Despite my forever-fear of Chaucey’s retribution, as I write today, other news has overwhelmed me.  This past Friday, I watched the erstwhile cheerleader Liz Cheney making a case against Trump and his only-see-him-wearing-kneepads coterie. And do, if you can, picture Liz with her delectable teen legs. Yum!

You know the kneepad boys.  Tubby Bannon and Fibber Meadows are charter members, though Kenny ‘the bottom” McCarthy deserves an honorable mention.  Liz could outride, outwrestle, outshoot any of them. As a tough guy, unlike DT’s gang, Liz is the real deal.

Still, I wondered about Liz lecturing on the 1/6 Insurrection.  Does she believe that anybody in his secret heart doubts that DT and his boy-I’d-look-great-in-an-SS uniform did everything Liz the Fierce says they did?  There are a lot of people willing to say they don’t believe it, but how many are so dumb that they believe it?  I say, “Few, pitifully few.”

When I arrived for one of pet sessions with Melania, I once asked her about 1/6.  Did she believe Don was guilty?  She chuckled, “If you can count on anything with Donld, it’s that he’s always guilty, though you may have to indict a few bagmen before you reach him.  Donald loves, as any woman knows, rubber gloves.”   Also, on her view, Don is a bit like a 4-year-old.  He has no real grasp of what is true and what is false.  Donald’s mouth expresses his wishes rather than facts.

Still, I felt bad about Liz spending so much of her life making a case against a known rascal and his rascally pals. For one thing, her dad’s heart is so small, you must wonder how much time he has left.  Liz even made me repent for having taken one of the few bribes I accepted as a journalist.

Perhaps, gentle reader, you remember the time. During Liz’s gay-bashing days, she was very hard on her Lesbo sister.  Even then, that kind of out loud thinking could pull forth retaliation as a harvest.  A Sapphic crusader, I can’t remember if it was Camille Paglia or one of her twins, promised me $100 to plant a story insinuating Liz was a faux heterosexual. For the $100, I agreed to do the story. I also included a link to a probably photoshopped episode of Liz lesbianing it up with a rather loud naked, hairy woman. 

Believe it or not, this scoundrel never paid me the $100.  She swindled me.  It taught me an indispensable lesson as a journalist.  When you agree to a bribe, get your money upfront.  I did use a pen name for the story so Liz the Fierce never found me out.  Be careful, though.  A lot of politicos have mean teams of vicious, expert hunters.

Now listening to Liz recount the plots of Insurrectionists—Proud Boys, the Oath Keepers, Trump, congressional loons, crazy lawyers, a mad General, and assorted members of the Clueless—whilst watching footage of these clowns lacked the impact of the massacres in Buffalo and Uvalde.  When I see children or innocent shoppers being cut down with an AR, I start to think maybe I should stop sneaking out of the house. 

Perhaps I should even try to talk mike into moving to Inverness in Scotland or Kyoto where nobody seems interested in hunting children or people they don’t know.  I even start to feel I’m going to weep if I head earnest pols talking up solutions like outlawing ARs or Kalashnikovs.  It’s all insane.  The same types howl the gun-control “solution” every time somebody slaughters a fresh herd of innocents. Mike always taught me that if you keep doing the same thing over and over without result, your insane. You need to try something else.  Even Roberta thinks you shouldn’t keep doing what doesn’t work.

When I a  tête-à-tête with Peregrine, he vowed that staffing the schools with Munitions Galore killer bots, which looked indistinguishable to my eye from the Mr Clean model, would guarantee security.  Peregrine also estimated he and his Munitions Galore could do it even cheaper if school authorities let him place bombs with his invisibility sheath on bombs in school hallways.  Munitions Galore computers had already predicted with absolute accuracy where mass shooters would go in any modeled school before they reached the kids.  All that then needed doing was for the bomb to detonate.  “Turn the killer,” as Peregrine put it, “into body parts.  Don’t waste scarce resources on apprehending and trying evil ghouls bent on evil.  Be done with them.”

Bart had her own view.  “Train feral cats to patrol the schools. Arm them well.  I’d also recommend walkways hanging from hallway ceilings.  Teams of well-trained, well-armed cats could either drop from the walkway and eat the murderous Bozo’s carotid and vertebral arteries.  Alternatively, they could just shoot him down where he stood.  Human coppers are too lenient. They’re always refusing the kill suspects. It’s why we have so much crime. You don’t see this in Saudi Arabia, where His Royal Highness even know how to handle sassy journalists.”

I’ll admit it.  I don’t know that any of these well-intended measures will work any better than the endless string of defunct and resurrected re-resurrected gun-control measures.  I suspect it’s easier to just move, but mike says he’s too old to traipse around the world in search of a safer country. The man’s lazy.