT, 9:12 AM

(CLANG-CLANG)

(Interior: Interview room. A woman, MARY ADAMS, sits at the table. She is the housekeeper of DANIEL TUTTLE, a man suspected by police of hacking another man to death with a three foot machete. Interviewing ADAMS is DETECTIVE DEVIN NUNES and the CAPTAIN.)

DETECTIVE NUNES: So you're telling me that you witnessed Mr. Tuttle bury the murder weapon in his back yard, just to the right of the big oak tree?

MARY ADAMS: Yes. Absolutely. I know what saw.

CAPTAIN (to DETECTIVE NUNES): This is great stuff. I think we've got this guy just where we want him. Now we just have to carefully make sure all our ducks are in a row, cross our Ts and dot our Is, and then make our move.

DETECTIVE NUNES: Gotcha, Captain.

Title Card: TUTTLE RESIDENCE, 9:47 am

(CLANG-CLANG)

(Exterior: DETECTIVE NUNES, alone, approaches DANIEL TUTTLE's front door and knocks on it. TUTTLE opens, wearing a robe with a cigarette in his mouth.)

DANIEL TUTTLE: Can I help you?

DETECTIVE NUNES (flashing badge): Detective Nunes, Homicide. I just want to tell you that your housekeeper has informed us that she witnessed you burying the murder weapon right over there in your backyard, just to the right of that oak tree....(pointing).....right, right over there. That tree. Riiiiiight under there.

DANIEL TUTTLE: So....you have a search warrant or something?

DETECTIVE NUNES: Nope.

DANIEL TUTTLE: Well, are you here to arrest me?

DETECTIVE NUNES: Nah.

DANIEL TUTTLE: I always knew Mary was no good. I feel....somewhat vindicated.

DETECTIVE NUNES: Well....see ya! (Walks away, whistling)

Title card: POLICE DEPARTMENT, 10:05 AM

(CLANG-CLANG)

(Interior: The CAPTAIN's office. The CAPTAIN sits at his desk, and DETECTIVE NUNES enters the office.)

DETECTIVE NUNES: So I went ahead and told Tuttle about where we know the murder weapon was buried.

CAPTAIN: You did what?

DETECTIVE NUNES: Yeah, just figured I'd give him a heads up on everything that's going on.

CAPTAIN: Wha-

DETECTIVE NUNES (surprised): Wait, should I not have done that?

CAPTAIN: Why-

DETECTIVE NUNES: Oh, oh well. Sorry. My bad. Oops!

CAPTAIN: How--

DETECTIVE NUNES: Anywho, I'm starving, so I'm going to call it a day and grab myself a bite to eat. Catch you tomorrow!

CAPTAIN: Ahh......

(Fade to Black)

Title Card: EXECUTIVE PRODUCER: DICK WOLF

March 16, 2017

Regarding the tea leaf reading of Diane Feinstein's body language after the Comey meeting yesterday.

Have you ever been in a situation in your life where you have a suspicion that something bad has gone on, that all signs and evidence point to something bad having gone on, but before you receive definitive proof of that bad thing, it's still just theoretical and out there in the ether?

And then you finally receive proof positive confirmation that what you've suspected all along is in fact the truth, and it just slams you like a huge blow? Even though you've been proven right, because of what has just been proven right is such a downer, instead of wanting to gloat, you just feel absolutely dejected because it proves the worst in people? That you'd rather be proven wrong because the truth is so much worse of a reflection of people?

I honestly think the Senators in that meeting received proof positive confirmation that the person who is the sitting President of the United States colluded with a foreign power in order to influence the US presidential election. And that is horrible and that is unprecedented in this country's history because it weakens us. Our national sovereignty and independence was compromised to the core.

There's no reason for Diane Feinstein to be smiling or feel smug about that. There's no reason for any of us to smile or feel smug about that. It's the truth, the utterly depressing truth.

When the US House committee began to vote to start impeachment proceedings against Richard Nixon following Watergate, some of the members voting had tears in their eyes as they voted yes. The tears were not for Richard Nixon. The tears were due to the gravity of the situation and the sobering truth and undertaking they were being called to carry.

February 16, 2017

The inherent flaw in the "Trump will bring on the progressive revolution!" argument:

The argument that Trump winning is a good thing because it will only serve to inspire true liberals to rally and bring about a progressive revolution--basically what is being championed by people like Susan Sarandon--is an ultimately flawed one. Even if it is well-intentioned, I don't see it succeeding.

