Get the Memo
February 7th, 2018 | 
Author: Imagine opposition campaign research being used to obtain a warrant to spy on whomever your candidate is. An uncorroborated, unsubstantiated document manufactured as political smear and funded to the tune of $9 million goddamn dollars by the party, the organization, that opposes your candidate. To spy on your candidate, for a crime that has yet to be committed.
Remember what they did to MLK and John Lennon?
Imagine them doing it to Hillary.
I don’t get it. Since when is the FBI the good guys?
Over 40 years ago, America rightfully lost its shit over 18 minutes of missing tape. People went to jail and a sitting president had no choice but to walk away in hangdog, abject disgrace or go to fucking prison. There was an actual crime. Trump is dumber, less sophisticated and not nearly as evil as Nixon was. There has yet to be an actual crime. If he’s guilty, it’s merely for the same financial impropriety as every powerful Democrat in congress. And with the Democrats, it ain’t just with Russia, but Saudi Arabia, Israel ….
Yeah, I’m cleaning this prick of a president’s puke off my clothes everyday along with the rest of you. I want him gone but the line of succession only gets worse. Best bet is to deal with this crayon masticating man boy. He’s a mess but there’s zero mystery. Donald Trump is Fisher Price. That’s why we hate him. He’s an idiot.
Try not to forget that they all just granted him the power to spy, infiltrate, invade every last one of us. Every last one of you. Just so they still get to do it after he’s toast.
All the shrill democrats and chicken little members of the so called “intelligence” community have proven to be completely without guile. They owe us an apology for insisting that this memo somehow represented a grave threat to our national security. Bullshit. Just more evidence that America’s agencies of obfuscation are all too willing to abuse the powers afforded them by our politicians. They flout our trust and mock the constitution because terrorism.
A political circle jerk.
Only a mumbling stumbling fuck like Clockwork Orangutan could inadvertently sit astride such a gift horse. Armed only with reckless arrogance and maddeningly obtuse ignorance, Trump has blown the curtain that hides the deep state off the stage. On top of that, the developmentally challenged bully wandered into the yard on a sunny day with a stick and a magnifying glass looking for ant hills, only to reveal the grotesquerie of the Democratic queen and the paroxysms of all of her workers as they run to find cover for their asses.
Say what you want about this jackass but that’s a fuckton of accomplishment in just one year. There’s a certain gorgeous symmetry in this dipshit accidentally sabotaging a new cold war with Russia, a chronically corrupt political party and an off the rails national intelligence community, just by being an asshole.
Drinks for my friends.
Posted in Uncategorized
It’s their only hope. Assassination in our character assassination what’s the difference?
Typo typo alert alert. Assassination or character assassination.
lol – love it! Yep – it’s an impressive mess!
Yeah o.k. puke smells bad.
Corazon Bandida…
So far the only thing I have in common with Jodi Foster is that we both know what it’s like to be viewed by night vision goggles.
Under precarious circumstances, when I went to open my car door today, I’d noticed my fingers had left a red sticky smudge near the key hole. What I can, remember is last night after my evening cafe,I was transported into this encounter; having finished a few drinks at the bar I went outside and squeezed into my car. Unawares to myself, A man I had briefly dated; followed behind me. Suddenly I noticed he was parked very tightly next to my little white MGB coup. Minus any real culpability I had accidentally let my car door scratch against the skin of his metallic Blue Jaguar. His chiseled face sized me up as if he was looking at a dead rodent in the road. Bright eyes stared at me with aggression, as if to say you’ll die for that infraction you American Twit. Though clearly Russian, obviously he was well connected with local associated. His el Pelo refused to stray, the same way his eyes had a fixed mark on my face. I could see it would be him that would commit the deed and that there was no way, to retract my action or destiny. He had setup his market where the money was and I wasn’t dancing his game, for this my life was to end.
Alright I knew him a little more intimately than originally I’d let on. He was my downstairs neighbor, and I fell hard for him. O.K.!
