Robert Arvay’s recent article in American Thinker stuck a responsive chord. "It’s Not a Debate … it’s warfare” discusses “…the bizarre but common phenomenon of Trump Derangement Syndrome (TDS).”
Arvay notes that those who suffer from TDS are incapable of rationale thought on the issues. “Those with the syndrome have a computer-like repertoire of ready replies for everything.”
I certainly have noted as much in my interactions with my next door neighbor. My training and experience is to be absolutely accurate on the facts. If you find what I am about to relate fantastical, keep in mind one fundamental fact when judging the veracity of the following narrative: both mine and my neighbors homes are located in that parallel universe in that other space-time dimension known as California.
The only thing at variance with the truth in the following narrative are the names which, in an abundance of caution, I substitute with aliases.
My neighbor, “Pamela”, definitely suffers from an advanced and irreversible stage of TDS which has grown, in recent months, to a fever pitch with Trump’s withdrawal from the Paris Climate Accords and his recent abrogation of that seminal foreign policy achievement which was to guarantee “peace in our time” – the Iran Nuclear Deal.
I try to avoid Pamela as I’ve learned over time that there is no reasoning with her but often times our paths will cross on the morning walk.
My morning ritual: Arise at the crack of dawn and start the day off with a morning hike with my trusted canine, “Ripper.” Turns out Pamela walks many of the same trails with her pets – a scruffy rat named “Stiletto” and her mangy fluff ball of a mutt, “Tofu.”
Turns out “Stiletto” is aptly named as the little flea infested rat has a piercing bark that stabs into the quiet of the night.
Anyway, two years ago after the “Prince of Peace” railroaded the Iran Nuclear deal, bypassing Congress and ignoring the Constitution with the help of that science fiction writer Ben Rhodes, I decided to put in a wine cellar. You remember Rhodes? He was that failed fiction writer who was brought on as Obama’s Deputy National Security Advisor and later bragged about bullsh***ing the American people about what a wonderful thing both Obamacare and the Iran deal were.
Pamela never lets an opportunity pass to let me have it with both barrels when she sniffs out an opportunity. Right after I put in the wine cellar she heaped a litany of verbal abuse my way. “Having a nice day Prepper Bob?” “You’d better wear you’re tin foil hat so you know when to go underground!” “You growing any grapes to put in your bomb shelter!!”
“Pamela”, I calmly explained. “It’s not a ‘bomb shelter.’ Yes, it was engineered with a radiation protection factor (PF) of 1000. Not a bad idea given we’re downwind from one of the largest Naval Weapons Storage facilities in the country.”
Oh what a difference a day makes. Fast forward to that fateful and dark day when that certain buffoon took over the nuclear football.
It’s now rather amusing to see Pamela clutching her Armageddon pearls as she has, since that fateful November day, been transformed into a total prepper nut ball paranoid basket case.
Still, some things don’t change. Our paths accidentally crossed the other day and I couldn’t help but note that Pamela was in particularly high spirits. “Why are you so happy?” I inquired.
Turns out Pamela has a daughter named “Florence” who is beloved of “Rudolpho.”
“Rudolpho told me at dinner last night”, she began. “Yes?” “Rudolpho swore he would never eat red meat and he would never have any children!” She chortled.
“Why is that good?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Don’t you understand? Rudolpho will never eat red meat and he will never have any children to save the planet from excess carbon footprints!!” She breathed out passionately as a tear rolled off her cheek.
Understand. Rudolpho is Pamela’s putative son-in-law.
“I don’t know”, I said, “I kinda like the idea of my children having genetic clones. I would rather like the idea of hearing the sound of little carbon foot prints around the tree on Christmas morning.”
“Baaaa!! [Humbug!!]” She exclaimed.
I know. You think I'm making this sh**t up. Again, this conversation occurred in the unreal State of California. As I stood there next to Ripper taking in what Pamela had just told me, that bill that was just introduced in the California legislature came to mind. Our California legislators want to abrogate the celebration of George Washington’s and Lincoln’s birthdays and in place of “President’s Day” designate May 1st as “International Workers Day.” If this legislative travesty goes through, my California Marxist overseers intend it to be a “paid holiday.”
My head started to throb. A sharp tug on the leash snapped me out of it. Ripper is a fighting machine - all muscle but highly disciplined. He’s trained to follow my every command. It’s a nonverbal language between us. All hand signals and intuition. Understand, all I ever feed Ripper is red meat. My hand was starting to involuntarily twitch.
I try to practice OPSEC at every moment and started to think - it’s a good thing that Pamela is entirely unaware that the underlying purpose of my silly little Sci-Fi Comedy movie, Alien Anthropologists, is to get Trump re-elected in 2020.
Fortunately she avoids all those toxic low brow websites like Breitbart and ANP where knuckle dragging deplorable fools like me go for their news and information. She only gets her news from “trusted and reliable sources” like CNN, MSNBC and NPR. So I figured there was little danger that she would come across my article in ANP.
If she figured out that my underlying purpose for my little movie was to get that Red Meat Eating, P*ssy Grabbing, Climate Change denying War Mongering, Trigger Happy Buffoon a second term so he could complete the destruction of planet earth, she’d be coming at me with a Stiletto. No. Nothing funny there. In her mind a Trump second term would be tantamount to a disaster rivaling the darkest Greek tragedy.
I gripped the leash tightly and relaxed my hand while I commended Pamela for her good sense in approving the end of her genetic line in furtherance of saving mother earth.
Robert Kirk, a retired prosecutor, suffers from a rare malady that afflicts only a tiny percentage of his fellow Californians: commonsense conservative thought. To contact or to follow his current politically incorrect project, go to www.alienanthro.com.
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