Not Content With Global Warming, Don “The John” Trump Shifts Us Into Nuclear Winter!
Well, fellow Little Green Footballers, he’s finally blown the cork.
Off the entire world, that is. Not only wasn’t he content that America is a great country, he had to make it even greater.
With nuclear winter, that is.
Yep, I’m freezing. And I don’t live on or near either the South Pole nor the North Pole. Truthfully, I live closer to the equator (where it’s always hot, hot, hot), much more firey than either of these extremities.
I was complaining to some people I know the other day and they said I had no right to talk ill of America’s one and only dictator in such a fashion,
“He’s going to be the greatest President in history,” one of my fellow largemouths told me, in a scolding fashion.
“The president that started using nuclear warheads on a whim, sending them all over the place, he is going to be the greatest President? The President who poked a sleeping lion with a sharp stick, and I’m talking in a round-about way about Kim Jon in [or on or ill or nill], who fired off a fusillade of nuclear warheads? He’s a great leader?” I asked with a snarky snear.
“Damn right. They ought’ta ship all you hillbillies from Ohio to Arkansas to work free on those giant poultry farms. Maybe then you’ll learn to mind your manners,” he snapped.
“Arkansas, where is that?” another clean-shaven relic said from over in the corner. We were drinking coffee and chewing and smoking tobacco in Uncle Veto-Dam Island’s downtown area, right off the beaten track of big city urban and some glitzy burgs.
“Arkansas is in the Pacific Rim - somewhere between Yugoslavia and The Creek Naton. It’s filled with chickens and folks who don’t give much of a hoot ‘bout nuttin’,” the leader of this weirdo political action group snarled.
“So what you’re telling us is that Arkansas has left The Union?”
“We never was and never will be in your stinking Union. We is Confederates, white, black and blue and true, true, true,” the leader snarled.
The man was now staring me down with a pair of cheap, dolar store binoculars. He was gritting hia teeth and growling prolifically.
“I tell you one thing , Sonny Boy. If I was you, I’d leave this redneck joint and become a permanet fixture at an alternative school for predacious, sinister, mixed-up kids.”
“Been there, done that, got a wardrobe-load of teeshirts about all you just mentioned, cowboy,” I said menacingly.
Our little backroom argument had gone from beng pitiful and ridiculous to even more so.
The Discovery Channel should be informed of all that racket, It looked like the opening scene of a “Friends and Farmers” one-hour snippet off ID Discovery. Anyhow, it looked like the first scene of a special on a small-town murder one mile north of the Mason-Dixon Line.
“Ain’t no way you’s firing any ‘a my shotguns, you pinko, Communist, lounge lizard!”
“After carrying an M-16 around for two years in U.S. Army ROTC, I doubt if one of your shotguns is going to give me orgasmic bliss,” I hissed at the old codger.
“Yep, I was Army, too. Vietnam. Second Raccoon Divison, One Thousanth and First Square Bones. Ever hear of us? We were some bad assed dudes.”
“Second Raccoon Division? Are you sure you’re not talkng about the Navy or the Air Force?”
“No I was Army, Tonto, and doncha ever let me hear you squawk that I wasn’t,” he snapped.
Writer’s Note -Actually, the meeting minutes displayed above are the Sons of the Civil War Bandits and Bums Group, We declared a secret “double the trouble” meet and greet was needed to decide whether or not our little militia group should attack and seize an animal shelter on our city’s north side that had taken in a bunch of cats and dogs that are Indigenous to Russia. South Vietnam and Ireland. By the way, a big photo credit goes out to WordForge for the compelling art. What are those strange dogs and cats going to do when the see this Raccoon Division flyswatter?