Time is running out on the inmates’ control of our nation’s preeminent psychotic mental ward . . . now located at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC. The patients’ debauchery-based party is coming to an end. Nurse Ratched will again regain control. The inmates will be returned to their beds, securely strapped in for everyone’s safety. When the inmates’ actions are exposed to them in the light of day, when they are told that Mommy will be informed of what they did, a metaphoric political throat will be slit, and political appointee Jeff Sessions will bleed out. Another political person, the party thrower, the Tweeter-in-Chief, will be made meek and mild by political neutralization; he’ll be rendered docile by his self-inflicted political lobotomy. Then, and only then, will order return to the ward’s West Wing. One can dream, no?
Life is now completely reflecting art. Movie art. Watching these first one hundred days of Trump’s presidency has been akin to watching One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Just like in that movie, it was only a matter of time before the White House’s inmates’ partying sessions came to an end. Who could have guessed that Jeff Sessions would deliver, if not the fatal, then a crippling blow to the head of Trump? I had my suspicions about the lying, voter-suppressing, racist Sessions. He is now the most visible mental inmate of the West Wing, where psychotic patient Trump resides. I wrote about the similarities between President Trump and a psychotic patient in “Narcissistic Jingoism” and in “Presidential Lithium Blood Levels Obtained?” and in “Presidential Postulations from a Joint Session of Congress Speech.”
Attorney General Jefferson Beauregard “Jeff” Sessions III has truly trumped Trump’s (known) despicable behavior. At best, he misled Congress and/or committed perjury. At worst, he participated in helping Russia affect the outcome of the 2016 election of Trump. Regardless, he has surfaced, and now a bright shining light is illuminating Trump’s swamp. I want to thank you for that, Jeff. Thanks indeed!
The Washington Post reported in their article “Sessions met with Russian envoy twice last year, encounters he later did not disclose” that “In January [2017], Sen. Patrick J. Leahy (D-VT.) asked Sessions for answers to written questions. [Leahy wrote that] Several of the President-elect’s nominees or senior advisors have Russian ties. Have you been in contact with anyone connected to any part of the Russian government about the 2016 election, [Leahy asked], either before or after election day?”
Sessions responded with a simple “No.”
Laconic for the usually chatty Sessions.
The Post’s article also reminded us of this: “At his Jan. 10, [2017], Judiciary Committee confirmation hearing, Sessions was asked by Sen. Al Franken (D-Minn.) [under oath] what he would do if he learned of any evidence that anyone affiliated with the Trump campaign communicated with the Russian government in the course of the 2016 campaign.”
The Post quoted verbatim Sessions’s answer to Franken’s inquiry: “I’m not aware of any of those activities,” Sessions responded. Then he added: “I have been called a surrogate at a time or two in that campaign and I did not have communications with the Russians.”
Checkmate!
It will be amusing to watch the GOP and the president attempt to spin this revelation. They better be careful, because they just might provide the fodder for revolution.
The Post reached out to Nancy Pelosi, the House minority leader, who stoically said in a statement: “After lying under oath to Congress about his own communications with the Russians, the Attorney General must resign.” She added that “Sessions is not fit to serve as the top law enforcement officer of our country.”
Mark Twain wrote, “Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn’t.”
I was thinking about cutting back on my rum intake . . . that ill-conceived idea had to do with Trump’s mild behavior of late. I was feeling as though I might be able to face a day without getting totally faded. That’s my coping mechanism. It’s my attempt at fading away from all the stench rising from Trump’s swamp.
It is now clear, though, the Cristal kind, that I need to buy stock in Bacardi rum. Because rum will continue to freely flow here at Le Château Hall. When it comes time to watch Jeff Sessions squirm like a fish on the hook and be dragged away screaming when he is exposed like Billy Bibbit was exposed, I’ll be needing massive amounts of rum—for celebration . . .
I guarantee that Beauregard Sessions will try to blame everyone else for his jam, just as Billy Bibbit did (see video below).
Postscriptum: Life, it’s stranger, stranger than fiction . . . and movies.
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