Why is it so flawed? Because of who Donald Trump is. The reasons that Donald Trump is so loathsome and so offensive and so odious is not merely a matter of partisan politics or ideology. Rather, it's the inherent nature of the man--his narcissism, his megalomania, his vindictiveness, his impulsive anger, and yet his paradoxical incompetence or outright refusal to delve in deeper to various issues in order to come up with solutions on his own. All of these attributes are not merely the markings of a bad conservative or a bad Republican. Instead, they're simply markings of a bad human being and leader, period. Democrats would be just as ill served to have Donald Trump as their leader just as much as Republicans.

Donald Trump is such a horrifically flawed leader and human being that he pretty much makes anyone else a more attractive alternative.

Anybody.

Right now, America and even Democrats would be willing to suffer through four years of President Mike Pence if it means Donald Trump implodes in flames and crashes and burns.

Right now, George W. Bush--a man who lead the country into an unnecessary and destabilizing war and who oversaw an economic collapse--is viewed as a more palatable alternative than Donald Trump. George W. Bush. Yes, really. George W. Bush. That's astonishing yet sadly the truth, that George W. Bush, who merely eight years ago we all thought was the true bottom of the barrel when it came to US Presidents, is no longer the standard bearer for terrible leadership. And yet, it's pretty much a sad reality. Even as terrible as George W. Bush was, Donald Trump is indeed worse and a greater threat to our long-term stability as a country.

So if the overall effect of the Trump Presidency is to grab America by the neck and hold it there until it cries "Uncle!", whatever follows next--sparing possibly a President George Zimmerman--would be viewed by the public as a better option. And it wouldn't necessarily be Bernie Sanders who comes to our rescue. Or even Hillary Clinton. It could be someone like Mike Pence, who could still impose a lot of long term damage to the country minus the inherently dangerous Mutually Assured Destruction element that Donald Trump has brought us.

Those on the hard, hard left--as admirably principled as they may be--fail to see the forest through the trees in the situation. Not everyone shares their worldview, even if maybe they ought to. Not everyone will be rushing to have Donald Trump replaced by a progressive, ideologically pure icon of the left. There are a lot of people who will settle for anything to avoid the seemingly certain death Donald Trump will bring to this country.

That is why it was a foolish, short-sighted mistake to think that we'd rather deliver the country to the clutches of Donald Trump then have another four years of moderate, left of center leadership in the form of Hillary Clinton. Yes, the entire country will soon be screaming to be saved from Donald Trump. We're already starting to get that sense already. But not everyone will be calling for a true-blue progressive revolution, even if they ought to be doing so. So while there's a chance that type of revolution would come around, I wouldn't necessarily keep your hopes up that it will.

February 14, 2017

**EXCLUSIVE** White House releases transcript of telephone call between Flynn and Russian ambassador

Note: On December 29, 2016, former National Security Advisor Michael Flynn spoke with the Russian Ambassador to the United States, Sergei Kislyak. The conversation took place shortly after President Obama had ordered additional sanctions on the Russian Federation over what they believe was Russia's interference in the U.S. political process. In light of recent events and accusations surrounding the administration, President Trump, and General Flynn, the White House has made the decision to release the entire transcript of the conversation between General Flynn and Ambassador Kislyak so that the media (FAKE NEWS!) is not able to distort the events that actually took place and falsely libel former or current members of the Trump Administration. The conversation, in full:

(Dial tone, followed by three rings and a pick up)

Sergei Kislyak (SK), Russian Ambassador to the United States: Hello?

Michael Flynn (MF): Hello, I'd like to place an order to go. I'll take one extra large, half cheese, half pepperoni--

SK: Who is this?

MF: A large sausage, some stuffed cheesy bread--

SK: Who is this?

MF: A medium veggie lovers, just because, you know there's just always going to be someone who asks for that--

SK: Who is this that is speaking?

MF: This is Michael Flynn. This is Domino's pizza, right?

SK: No, this is not pizza place. This is Sergei Kislyak, Russian ambassador.

MF: Oh. Oh, I'm sorry.

SK: It okay. Don't worry. I get this wrong number a lot. People call up, ask for pizza, it be very annoying. I think there is one number different.

MF: You know, the same thing happens to me? Except for me, it's Wendy's. People call up and keep asking for Wendy's. Which doesn't even make sense, because Wendy's doesn't even deliver, so why would anyone be calling them?

SK: You right, you right, it makes no sense at all.

(Five second silent period)

MF: So....

SK: Yeah....

MF: Hey, did you see Moana?

SK: Actually, yes, I did. I take grandchild. Lovely film. I love, who he called?

MF: The Rock.

SK: Yes! The Rock.

MF: Do you smell...

