I cried on my ninth birthday because I realized the next time, and forever more, my age would consist of two digits. I preferred the one digit era. I had organized the world in my own way and wasn’t looking forward to any type of grown-up thinking.

I believed there was a civilization of miniatures living in my stomach. When I ate macaroni I was sending these tiny people logs so they could build cabins. When I ate broccoli it was shrubbery they could use to landscape their yards.

And just as there were people inside of me, so had I probably once slid down someone else’s gullet. I wasn’t sophisticated enough yet to factor in waste disposal concepts.

In addition to the circle of life thing I’d also developed my own theories of random. Because there were billions of people on earth there had to be one other boy out there exactly my age who behaved, looked and thought like me. The world was so vast he could have been anywhere. Living in Indiana, I decided my doppelgänger was on a farm somewhere in Iowa. Sadly, we’ve never met.

It’s easy to see how a mind like this would be susceptible to conspiracy theories as an adult. With Oliver Stone on my side, I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of the Kennedy Assassination being the takeover of the US government by a ruling elite.

The OSS was formed during the Second World War to gather intelligence then morphed into the CIA afterwards. The agency was initially made up of Eastern blue bloods who were responsible for protecting America’s imperial wealth abroad. Whether it was bananas in Guatemala or oil in Iran, the CIA was there to topple regimes if they got in the way of American stakeholders.

As the Military-Industrial Complex grew in the 1950’s it became intertwined with the CIA. The US became the arms dealer to the world. American Industrialists were making so much money, their greed had them setting their sights on the biggest client of all: the US itself.

A pretext for a war to stop Communism in Viet Nam was made. Kennedy didn’t approve of the idea and he ended up paying the price. Over the next 12 years more compliant leaders fed Wall Street and the Complex a hefty diet of taxpayer dollars for a needless conflict.

The Intelligence Community wanted to call the shots and have the Presidency rubber stamp their initiatives. To avoid another Kennedy, the executive would have to become just the figurehead. Any clown should be able to do that job. As long as they could get elected.

It was easier to have a Republican as President because they were more simpatico. But Democrats, if elected, could be co-opted to minimize any damage to the plan.

The first test for the Republicans’ new Ringling Brothers Dynasty came a year after Dallas. To prove they could get any face elected to an important office, Ronald Reagan was sent up as a trial ballon. With absolutely no qualifications or experience, name recognition alone got him elected Governor of California. 

I’m still naive enough to think the CIA does not control elections overtly, i.e. they’re not manipulating numbers. They do have a role in molding public opinion via the media.  As long as a preponderance of Republicans continue to win they don’t need to rig the results.

With the advent of the civil rights movement, the GOP harnessed resentment and institutional racism to convert a block of southern states that had voted against them for almost a century The constitutional crisis of Watergate was used to consolidate powers in the executive and weaken the legislative branch.

Jimmy Carter, who no one had ever heard of at the time, came out of nowhere to be elected President in 1976. Actually, he came out of Georgia and was the last Democrat anyone in the south ever voted for. He was a red herring for one ineffectual term which provided a bi-partisan smokescreen to the process.

When Reagan cleared that White House hurdle in 1980, the coup was complete. The succession of Republican dumb and dumbers was underway.

I picture the elites in their Dr. Strangelove bunker snickering over which bozo they can pass off next, smugly confident they can get any joker elected, When Agent Orange won in 2016, their cosmic laughter was seismic.

A closer examination of these circus folk will follow in the next post.

 

They don’t have one yet but the way they’ve been going at it lately Lindsay’s bound to be showing by Election Day.

It’s well known on the Hill these same-sex fornicators have not only been porking bills for years, they’ve been porking each other as well. The two experienced legislators are said to be the Senate’s best at attaching riders.

The closet queens had hoped to take their secret with them to the grave. This year, however, they both found themselves in tricky reelection campaigns. They needed headlines to deflect attention from their sleazy, disgusting Senate dealings. So Lindsay issued a statement.

“We’ve had an affection for each other since my earliest days in the Senate when he took me aside and showed me what the Minority Whip position was all about. When Mitch gets the itch he’s such a spontaneous lover! We’ve done it in the Cloak Room, under the Rotunda and on the Capitol Steps in front of high school groups. And I’ll tell you another thing. When the two of us hunker down in Statuary Hall, you’ve never seen any marble that’s harder or better buffed!”

