Tag: Will D. Defendant
Just humming along
I suppose I should be laser-focused on the doings in Manhattan, but I’m more interested in whether we’ll get some hummingbirds at the feeder this morning. We saw our first hummers of spring last evening, just before dusk, doing an aerial dance around the ornamental plum.
Speaking of feeders, do you think that when Porky hears “Order in the court!” he reflexively blurts, “Two Big Macs, two Filet-O-Fishes, and a large chocolate shake!”
That’s reaching
Good gravy. You couldn’t find more gasbags in the news if it were Thanksgiving Day and the Macy’s parade were meandering through Manhattan. On fire.
You have Rep. Mikey Mouse (R-Dizzyland) calling himself “a wartime speaker.” This is true in the sense that he is at war with his own caucus.
Then there’s tough guy Tom Cotton, (R-Dunk-’n’-Flay), regaling us from the depths of his dead eyes about how they know how to treat peace-creeps and hippies in Arkansas, where he apparently rarely shows his … well, I suppose you’d call that a face, if only because it’s parked on the front of his head.
And of course there’s Will D. DeFendant smirking, snoozing, and sounding off through jury selection in his criminal trial.
“Your client was audible,” Judge Juan Merchan told the defendant’s shysters, mouthpieces, and ambulance chasers.
Boy, is that ever an understatement. An offense to the ears, eyes, and nose, if you believe what you smell on the Innertubes from noted yukmeisters Adam Kinzinger and Kathy Griffin.
Well, look on the bright side. The trial takes a day off tomorrow, and we’re not in the jury pool.
The Shart-Timer
Well, it seems Will D. Defendant won one and lost one today. He found a sucker to bond him out of some deep doo-doo in one case, but his relentless punching down at the Little People got a gag order expanded in another.
As The New York Times is fond of reminding us (those teases): “If Mr. Trump violates the order, the judge could impose fines, and in extraordinary circumstances, throw him behind bars.” Be still, my heart.
Meanwhile, is it just me, or does the latest Squeaker of the House always look like he’s fighting off a wicked shart? I’d be doubling up on my Kevlar Depends, too, if the Redneck Baroness was piloting her Fokker pickup with its twin Spandaus trained on my six.
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