What is it with the conald and his attorneys, he hires them, goon shakes their hands for the cameras, and in a matter of months he just wants them to pick up their goddam clothes and hair products and get the hell out. Where is he finding these guys, tinder? He seems to vet his mouthpieces with the same care with which he vets his cabinet nominees. He probably overheard some yo yo bragging about how his great lawyer got him out of a speeding ticket and slam bam thank you mam, he’s the next rookie drafted by team tump. Just recently yet another one of his lawyers ran for the hills and was replaced with not one but two more. One is a new face on the scene, poor mr. flud who looks like he unwittingly wandered out of a brooks brothers catalogue. Not long for the rough and tumble of trump world, I suspect. But what ho! the conald’s also brought on chewliani the reptilian hunchback as his chief defensive tackle and attack dog.
Wouldn’t you love to be a dung beetle on the wall when meuller starts questioning the conald with that pit bull chewliani scowling and growling at his side, baring his prodigious gums in anticipation of the rumble ahead.
Looming across the table sits zen master mewler patiently waiting for the games to begin. He poses his first question:
“Mr. president who…”
Chewey cuts him off, snarling that his question is way outside of the authorized scope of his investigation and the president will not respond.
“Mr. president what…”
Chewey interrupts and growls that that question too is outside of the authorized scope of the investigation and the president will not respond.
“Mr. president where…”
Chewey hurriedly shambles to his feet, slams his fist on the table and bellows that he is fast losing his patience with this area of questioning and will not tolerate it, warning that he will remove his client from the room and discontinue any further queries if it continues.
“Mr. president when…”
At this, chewey’s cranium seems to detonate, forcing his thyroid eyes so far out of his cadaverous face that they push his trifocals off the end of his beak onto the conference table. His face turns the color of a bowl of borscht and he begins furiously sputtering in righteous indignation, his histrionics amplifying his speech impediment, reducing his frenetic rant to a series of spittle-laden squawks.
“Mr. presi….”
Finally chewey’s head literally begins to spin around. He collapses under the table, madly crab walks around the floor, and furiously scuttles out of the deposition room leaving the conald alone, directly across the table from the preternaturally placid mr. mewler. The unperturbed prosecutor quietly asks if the president would care to continue in the absence of his attorney.
The conald can feel the force within him grow, his ego and narcissism coalescing into a palpable sensation of incandescence. He is on fire. He is invincible. No one can get the best of him. He is smarter than anyone else. He always wins. He will wipe the filthy spit covered floor with this ridiculous bureaucratic hack just like he did with the losers who tried to get paid for the shoddy work they did on his condos and casino.
Like a gladiator in the arena, he can’t wait for the chute to open, the lions released and the battle joined. With absolute confidence in his infallibility, the conald crosses his arms, smirks and says, sure, why not. The hint of a smile crosses mr. mewler’s poker face as he begins the questions anew.
my jaundiced eye 