The Republican solons are realists and understand the odds of being the first male loins to produce fruit are pretty much stacked against them. But they have their Faith. To that end they’ve enlisted the help of their dear friend Jerry Falwell, Jr.

After an invigorating day of good clean All-American fun, fishing for zipper trout on Falwell Pond, Jerry Junior took the couple into the boat house for a laying on of the hands. He anointed the Senators with snake oil and then the three were airlifted to the Claiborne Stud Farm in Kentucky.

With the harnesses attached and Mitch positioned to cover Lindsay, Falwell started chanting his super secret Prayer for Penile Penitence and Penetration. It’s guaranteed to produce an heir or your money back. We anxiously await the results.

McConnell has been fairly silent throughout all of this allowing Lindsay’s mouth to do most of the work. But when pressed on the feasibility of this actually happening he said simply, “After the 2016 election we realized anything’s possible.”

I first became aware of Dolly Parton in the early 1970’s when she was the singing partner of Porter Waggoner. They were hawking laundry detergent on his Saturday morning show. He walked into the shot and handed her something every woman in America coveted at that time: a box of Breeze.

With a soothing voice comforting every housewife in Tennessee and a prodigious rack unsettling every pecker in Pocatello, Dolly opened the box.. She pulled out a full-sized floral bath towel and exclaimed, “Why Porter! You brung me flowers!”

Of the many dumbfounding moments in that commercial the most was how Lever Brothers got that promotional towel into the box. I still think about it.

Dolly knew it was schlocky but didn’t care. If there were people stupid enough to write corny lines like that she was stupid enough to make money reading them. Not exactly a well-principled stance but it could have been worse.

At a time when it was difficult for women to succeed in any field it’s hard to fault someone who grew up in the extreme poverty of the Smokies. It gave her the financial foundation she needed to write and sing her music.

Another confounding career moment in the mid-70’s was when she appeared on the cover of Interview Magazine. Andy Warhol’s monthly was the denizen of the hip, young, and urban–the antitheses of the Country Music crowd. This move had the markings of a star trying to escape a niche market and redefine themselves.

But Dolly wasn’t rebranding anything. She was keeping the act, she just wanted a bigger audience.

One reason Jane Fonda was thrilled to cast her in 9 to 5 was because she thought it would help with box office in the South. To which Dolly quickly chimed in, “as well as the East, West, and North.” Miss Parton’s sights were set higher than a Georgia pine.

There are some good things about getting old including the opportunities to reassess opinions you may have formed for the wrong reasons. When Islands in the Stream came out in the 80’s I was a post-punk, rock elitist. The song was okay but too fluffy. And it’s Gibb Brothers/Disco lineage was offensive.

In the last couple of years, though, I’ve become obsessed with this live performance of the song. The harmonies, the blue notes, that quirky 3 against 4 or whatever it is rhythm of the chorus and the way her voice soars at times are all captivating.

She has been an artistic and financial success in her crossover career without offending her original base.

Politics are so fraught with confrontation and emotion, it’s understandable why some avoid them completely. Especially if they can achieve many of the same ends quietly with their own money.

Dolly has never taken a political stand but has employed thousands of people through her enterprises in eastern Tennessee. Plus she’s given extensively through charities, most notably her Imagination Library that has distributed 130 million free books to children.

Well respected intellects who know Dolly like Fonda and Lily Tomlin jump to their feet to defend her. Reading between the lines one can assume she is one of us. She just has to walk the tight rope of practicing a music style she loves that is mainly appreciated by those who disagree with her politically.

I’ve always been deeply interested and somewhat involved in politics but I understand why people have such disdain for them. Every proposition, every school board race is framed in such dire terms. It’s better to win, but really, even when you lose you can right things over time. You just have to be persistent.

This year is different, however. Death really is an option. The populace may not hear that message because they’ve become so inured by decades of politicians crying wolf.

Dolly’s voice could encourage some who want to break out of their traditional voting blocs. She doesn’t even have to mention names. It could be something as simple as: “I caint vote for any guy who lies as much as this one has.”

Or maybe a homespun take on tax returns. “I guess the best way to make money in America is to lose money.”

