The Con-Car is Approaching its Final Destination

The most hated man in Manhattan, arrogant school yard bully, cheating rich kid cliché, the dumbest student Wharton has been bribed to matriculate, is about finished. He will end his days exposed as a violent lifetime criminal, guilty of espionage, treason, rape, RICO, and everything else.

How did this joke of humanity grow into a crime boss, feared by many, despite his undeniable, obvious stupidity? The Washington Post answers that. Fear. He scares people, including the FBI agents assigned to search his residence.

The airplane that never left the hangar hovered for half a century undetected. He flew under the radar, despite intellectual shortcomings and bloated ego. His flaws acted as repellent, an invisibility cloak. He’s dumb like a fox, if fox are stupid.

This will end, and he will not be the republican candidate, but the GOP has many unscrupulous personalities lined up and waiting to be propped up in his place. Did we learn anything? That question will be answered in November 2024. Will we remain a democracy? I believe that if we ensure the election is fair, and enough people vote, we can end this.

I am no longer worried. Jack Smith (call me) has this under control. The only suspense left is who will indict him next. Will it be Georgia, for election interference, or the DOJ, for 1/6. They are neck and neck.

Speaking of necks, my personal concerns have surpassed my interest in the flabby flambé. I’m not quite two weeks post-op… yes, another spinal fusion. I am considering a zipper instead of stitches for easier access, in the likely event there will be a next time. Maybe a zipper tattoo as scar camouflage… no.

My throat still hurts and communicating takes effort. I have been told I’m speaking too quietly. That is a first. I’ve become introspective, wondering what the point is of using my energy reserves to articulate sounds when: 1. My mother, who is nearly deaf without her hearing aid, appears to remove them before she converses with me. 2. Thing-One, my oldest daughter, has tiny new noise-canceling ear buds that I can’t see under her hair. She listens to music while I talk to her back, unaware… maybe.

That reminds me of a story. Stop me if I’m repeating myself.

When my middle-juvenile was seven or eight, I became concerned that she had hearing loss. I was so distressed, in fact, that I called a specialist, one even more specialized than an ENT (ear, nose, and throat) Dr. The wait to see this respected pediatric otorhinolaryngologist, (hearing doctor for kids) who employs an audiologist to assist, would otherwise be three-months. My call coincided with a cancellation. They would see us that afternoon. I scrambled to get the night off work and pulled my daughter out of school before lunch. I bartered with that angry child who wanted to have lunch with her friends; I would reward her with ice-cream for lunch, after this appointment. Once that was settled, we drove forty-five minutes silently. It would all be worth the sacrifices made. I was confident we’d leave with answers.

Upon arrival, I paid the $40 co-pay and filled out the medical history forms. Thing-2 had a thorough exam. They put her in a sound booth and ran her through a series of tests. I hovered in the background, twisting my scarf until I almost died of asphyxiation. The appointment lasted ninety minutes.

To make a short story long, but over, I’ll cut to the chase.

Dr. Fancypants: “Your daughter’s hearing is fine; she’s ignoring you.”

Speaking of deaf, this one is confirmed. I’ll share the events of my morning. Like the rest, I woke with my tiny deaf and nearly blind Maltese, who suffers with Cushing Disease (actually, I suffer on her behalf.) My fluffy white cloud with a perpetually full bladder that she can’t control, and joint problems that require her to be carried up and down stairs… that girl, who screams if she can’t see me, Simone, code brown’d my bed.

I like to find the silver lining in everything because, as you’ve likely noticed, I’m an eternal optimist. This half-full cup was easy to identify. The joke was on my needy marshmallow because her night-soil was not touching my bed. It was stuck to her fur.

FML

• https://www.rawstory.com/trump-classified-documents-2662503591/

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