Mary-Beth Crump, former two-time Miss Universe contestant and spokesperson for twice impeached Donald J. Trump tells me there was a simple, perfectly reasonable explanation why a lot of classified documents were flushed down the Oval Office washroom toilet.
“We were often out of toilet paper in there,” she giggled adding, “but I guess that’s not a problem you cats have to worry about.”
Apparently TFG’s questionable diet led to frequent, unexpected trips to the washroom and required a fresh supply of toilet tissue twice a day.
Or so the story goes.
Dammit, is this where my life has gotten to? Writing about a loathed lump of lard and his lavatory trials and tribulations?
I was better off as a feral.
There was a quiet dignity in that life. But this - yesterday it was about his litter of drug addicted, animal slaughtering, vain asshole children. And today - toilet stories.
No – no – I can’t do this - I miss the alley life. Hunting for my own food. The crunch of a rodent in my mouth on a cold, foggy day. The camaraderie of my gang and a good old fashioned yowling fest with my guys on a fence on a quiet moonlit night. Laughing joyously as the neighbors screamed at us, “Shut the fuck up or I’ll…”.
Enough of this toilet talk – I’m done for today – nobody in their right mind wants to read about Spanky and his toilet time.
Just arrest and charge the larcenous orange motherfucker already.
My deepest apologies for today’s column.