The Senate’s Elefinks have released their double-secret “health care” bill, and it’s just about as bad as you might expect.
It boils down to: “Oi! You there! Sickies, crippies, olds and poors! Mind giving us a hand with this yuuuuuge sack of cash? We’re taking it over to the richies! Try not to sneeze or bleed on it, will you?”
The good news is, they won’t forget to put roses on your grave.
Oh, who are we kidding? Of course they’ll forget.
I see my birth state, Maryland, is joining with the District of Columbia in suing Don Clementino for making money off a presidency he considers an impediment to his golf game.
The lawsuit, a signed copy of which [was] provided to The Washington Post on Sunday night, alleges “unprecedented constitutional violations” by Trump.
Nice to see the old home crowd standing tall while the Congress scurries about, trying to give the banana to our Republic.
And not just me, either: While we were all entranced with “The Comey Show,” the House GOP was continuing the Lord’s work, which is to say hotwiring the Republic and tooling on over to the Thieves Paradise Chop Shop.
Look for that crowd to redouble its efforts before it comes out that the real Donald Trump croaked back in the Eighties while horning lines off Russian hookers three at a time and this bozo is an old KGB pro with a new face.
I’ll confess that I only watched a little of Comey’s testimony. As soon as Little Marco’s earnest, sweaty mug popped onto The New York Times video feed, I kitted up and shot out the door for a bike ride before it got too bloody hot here, too.
I wonder who was tasked with holding the elephant tranquilizers for Don Clementino while his piggy little eyes took it all in. Probably President Bannon. I bet he even pre-chewed ’em for the poor little tyke.
What a strange time to be honoring those Americans who’ve sacrificed everything — lives, fortunes, sacred honor — on the altar of freedom.
We’ve thanked them for their service by installing as commander-in-chief a creature who has sacrificed nothing. Not his life, which he still lives mostly as he pleases. Certainly not his fortune, about which we know next to nothing. And sacred honor? Puh-leeze. He has none.
Since he has no shame, we must bear it in his stead. Shame on us.
As a child I desperately wanted a uniform. It’s probably the only reason I submitted, briefly and without distinction, to a tour of duty with the Cub Scouts.
What I really craved was a uniform like my dad wore to work on Randolph AFB, that tan U.S. Air Force summer kit. But the old man gave me a stern talking-to about that, explaining that uniforms were something to be earned, not bought.
Harold Joseph O’Grady certainly earned his kit, beginning with flying Gooney Birds out of New Guinea during World War II. So did his brother, Charles Declan O’Grady, tail gunner in a B-29, also in the Pacific Theatre.
Mom’s dad served, too, in WWI, but of him we know next to nothing. Both grandfathers were long dead when we kids came around, and neither of our parents were inclined to discuss their respective early histories in any real detail. It was as though they had never existed apart from each other.
Children of war and depression, they ensured that their offspring would have an easier row to hoe. We didn’t get the best of everything, but lacked for nothing, especially when it came to education, from kindergarten to cap and gown. We didn’t get any little million-dollar loans, but neither I nor my sister had to sweat the college debt that cripples today’s youngsters trying to find their way in the world.
And a good thing it was, too, because neither of us has exactly killed it on the golden-toilet scale used to measure success and failure. Sis has spent her life helping people navigate the murky waters of our social-services system. I, as you know, was a minor cog in the fake-news machine before deciding to hang out my own shingle as an artisanal purveyor of free-range, non-GMO, sustainably sourced, gluten-free, 100 percent organic designer bullshit.
Neither of us followed in our father’s footsteps. But we’ve known men and women who served, from World War II through the apparently endless war in Afghanistan. And the least of these stands head and shoulders above the preening back-alley huckster who purports to command them between pep rallies, nest-feathering, and rounds of golf played from the cart. Stamina!
We owe these people a debt, and we keep reneging on it. In this, at least, we are well represented in the White House.
It’s a sad commentary on the state of our national affairs when an Anthony Weiner story comes as something of a relief, an amusing little rest stop on the Highway to Hell.
Of course, it isn’t. It was during the investigation into whether Weiner had shown his — well, you know — to an underage girl that then-FBI chief James Comey announced he was snuffling around in The Hilldebeast’s in-box again.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
In related news, there is no truth to the rumor that the former Democratic congressman will move to Las Vegas to begin a new life as a porn star and change his name to Anthony Dildo.
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