SK/MF (together): ...what The Rock is cooking!

(Laughter, followed by another five second silent period)

SK: Say, Michael, while I have you on the phone--

MF: Yes?

SK: Well, I like to talk to you about san-

MF: The San Francisco 49ers? Bad, bad season for them. Looks like Chip Kelly's out the door. Maybe the same for Kapernick. But hey, if they draft well enough--

SK: No, I really like to talk about san-

MF: Sangria wine? Great for parties. Made some for our family Christmas get together this year. The key is to get good juicing oranges. Valencias, not navels--

SK: No, no, no, no wine. I mean san--

MF: Santa Claus? What did Santa Claus bring this year? Well, I'll just say that somebody got themselves a new X-Box........

SK: Sanctions! I talk about new sanctions President Obama put on Russia today!

MF: Whoa, whoa! Hold on there, partner. I've got to be very clear here. Donald Trump's not the president yet. So whatever decisions President Obama makes are his, and I can't comment on them, nor can I make any promises right now on whether or not we'll be able to lift them once we get to office. You understand that doing that right now would be highly inappropriate and probably illegal, right?

SK: Yes, yes, certainly. Don't worry about it. Besides, I'm sure my boss will probably just throw out weird statement like, "It okay. I no expel US diplomats in retaliation."

MF: Of course, and then my guy would be like, "Great move on delay by Putin. I always knew he was very smart!"

SK: He probably Tweet it!

(More laughter, followed by another five second silent period)

MF: You know who I should probably mention that I'm having this conversation with? Mike Pence.

SK: Mike Pence? He man everyone ignore at Republican convention, right?

MF: Yeah, but he's just a swell guy. Just a really great guy. And of course I should always mention everything I do to him so that he has his input. I mean, since he's going to be Vice President and all.

SK: Yes, yes. Of course. But you know?

MF: What?

SK: It the holidays right now. He relax, he on vacation. You tell him now, chances are he forget. Very annoying.

MF: Hmm, you might be right. So you're saying maybe I should wait a little bit?

SK: Just little bit. Maybe.....maybe wait until Valentine's Day. You know, say it with chocolates.

MF: That's not a bad idea.

SK: Or maybe even Easter, or Fourth of July, or Labor Day....Oh, I know!

MF: What?

SK: You tell him on one-year anniversary of today! December 29, 2017! You take him to dinner, look in his eye, and say, "Mike Pence, you very special to me. I love to tell you everything. Like one year ago today I talk to Russian ambassador."

MF: Oh, that's perfect. Sergei, you are an absolute genius!

SK: Oh, stop! I just....know people.

MF: It's going to be a blast working with you.

SK: But you no worry about this upcoming year. US and Russia, Putin and Trump, they going to be great friends. We no mention at all how Trump owe so, so much money to Russia businessmen. Nor we mention time he pay for prostitute to pee on bed.

MF: Well, thanks, that's very good to know.

SK: And we certainly no mention about time when Trump in Moscow and Russian mafia take him and force him to be hit man for them and kill those four people.

MF: Well, yeah, that just goes without saying.

SK: Well, I better let you go now. Sounds like you have pizza you want to eat.

MF: Yeah, yeah, you're probably right.

SK: Oh, wait, Michael. One more thing.

MF: Yes.

SK: Sangria recipe. You must give it to me, okay?

MF: Oh, of course. You won't regret it, trust me.

SK: We all have it together one day. You, me, Donald, Vlad. Don't forget to invite Rex. He love drinking with Vlad. They do shots, crazy stuff happen, lots of people die. Very much fun. You never forget it.

MF: Sounds like a plan. Talk to you soon, Sergei.

SK: Da svidahnia, Michael.

(Phone disconnects, end of call.)

February 3, 2017

You guys are getting it all wrong. It's actually called the Bowling Greens Massacre.

The Bowling Greens was the name of an extremely successful bowling team from Mason City, Iowa comprised of four brothers: Earl Green, Bob Green, Phil Green and Billy Green. Together, they formed a seemingly unstoppable powerhouse in the North Central Iowa Summer Bowling League that won six consecutive league championships from 1949 through 1954.

However, what happened on the fateful evening of June 27, 1955 would shake the close-knit bowling community of Cerro Gordo County forever.

It was a tragedy of unmistakable proportions. The four brothers were scheduled to compete in the famed Shibboleth Open that night. All four men planned to arrive at the Mason City Lanes separately an hour before the tournament was slated to begin. Yet for reasons that challenge the faith in the almighty of many, God choose to pick all four men off one by one in most cruel of fashions.

