Donald Trump Vent Thread

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[Original Quill]

Not to worry. He will be impeached. When he is, he will be indicted on treason, espionage, election law violations, computer fraud and abuse, conspiracy against the US, statutory rape. money laundering, female human trafficking, election law violations, and likely RICO racketeering charges. If he isn't--if he gets away with his crimes--the US will face one of he largest equal protection, class action lawsuits ever brought.

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Not to worry.  He will be impeached.  When he is, he will be indicted on treason, espionage, election law violations, computer fraud and abuse, conspiracy against the US, statutory rape. money laundering, female human trafficking, election law violations, and likely RICO racketeering charges.  If he isn't--if he gets away with his crimes--the US will face one of he largest equal protection, class action lawsuits ever brought.

I hope you are right! My fingers are crossed.

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“It is kind of sweet that she made a jacket out
of her and Donald’s wedding vows.”
-Trevor Noah

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The TV is on in another part of the house, Sarah Huckleberry Sanders or whatever her name is, is giving a press briefing. She's blaming congress, the liberals, illegal immigrants, little green men from mars, everyone but 45, for the nations ills. The nasty, unfair press keeps hounding her about the same thing. Why can't they ask questions she wants to answer? Where did she buy her clothes? What color tie is Eric wearing this day? Is Donald Jocko Trump the greatest president ever?
She seemed to be losing her temper. Perhaps she's hungry. She should take her Lexus over to Lexington, Virginia for a dinner. Oh. oops, sorry Sarah

Andrew Cavett on Facebook

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[veya_victaous]

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https://johnpavlovitz.com/2018/04/04/trump-supporting-friend-this-really-isnt-about-donald-trump/?utm_campaign=coschedule&utm_source=facebook_page&utm_medium=John+Pavlovitz

Trump-supporting friend,

What we’ve got here is, failure to communicate…

I know you think I’m preoccupied with this President; that he is the reason I’m so angry and bitter and frustrated these days—but you’re wrong.

This isn’t about Donald Trump.

It’s never been about him.

It wasn’t about him during the campaign or on Election Day.
It wasn’t about him when recordings of him boasting about sexual assaults surfaced.
It wasn’t about him when he said protestors at campaign rallies should be roughed up.
It wasn’t about him when he left refugee families stranded at the airport.
It wasn’t about him when he attacked the Press.
It wasn’t about him when he sabotaged the Affordable Care Act.
It wasn’t about him when he blamed racial violence on “both sides.”

And it isn’t about him today: it’s about us.

This is about me and it’s about you.

It’s about my grief at the ugliness you feel emboldened to post on social media now, the nastiness you seem newly capable of, the disgusting words you now so easily toss out around the dinner table.

It’s about my disbelief at your sudden tolerance for his infidelity, his cruelty, his intellectual ignorance, his disrespect for the rule of law—things you once claimed you could never abide.

It’s about my incredulity at your surprising resentment for marginalized people; for your inability to muster any compassion for those who are hurting or frightened or threatened.

It’s about my disappointment at your easily manipulated nationalistic fervor; how the God and Guns, America First, Love it or Leave it rhetoric, so easily took root in your heart—how hostile to outsiders and foreigners you’ve become.

It’s about my amazement at your capacity to make your faith so pliable, that you could amen a compulsive liar, a serial adulterer, a fear-mongering bully; a man in nearly every way antithetical to the Jesus you’ve always said was so dear to you.

It’s about my sickness seeing you excuse away his coddling of racists, his public attacks on the FBI, his impulsive firings of Cabinet members, his Tweet rants against individual citizens and American companies.

It’s about my grief seeing you respond to his near-hourly display of recklessness and overreach, with a shrug of your shoulders or a turning away from it all.

It’s about me watching you ignore in him and even celebrate in him, the very things you claimed made Hillary Clinton the ‘greater of two evils’ when you voted: blatant corruption, financial impropriety, pathological lies, lack of morality.

It’s about my sadness at seeing you make a million tiny concessions—and how easy it now is for you to sanction actions, that only two years ago you’d have told me fully disgusted you.

Most of all, it’s about me realizing that when all this is over—we are still going to have to deal with all of this. Our fractures are going to outlive this Presidency.

You see, I really don’t give a damn about Donald Trump.

He doesn’t matter to me. He never has.

He’s a three-time married, C-level reality TV celebrity, with a long and well-documented resume of sexual misconduct, financial disasters, and moral filth. He’s a professional predator who’s spent his life exploiting people for personal gain. That’s who he was before and who he will be when he leaves office.

Donald Trump, the President will be gone one day, and his disastrous Presidency will be well preserved. History will have documented his every lie, every misdeed, every abuse of power, every treasonous betrayal—and he will be fully revealed as the monster that many of us are fully aware that he is.

That’s not why I am so disgusted and so filled with sadness these days.

I don’t care about Donald Trump because I don’t know or live alongside or love or respect Donald Trump.

I know and live alongside and love and respect you—or at least I once did, and I’m going to have to try and do that again.

Our relationship and our family and our church and our neighborhood and our nation are going to be trying to clean up the messes long after this President is gone.

When this is all over, the divides and the fractures and the wounds between us are going to remain.

This is why I’m angry and bitter and frustrated; not because of Donald Trump—but because of me—and because of you.

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Justice Kennedy Throws America to The Wolves...

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[Guest]

https://twitter.com/Henryhahadavis/status/1012705322266316801

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Meme of the week!

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https://twitter.com/Henryhahadavis/status/1012705322266316801

This man is an idiot.