Nobody is normal in this town, and all things weird come my way. He was gorgeous, meticulous in his movements, groomed with gold, bronzed skin, he moved like a flamingo dancer. Every flinch of his body was somehow orchestrated to let you know He’s the super star in charge of the light and dark.
We lived in a building perched on the side of a hill overlooking the Bay. He ran a European Automotive sales and service operation, in the city. I don’t know maybe he was German, he said they escaped the bombing back when he was a child and fled to South America, Argentina, I think.
His skin, those eyes, he was beautiful. So I was able to ignore the accent, well he was always on the phone talking in different languages and seemed to have a great command of all conversations.
He wasn’t my type at all. I would watch him come home with a different Mercedes, Jag, or Beamer every day, walk past my window towards the stairs below. He would rush in grab a few bite’s to eat, then off to be with his friends,to hit the clubs. Like clockwork, just before eleven they would return home, acting intimate, talking with gay voices as they descended the stairs, to retreat for the evening.
I’ve always been the most out of place person on the planet. My job as a fee lance writer, is no pick nic either. This is a community where everyone is well connected. Hell the lovely European and foreign ladies, Sava would bring home were better connected than I’ve ever been. And, it’s my job to be in the know.
My editor is East Coast New York times,water gate era.. brutal blood sucker who wants a story. But this is why I became a journalist, because there is always a story behind the story, layers of truth, pain, treachery, misunderstanding and failure waiting to be exposed. Lets face it we read the newspaper in the morning because it’s our mental orgasm. Easier to face our own sorry lives.
I ended up coming out to California do to a big time Heroin Distributor, the guy would pack the smack into plastic garbage bags, tuck them into a Samsonite, and pay a visit to Grosse Ile where he’d sell to the Iaccoca’s,and the Fords offspring. His name was John O’Neil. He was actually an Armenian adopted into a wealthy California vineyard and distillery family whom eventually had their own biological Irish/Armenian children. By providing drugs, to Rock Stars,and rich kids of the John found a way to finally be accepted. Forgive me, I’m getting off subject.
Corazon Bandita Chapter 2…..
When I got home that night, the key would not unlock the door. Sava and I had been living together for nearly two years, and Yes our relationship was strained. He told me someone had been pilfering money out of his business account, so often he was in the Shop, working to make ends meet, as to not loose his pants.
When I first became familiar with him, it was just me being voyeuristic. Though I’ll admit, he seemed hyper aware of the impression he was making.
Over the span of a year, the girl friends, rarely accompanying him home.
In the middle of the night, I would notice him go down the driveway; seeing him through my window head in the direction of his business. At this point interactions between us, was limited. He would tell me to come to the shop; & trade my crappy M.G.B.spider; in for something like, a BMW. I had brought my coup to his shop for service, I liked the way Sava would look so serious as he was discussing my car with the mechanics.
I barely had money for rent, I was working for a rag called The Independent Journal, covering and occasional Jewel heist, and the local music scene when the regular guy was away.
Most woman go through a stage when they are actually somewhat attractive, it’s the gods, helping the human species continue to procreate. Oddly I’d been getting asked if I’d seen The movie, The French Lieutenants Woman, people saying that I looked like Meryl Streep. What was uncanny is when, Asians, would asked me if I was a movie actress. Do to my wavy long auburn hair, and facial feature’s which have a similar symmetry to Meryl,there were people who thought I was her. . People tended to do double takes so I took to wearing a hooded cape, like the one she wore in the movie. Red hair causes others to take notice, something I’m not comfortable with, so hoodies give me a private protected feeling.
Often well before dawn; Sava would leave, returning home with the sun, have a quick shower, then off again.
The mystery was agitating my sense’s, I throw on a hoodie and some cycling pants, get my bike and walk it down the steep hill to the street. It was 3 a.m., I’m hoping nobody notice’s me. I arrive at the shop, sure enough lights were on in the back room. As I slink around, and an exterior light with a motion sensor flashes. I glide out of it’s range, & I’m able to view him in the garage, working on a Mercedes.
His world must have rocked completely off it’s foundation, yet the strains, never showed in his demeanor. Watching him, was like being in the back of an ambulance having an angelic paramedic save my life.