It was Phil Green who was the first victim. While driving his milk delivery truck, a cat ran out in front of him. As his widow would attest, her husband was an avid animal lover who could not stand to see any creature in peril. He quickly swerved his truck to avoid the creature, but was unable to avoid the stately oak tree that would greet the front of his truck. Police announced Phil dead at the scene.

Next to go was Billy Green. A highly superstitious man, Billy had bowled seven consecutive games over 250, which he attributed to the fact that he had neglected to shave on the first day of his lucky streak. As such, Billy had developed quite a finely coifed beard during the time. However, as he refused to be beholden to slovenliness, he insisted that the beard remained neatly trimmed with a pair of scissors he kept by his sink. After taking a shower before preparing to head off to the lanes, Billy walked towards the mirror and grabbed his scissors. What he forgot was the discarded remnants of his bar of Lifebuoy directly below him. Maneuvering to trim his beard, he inadvertently stepped on the soap on the floor. He lost his footing, and the scissors in his hand were rammed directly into his throat. Undoubtedly his last moments bleeding out were most painful and he likely cursed the facial hair that up to this point had given him so much good fortune.

Unlike their brothers Phil and Billy, Bob Green and Earl Green both made it to the Mason City Lanes that evening, but they would not escape the night's fate. Earl arrived first, and not seeing any of his brothers at the time, proceeded to start a practice round of his own to hone his game. While clutching a can of Heileman's Old Style in his right hand, on the sixth frame he approached the ball return to take his lucky ball that he had nicknamed Marsha. As luck would have it though, while shampooing the rug, the alley's maintenance man had ripped a seam in the carpet that morning right below the ball return. Unlike Billy's fatal fall, Earl's stumble over the shorn rug was quite mild. But it was enough to send his Old Style flying toward the ball return, soaking the mechanism. Not one for expertise on electronic machinery, Earl didn't see the harm in reaching for Marsha as the suds bubbled and fizzed on the return. What awaited him was a shock, quite literally a deadly one that was powerful enough to stop his heart. People around him called for help and rushed to his side, but it would not turn out well.

In a cruel twist of fate, Bob Green arrived at the Mason City Lanes on the opposite eastern side of the building, as opposed to the western side he usually came in. As such, he missed the legion of paramedics wheeling his brother Earl out the door on the western side in preparation for what would be an ultimately futile ride to the hospital. Not seeing his brothers there, and being rather hungry at that, Bob proceeded over to the lane's concession stand and ordered himself his regular choice of a hotdog with fries. Unbeknownst to Bob, however, that week the lane had ceased its orders from its regular hot dog supplier, Walter and Sons Family Farms, and had instead gone with the more economic option in Stenson's Pork and Meat. Stenson's had a notorious reputation of trying to lower the overhead by cutting quality control, and in what would blossom to a statewide pandemic, it released upon the unsuspecting public dozens of trichinosis laden frankfurthers. Bob was naturally unaware of this fact, and finished the dog and the fries in good order. What first he suspected as nothing but a routine visit to the lane's lavatory ultimately manifested itself into something way more horrid. Guests at the lane standing outside the door were horrified by the sound of Bob's projectile vomiting echoing against the tiled walls. Eventually, the lane's manager mustered the bravery to burst through the restroom door, only to find Bob splayed on the floor, completely unresponsive and covered in his own half-digested stomach contents.

By the scheduled 8:00 pm start time of the 1955 Shiboletth Open, none of the Bowling Greens remained alive on this earth.

The community was rocked to its core. The remaining North Central Iowa Summer Bowling League season was cancelled, and the pall of the death of the Bowling Greens refusing to leave, it officially disbanded the following year. The entire city was awash in mourning, unable to comprehend the unspeakable tragedy that had befallen four of its proudest citizens. Perhaps a silver lining to the story might be found in the fact that a local doo wop band, Frankie Ford and the Kickers, penned a memorial anthem entitled "The Ballad of the Bowling Greens", which rose to the top of the charts in the Midwest and provided the group with notable but brief time in the spotlight before internal squabbling befell the band.

Officially, the deaths of all four of the Bowling Greens were ruled accidents--cruel, horrific and freakish but entirely explainable accidents. Some of the Bowling Greens contemporaries in the league, however, still subscribe to a much more nefarious theory. It is their heartfelt belief that what is known today as the Bowling Greens Massacre was not merely a series of horribly unfortunate events, but rather in fact premeditated foul play by the Bowling Greens' most heated rival, the Simpson Strikes. The Bowling Greens had defeated the Simpson Strikes by a mere two points in the 1954 league championship, and the Simpson Strikes emphatically protested that the Bowling Greens had incurred numerous technical violations during the tournament. The league--which the Simpson Strikes believed to be heavily influenced by the luster the Bowling Greens had provided over the years--refused to overturn the results, and many claimed that John Simpson (the team's senior member) had vowed revenge against the Bowling Greens at all costs.