If Dolly doesn’t speak out she still deserves respect. But if she would she could have a huge impact. Just because she can.

Is there anything hotter than a 76 year-old distinguished former mayor assuming the corpse position to turn on a 20-something babe?

As a veteran of fashion week, Rudy knows the best way to get a crisp break at the waist on a starched shirt is to lie fully clothed on the bed when you make your tuck. The suit might get a little rumpled but the pot gut will look fabulous.

Even with the New England Journal of Medicine, Scientific American, hundreds of retired generals, and the few remaining sentinent leaders of the Republican Party all coming out against them, the Trump Campaign remains confident of victory.

A dear, dear friend of mine, some bitch at the League of Women Voters, has leaked the campaign’s top secret debate script to me. It’s the logical next step in Presidential Politics.

Towards the end of Thursday’s showdown, the President will appear completely embarrassed, totally flummoxed and near collapse. Suddenly, there will be a rustling in the audience. A folded chair will come flying across the stage as the moderator runs for cover. Eye of the Tiger will blast, the fog machines will be cued and the First Daughter will appear.

The Donald will barely have the strength to reach up to touch his freeze-dried baby girI’s Frito-lay manicured hand. But the tag will be made.

The Ivankinator will take one giant stride and burst through the acrylic spit shield. She’ll grab Biden in a choke hold, take him to the ground then exclaim “You’re too weak to be President!” as she watches him expire.

Just as they did back in the good old USS of R, Agent Orange will be re-elected unopposed.

It’s what the Founding Fathers envisioned.

Recent events had me reaching for Aesop this week for a little comfort. The version I have was originally published by Hemlock Press in the fifth century BC. My Ancient Greek is a little rusty these days but to the best of my knowledge the fable I settled on was called “The Fag Hag and the Cocksucker.”

Princess Brillowig came from a well established family who owned everything in sight including the big Sugar Plant. They also had cornered the stoneware market and were said to make the finest stines in the village.

Little El Gee Wrongside came from the poor side of town. His family’s means were meager and could never afford the Brillowig’s refined sugar. His Mom had to use brown sugar to make the childrens’ all day suckers. She did so happily saying she preferred the darker version because it tasted so good.

Walking by the school yard one day Princess Brillowig noticed the snobbier kids making fun of El Gee. They all had suckers the colors of the rainbow only white sugar can produce. El Gee was slurping away on this butterscotch rod.

The Princess chided the bullies for being mean. She told them it didn’t matter what their suckers were made of, the important thing was everyone had something down their throat. 

She did cover her bases before proceeding by asking El Gee, “that brown circle around your mouth is from the sucker isn’t it?” After getting an answer in the affirmative she concluded by asking everyone to rise above the discord and give her a rousing, team-building, “yea..yea…yea…WHEW!”

Their paths did not cross again until two decades later when they worked for the Sugar Factory. El Gee had risen to the highest levels of management and found himself together with the Princess on the powerful Ways to Glean Committee.

El Gee noticed the Princess kept getting wealthier and wealthier on her living wage salary. It didn’t seem right so he asked her about it.

She replied, “It doesn’t matter whether it’s right or not. It matters whether the rules say it’s not right.” The Princess took the little queen under her wing and the two of them spent the next thirty years making the not right right.

They both became very rich by, wink-wink, just doing their jobs. When the Trump Slump hit, however, El Gee was about to be laid off. The two held one last rule fixing session together then the Princess gave her diminutive companion a big hug. It was truly a feel good moment. Especially because they could feel all the coins in their pockets rubbing together.

The moral of the story? One correct decision does not an ungrifter make.

 

 

In the unlikely event her 88-year-old Joy Toy should expire during their marriage, Jerry has taken the precaution of having her widows’ weeds designed by the House of Patou. Our spies have learned the ceremony will be extremely private on a remote Australian beach. There will be less than a dozen close family and friends attending.

That number could easily double, however, if Jerry decides she needs her Financial Advising and Legal Teams present to help her with, what will inevitably be, an overpowering period of greed, excuse me, grief.

Ex-hubby Mick (or is he?) has reviewed the documents and is confident that scenario can be avoided. He’s so confident in fact that he’s penned the next Stones’ single and dedicated it to Ms. Hall.  