To this day, rumors swirl that it was John's cat set loose upon Phil Green's truck; that he had placed the soap under Billy Green's sink; that he had paid off the lane's maintenance man to rip a hole underneath Earl Green's ball return; and that he had convinced the lane's management to switch to the poisoned Stenson's hot dog that Bob Green consumed.

But all that remains merely as rumors, rumors spread and possible exaggerated down through the generations, and authorities have repeatedly denied that the death of the Bowling Greens was nothing other than a terrible twist of fate. But whether it be merely a horrible cascade of entirely coincidental carnage, or cold hearted murder most devious, many in North Central Iowa to this very day shudder at the mere mention of the phrase that has come to memorialize the unspeakable tragedy: The Bowling Greens Massacre.

Now, why would Kellyanne Conway be talking about this? To be honest.....I have no fucking clue.

January 24, 2017

I feel violated. We should all feel violated.

On the National Day of Patriotic Devotion, also known as the day in which Donald Trump was inaugurated as the 45th President of the United States, also known as last Friday, I chose not to watch any of the festivities. I chose to look at the day without a respect of what was going on in Washington, focusing only on how the sun rose in the east and set in the west, just like any other day I've lived in my thirty-something years on God's green earth.

Instead, on that particular day, I took my kids to the local fair, where they rode rides and saw farm animals and played games. I did all I could to keep the specter of what was going on out of my mind. I was only briefly reminded of things while passing by a television in a fair booth keeping track of festivities. (The odd, jarring sight of the titushky anarchists setting a limousine on fire during the motorcade parade briefly had me thinking a major breaking story had just occurred, but a check on my phone confirmed nothing particularly abnormal had actually taken place.) But watching my kids riding the swing ride, holding their little stuffed animals they had won at the booth, smiling and laughing--it managed to take me out of the greater, darker shadow and into my own little peaceful moment, if only for a bit.

But reality came a'callin, and eventually I knew I had to slowly ease myself into the undeniably unfortunate situation where we all find ourselves. I watched some of the footage of the marches on Saturday, where my mother and my sisters had traveled to participate. I forced myself to view the Madman's self-serving and utterly bizarre "speech" before the CIA. Eventually, for posterity's sake I decided I needed to see the Inaugural Address that I had boycotted watching live and which my father and many here at DU had labeled extremely dark and disturbing. First, I just read the text, but last night I mustered up the fortitude to actually watch footage online as the Madman's stilted, insincere delivery can't be fully replicated by printed words alone. Understandably disgusted, I then immediately watched President Obama's 2009 inaugural address to cleanse my soiled palate.

And so, here we are now. This is not some work of alternate historical fiction. This is real.

So how do I feel? One word: Violated.

I feel we as a country have been violated from both within, as well as from beyond.

We saw the rise of a man without true accomplishment and completely devoid of morals and civility rise to the highest level of power in our land. We saw a man display truly contemptible behavior to the point of absurdity--mocking a reporter with a disability, defrauding thousands with a phony "university", bragging about his desire to assault women. He is the stuff that fictional villains are made of. We were told time after time after time to give him a chance, that he's capable of changing, that he will change, that the office will change him. We forget that this Madman has already lived 70 years on this earth without any desire to reform himself or act to the appropriate standards that most of us take for granted. We forget that not less than three years ago he was on Twitter bragging about his "fucked up" "haters and losers", and that he continued to use phrases like those after he was a candidate, after he was a major party nominee, after he was a President-elect, up to virtually the day he was inaugurated. I'm generally an optimist when it comes to people's human nature, but this is an extreme case. People like him don't get better after years of perfecting their anti-perfect image.

And yet this is what won the day for him back in November. (Albeit thanks in part to a constitutional technicality known as the electoral college, and I'll continue to take slight comfort in the de facto--but not de jure outcome of the popular vote.) Too many of us took the legitimate cynicisms and criticisms of longstanding institutions like politics and media and like fools threw their hands to a far, far worse monster. And now this creature has taken ahold of us and releasing its grasp will be no easy task.

But that's only half of the violation we have endured. Over the past decade, we watched overseas what happens when a person takes charge of a nation who has no tolerance for democracy, dissent or autonomy of other nations. We saw what happens with power without morality. Somehow we deluded ourselves into thinking the likes of Vladimir Putin was the problem of others and not of us. And yet three years ago I watched my family's homeland descend to chaos and uncertainty thanks to his subtle hand. We should have been alarmed that a man running for president had recently openly opined on Twitter that he desired Putin to be his "new best friend." But most of us shook that off as an amusing triviality and not as a threat to our national security. Yet here we are today, and the evidence continues to mountain that our collective national mindset in the events running up to the election was stealthily manipulated in a masterful Russian mindfreak, with the only beneficiaries in the end being the Madman and Vladimir Putin.

So yes, we were indeed violated, both from within and from outside. And we the people are victims, whether we recognize it or not. Perception of victimhood these days is a funny thing though. Too often it gets conflated with being weak, or even worse, being whiny and needlessly self-pitying. But there's no shame in to admitting you have been a victim of another's bad actions. In fact, recognizing and admitting to that fact properly transfers back the culpability to the person who should be held to account. So while we have been violated, we should not shrink from admitting that we were victims to a dasdardly deed. It does not make us weaker. Quite the opposite is true.

Every victim has a breaking point. That is a fact that both the Madman and Vladimir Putin will inevitably have to face.

January 11, 2017

The untold abject horror of the turn of events at today's press conference.

The soon to be President of the United States very literally shouts down a reporter from a news organization that--while not in any way perfect--has been a legitimate source of news for nearly four decades, refuses to even allow him to ask him a question, and he proceeds to brand said news organization in front of his peers as being "fake news."

He then immediately turns to another reporter of a news organization that has existed for less than 10 years, that serves as a popular destination for members of the alt-right and white supremacists, that contains stories with absurdly provocative racist, sexist and bigoted headlines such as "BIRTH CONTROL MAKES WOMEN UNATTRACTIVE AND CRAZY", "THE SOLUTION TO ONLINE 'HARASSMENT' IS SIMPLE: WOMEN SHOULD LOG OFF", "HOIST IT HIGH AND PROUD: THE CONFEDERATE FLAG PROCLAIMS A GLORIOUS HERITAGE" and "POLITICAL CORRECTNESS PROTECTS MUSLIM RAPE CULTURE", who very recently ran a documentably false story about Muslims supposedly burning down a church in Germany which was immediately debunked by German authorities, an organization that until recently was run by his soon to be senior policy advisor, and gladly takes that organization's reporter's question, which was........

Ladies and gentlemen, I think we've officially arrived at the Dystopia. I hope you've enjoyed your trip.

January 5, 2017

The Madman's Press Conference: A short story by Tommy Carcetti

It all came back to where it had first started--where everything had first started.

Several dozen reporters sat somewhat patiently in the gilded gold lobby of the Darth Vader-like Midtown Manhattan monstrosity that was Trump Tower. The din of murmured conversations echoed against the vaulted ceilings and brass plated fixtures that slowly squeezed the transversing humanity inside of it like a tacky, gauche boa constrictor. At the front of the folding chair set-up stood a podium, empty at the moment, with a Kinko's manufactured sign hastily taped onto its face.

A red, white and blue unofficial logo on the placard read: "Donald J. Trump. President-Elect of the United States."

Members of the press mostly browsed on their phones. Some checked their watches. Others explored their modest press packets containing one eight ounce miniature bottle of Trump Water, a pen with the Trump Tower logo, a Trump Tower notepad, and two Andes chocolate mints. Those who did talk amongst themselves were admittedly curious, because the Madman who at one point in his campaign attacked Secretary Clinton for not holding enough press conferences had gone silent for months after one July press conference where he notoriously dared the Russian government to hack into US government emails and mine them for valuable information.

The advance press release teased that the Madman would discuss the subject of the hacking of Democratic National Committee emails and the possible culprits of such infiltration, but questions abounded. Would the Madman point his modestly-lengthed finger at the Russians? Would he call for greater cyber security measures? Would he bring along Don King this time, or perhaps would it be Dennis Rodman instead?

The clock ticked passed the announced 11:00 am start time for the press conference. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Still, the press stayed, in great anticipation of whatever newsworthy information the Madman might intentionally--or unintentionally--throw them.

Just as the collective patience of the audience was about to wane, the Bose speakers flanking the podium rung out and throttled the attention of everyone in the lobby.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," an unidentified voice announced, "The President-Elect of the United States.....Donald....J.....Trump!"

Immediately, music began playing.

Cheesy, 1980s styled synth rock instrumental music.

The intro to Van Halen's "Jump," to be exact.