The barrel-house rocker is titled Air Tight (Outta’ Sight) and will drop the day of Murdoch’s funeral. By coincidence.

Click here for the complete Diary.

The Presidential Libraries Commission has approved the final design for the new research center dedicated to our 45th President’s Administration. It will be located in Plant City, Florida, former home of Tammy Wynette, George Jones and host of the nation’s largest annual Strawberry Festival.

Plant City was selected because of its close proximity to the nation’s leading white trash scholars. The Villages, which was the runner-up location, will offer daily shuttle service to the Center.

A traditional library format was not sought largely because the family only owns about a dozen books between them. The facility was modeled after the Carter Center, a place to study the few documents that remain after the redacting and shredding tsunami of Trump’s final days.

Trump University would have been the preferred name but that was precluded by lawsuits over the Russian-based scam that settled right before the 2016 election. Instead, the edgy, streamlined Trump Think is the new moniker (the question mark was dropped.)

The derelict, mid-20th Century cement block design was the style the Trumps were most comfortable with. A little white wash, a couple squirts of Fabreeze and you’d swear you’re in an I.M. Pei. Just like Mar-A-Lago.

Admission to the campus will be free! After self-parking for $375 a day in the Acropolis Parking Lot, you’ll want to visit the many fine satellite schools that comprise Trump Think. To get you started, here are a few suggestions:

The Melania Trump Give a Fuck Research Group. The First Lady has always bemoaned the fact there are many concepts not teached in the States that were teached back in her native Slovenia. She encourages fellows of the GFRG to think outside her the box.

Melania’s insight got them to focus on the effects of 6″ stiletto heels on one’s ability to string Christmas garlands. And the incumbent ennui that can be so debilitating.

It’s an alarming problem that has only recently surfaced. Without Mrs. Trump’s leadership, many of our yuletide traditions might have disappeared.

She truly cares. 

Guilfoyle Institute foe Self Expression and Effective Pubic Speaking. You heard me, EFFECTIVE PUBIC SPEAKING!!!!!!!!

Now take off your clothes and WALK AROUND THE APARTMENT NAKED WITH ME!!!

WANNA DO A LINE????

Bob Kraft’s Grab ‘Em Lounge. After a tough day of eating fast food, harassing foreigners and bullying the disabled, you’ll want to unwind in Bob’s Grab ‘Em Lounge. Through the auspices of the NFL’s giving arm, Not Who We Are Charities, Bob has donated the massage parlor where he was busted after Super Bowl LIII. (Unlike the President, I don’t speak Roman so I can’t translate.)

The Grab ‘Em’s signature cocktail is the Orchid of Asia: a hint of Indochine ginger that finishes off with a happy, explosive seltzer.

When asked if it wasn’t decadent to spend millions on physically relocating this trash heap, Bob got a little defensive. “I’ve cheated, lied and scammed to win six Super Bowls, I know what I’m doing. Since I put Orchid of Asia on the map, I can move it anywhere on the map I damn well please. I’m a fucking billionaire.”

Spoken like a true Trump Thinker. 

Jared’s Academy of the Failed’s Failing Failures. Jared is a disciple of Psychologist Dr. Sigmund Oscopy and his Doctrine of Approximate Meaning. The Vienna shrink teaches if the words you choose only come close to being correct you’ve won the battle. As long as you act knowledgeable.

It’s how Jared came up with the brilliant idea of calling Supreme Court Nominee Barrett, who attended Rhodes College, a Rhodes Scholar.

Jared recently cornered me at a New Jersey fundraiser saying he’d heard I enjoyed the Amish areas of Indiana’s Noble County. Then, in confidence, he whispered, “Don’t be shy about touting your Noble Prizes.” (Close enough for our purposes.)

Academy membership is limited to trust funders holding over a billion dollars in assets. You worked hard clawing your way out of Mom’s vaginal canal to claim your inheritance. Use your life to kick back and fuck up. It’s the law.

TiffTrump Studio for Personal Girth. Come join Tiff and her trainer, YO-YO, for intense cardio and good times. Mama Marla is available to do your manis and pedis after you work-out. Then it’s down to the Grab ‘Em for jello shots and Jäger Bombs with the whole gang!