The reporters looked around trying to find where the Madman would be entering. The answer should have been obvious, knowing the past. A large mass of people wearing dark suits began descending on the Trump Tower escalator. In the middle of the gaggle stood a figure that was unmistakable to the entire world. That yellowish-whitish tuft of sheened hair, oddly sculpted in helmet like fashion around the spray-tanned orangish wrinkled face, all on top of the sloped, hulking shoulders that somewhat resembled a vulture at rest.

It was the Madman.

The Madman made his gradual, mechanical descent down the escalator, extending both his thumbs out to the crowd while a smirk formed at his mouth. At the bottom of the stairs, as if on cue, the music segued from Van Halen to Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA" as the Madman and his entourage made their way toward the podium. As the huddle began to disburse, a second figure emerged walking next to the Madman. This one was much shorter than the others, wearing a dark suit and red tie, his hair thick blonde but much more naturally so than that of the Madman. It almost appeared as though there was a genetically miniaturized version of the man walking alongside him.

"Good God," one reporter whispered to his neighbor. "He's cloned himself."

In reality, it was the Madman's 10-year old son, Barron Trump.

Mercifully, the Greenwood tune died down as the Madman took to the podium. Barron took to the Madman's right, looking as understandably bored as any 10-year old would being forced to accompany his father on the job as opposed to lazying the day away on an X-box.

"Good morning. Good morning everybody," the Madman said in his unmistakable nasal-tinged New York accent as he fiddled with the microphone attached to the podium. "Isn't this great? Isn't it great to be here? You all love it here. Admit it. There's nothing that beats this, nothing at all."

Flashes and camera snaps abounded as the Madman begun his remarks. Dualing teleprompters stood at the side of the podium. They were both left unplugged.

"I'm calling you all together today to give you a very brief statement and announcement regarding the claims from the intelligence community that the DNC emails were hacked during the election," the Madman continued. "A lot of you out there have made a lot of claims that I somehow benefited from these hacks or had something to do with them. Some of you have even said that the Russian government was behind the hacks because they wanted me to win."

The Madman let out an impulsive sniff. Barron stood passively next to him, hands at his side, taking in the press before him.

"I just think for you all to say that, it's sad," the Madman declared, "It's sad and it's pathetic and it's sad. So sad. You guys just want to sabotage me as I start my journey with the people, the people, to Make America Great Again©. And it's not fair to me and it's not fair to the Russian government and Vladimir Putin who has so graciously reached out to me and expressed a desire to repair relations between our two countries after years and years of the failed Obama policies."

He paused and sniffed again.

"But enough about you, because it's not about you. It's about the American people. And of course, me," the Madman said.

"Anyways, the reason I'm calling you together here today is because I decided to conduct my own intelligence review about the hacks," the Madman continued. "So I got a bunch of guys, smart guys, the best guys, and they sat down together and they looked at the intelligence, all of it, and they found out what was really going on. And I have to tell you, it's shocking. It will shock you. Truly shocking."

Another sniff.

"So remember when I had that debate with Crooked Hillary Clinton, I mean Hillary Clinton, sorry, and I told her that anybody could hack a computer, even some really fat disgusting 400 pound guy?" the Madman asked. "And then I went on about how great my son was with computers, and all you guys could talk about was how stupid I sounded and how you thought Crooked Hillary Clinton, I mean Hillary Clinton, won the debate?"

Barron, at the time nearly falling into a standing slumber at the boorishness of his father's remarks, shook to alertness upon being referenced by the Madman.

"Well, when I had my guys, who were the best guys, look into it, and yeah, so it turns out that Barron is actually the one who hacked the DNC. My son. He's the one who did it," the Madman announced.

"Huh, Dad?" Barron shot his father a quizzical look.

"Much as I'm as proud of my children, all of my children, but especially my oldest three, I know you here in the press are going to demand accountability, so I have to do something about it or you guys aren't going to shut the hell up," the Madman declared. "And I'd really like for you guys to shut the hell up."

"Wait, what?" Barron gestured as his father, who ignored him and continued on unfazed.

"So that is why I, with a very heavy heart, and using the absolute powers granted to me by the United States Constitution as the President-elect, am hereby instructing my private security detail to seize Barron and transport him to the detention facility at Guantanamo Bay to be held indefinitely, and maybe then, just then, he'll learn his lesson."

"WHAT THE FUCK, DAD?!?" Barron shouted.

Gasps of horror emerged from the press corps. Out of a side corridor emerged two large, muscle-bound men dressed in khaki fatigues and black bulletproof vests, their faces obscured by balaclavas, with no insignias on their uniforms but for a golden "T" badge sewn on their shoulders. They surrounded Barron and grasped him by both arms.

"Dad....Dad....DAD!" Barron screamed as the men began to pull him away.

The Madman shrugged and sniffed before continuing with his remarks.

"So, in conclusion, I alone have solved the DNC hacking mystery and thanks to you as a result of you people continuing to pester me about it, a ten year old boy is going to be sent off to a detention center to live alongside terror suspects who have spent years stewing in custody without the benefit of due process of law," the Madman said. "I hope you in the press are all very happy for yourselves for that fact. I know you are. I'm sure you all just love it."

The Madman shot off a silent glare to the reporters. Barron's shouting became more faint as the Madman's security detailed pulled him off towards the hallway.

"Oh, Barron," the Madman shouted in the direction of the hallway, "While you're down there, say hello to your sister for me."

More muffled sounds emerged from the hall.

"No, not Ivanka," the Madman answered. "You know, the other one."

The Madman turned to the press corps and smirked. "Ivanka," he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

The entire group of reporters sat in stunned silence, their mouths all agape.

"Oh yeah," the Madman added. "And in the event that Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton somehow are able to evade my security detail and successfully flee the country before I take office, any subsequent economic downturn, err, um, well that all is going to be Barron's fault as well, so two birds and one stone and all that shit."

More silence. The Madman sniffed again.

"I think this is the part where you guys are supposed to ask me questions, so let's get this over with," the Madman said.

It took three more sniffs of the Madman before a female reporter finally mustered up the courage to stand up. She raised a shaking hand.

"Mr. President-elect," the reporter began. "Any idea as to what the future First Lady might think of this, with you sending her only son to Guantanamo Bay?"

"First Lady?" the Madman responded, "You mean Ivanka?"

"Um, no," the reporter replied, puzzled. "I mean Melania."

"Oh yeah. Her," the Madman went on. "Honestly, I don't know. I don't really care. Truth be told, the odometer on Melania keeps on going up and up and there's only so much plastic surgery can do for her. Time to trade her in for the newer model. She's like what, thirty-four?"

"She's 46," the reporter answered. "Forty-six years old."

Impulsively, the Madman shuttered and clenched his teeth, like a vampire faced with a crucifix.

"EHH!" he exclaimed. "Yeah, I guess you can say that settles that, then. Say, how old are you, sweetie? Because I have to say, not bad. Not bad at all."

The Madman leered in and smiled. The reporter shook her head and sat down, disgusted. Another one several rows back stood up in her place.

"Mr. President-elect," the reporter said, "Is this some sort of horrific publicity stunt? Sending your own son to Guantanamo Bay for hacking that the intelligence community clearly believes was perpetuated by the Russians to help get you elected? Do you really intend to keep your son down there as a scapegoat while blaming us for it?"

The Madman shot off a brief eyeroll accompanied by a sniff before answering.

"Well," the Madman said. "There's the pardon power. That's the great thing about being President, it's that you can pardon people. And I intend to pardon people around me. A lot. Like, constantly. And I'll be pardoning myself too, just to be fair. So to answer your question, sure, I could always pardon Barron if I like, so maybe I'll do that eventually."

The Madman stopped, waiting for some feedback from the reporter. Instead, he got shut out.

"But maybe I'll let him stew for a month or two before I do that," the Madman continued. "Teach him a lesson. You know, Millennials. He's a Millennial. They all just think they're entitled to everything, those Millennials. They think the world should just give them a job, even if they're not even remotely qualified for it. And everything will be about them, only them, that's all they want to talk about, themselves. And they're so goddamned obsessed with social media and broadcasting every single little thought in their head on social media and at some point you just have to say just shut the fuck up about yourself because you're just making yourself out to be a damn fool to the world and making more and more people hate your guts."

The press corps remained dead silent. The Madman sniffed again.

"Okay, well, I'm about tired of all this, so it's been fun. Really fun," the Madman said. "You're all going look forward to my next few tweets, believe me. I'll do this again, well, whenever I really want to. And when it happens, you're going to really love it. You really will."

With that, the Madman stepped away from the podium and was quickly surrounded by his entourage as they made their way to the escalator. Soon, the P.A. system kicked in the familiar choir intro to The Rolling Stones "You Can't Always Get What You Want," the unofficial and very much unauthorized show closer of the Madman's campaign. The Madman climbed aboard the golden escalator and gave the gathering one more double barreled thumbs up as he ascended upwards before being ushered into an elevator back to his palatial apartment at the top of Trump Tower.

And the press, somewhat overwhelmed by the spectacle that had just unfolded before their very eyes, slowly began to stand up, gather their things and leave, and wonder as to the next time they'd be called before the Madman.