[Guest]

Meme of the week!

This woman is an idiot

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The woman is a genius.

[Original Quill]

Where the Holy Family would be if they tried to enter Texas.

['Wolfie]

https://twitter.com/Henryhahadavis/status/1012705322266316801

This man is an idiot.

As is gelico...

That empty-headed twit certainly loves her ultra-conservative neo-fascist blog sites...

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https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/07/02/little-st-don

Once, when St. Don was in the fullness of his years, the people brought before him a woman caught in adultery and asked should they stone her. St. Don grew quiet, attempting to know the hearts of the people. Did the people want to stone her? Would they like him more if he urged them to stone her or if he urged them not to stone her? He sensed that they were actually dying to stone her. For all were holding rocks and a few even had rocks in both hands. And St. Don spoketh as follows: “What she did? Whatever it was? Was bad. So bad. Am I saying you should stone her? Well, I hear that some people have been saying she definitely should be stoned.” And the people believed, and began to chant, “Stone her! Stone her!” At this, St. Don smiled: for it meant that they now likethed him more than they would have likethed him had he suggested they not stone her, or just stayed neutral about it.

•

One day, St. Don and a few of his business colleagues saw a blind man begging in the street. “St. Don,” said Michael Cohen, “tell us, is that man blind through his own sin, or did his parents sin?” And St. Don replied, “Hey, I didn’t do it. Both, probably. How should I know? I find it, honestly, a little disgusting. Let’s clear out.”

With that, St. Don spat into the dirt. And the others waited for St. Don to make clay from his spit and the dirt and apply it to the blind man’s eyes and thus heal him. But nothing doing. St. Don just spat into the dirt again, saying, “Did I say let’s get going or what? Are you morons deaf?”

And they all got going.

•

A story from the early years of the life of St. Don: During his childhood, the mother of one of Little St. Don’s school friends passed away, in a freak accident, while attending a circus. At the funeral, the people were amazed when Little St. Don stood up on one of the pews and began to speak unto them. He told a story about the time he, Little St. Don, had a terrific time, at a different circus. People seemed to really like him at that circus. It was the best circus that ever occurred. The people couldn’t get over it, how he could name each and every animal that came trotting out. Still, it was sad about the death of Mrs. Murphy and all. Then again, who sits right under the flying trapeze? Crushed, wow, that had to hurt. Speaking of flying trapezes, had everyone seen his recent report card? It was—the teachers were all saying this—one of the best report cards anyone had ever seen, since the beginning of time, including probably, you know, Napoleon or whoever. And Napoleon was a pretty smart cookie. But wow, how sad, to be crushed by a falling trapeze person. Poor Mrs. Murphy. Not her day, folks, I’ll tell you that.

Nearly forty minutes later, the people were astonished to find Little St. Don still standing on that pew, still talking. And lo, the crowd drifted away, until there were only, like, four people left, and three were fast asleep, and then, of course, the corpse of Mrs. Murphy was still there, and yet, in what soon became known as the Miracle of Mrs. Murphy’s Funeral, St. Don would later claim that the crowd grew and grew, until the church could barely contain the multitude.

•

Little St. Don was once invited to the birthday party of his best friend, Todd. As the cake was being served, a neighbor, Mr. Aryan, burst in, drunk, threw the cake against the wall, insulted Todd’s mother, and knocked a few toddlers out of their seats, requiring them to get stitches. Then Todd’s dad pushed Mr. Aryan roughly out the front door. Again, Little St. Don mounted a chair, and began to speak, saying what a shame it was that those two nice people had both engaged in violence.

•

One day, in church, Little St. Don heard the priest speaking of someone named Jesus Christ, who was greater and more powerful than any one of us, paradoxically, through his very gentleness. Little St. Don, thinking deeply upon these things, reasoned thusly: “Gentle, sure, yeah, that’s great. Jesus sounds like a good guy. Pretty famous guy. Huh. Maybe kind of a wimp? Within our school, am I about as famous as Jesus was when alive? Now that he’s dead, sure, he’s super-famous. But, when alive, how did he do? Not so great, I bet. Anyway, I like Saviours who weren’t crucified.”

•

Hear thee now the story of how Little St. Don once helped avert a terrible tragedy. A young black man, Jamie, hung a banner outside his dwelling, saying “Please Help Stop Race-Related Violence.” A crowd of white people had there gathered, agitated for reasons they could not quite articulate. Little St. Don climbed onto a nearby lawn chair and, using a megaphone someone had conveniently brought along (and actually it was he, Little St. Don), spoke loudly to Jamie, his voice reaching even inside the dwelling, asking Jamie why he hated the military so much.

And the crowd was satisfied, and left that place, sore amazed.

•

Then came a great challenge in Little St. Don’s life. Some stiff accused him of being involved in some alleged cheating on some meaningless history test. Actually, that stiff was Mrs. Jones, his history teacher, who had recently got divorced and had some sort of weird digestive issue, and whenever she stood behind you her stomach gurgled, so it was like there was a freaking trash compactor back there wearing too much perfume and occasionally making moans of unhappiness at what had to be a pretty miserable life, what with that face.
Video From The New Yorker
The Immigrants Deported to Death and Violence

What might be a good nickname for Mrs. Jones? pondered Little St. Don. Gurgling Gloria? Lonely Jonesly?

Anyhoo.

Little St. Don was unafraid, even in the office of the principal (Fat Bald Jim), and, leaping atop a small stool there, spoke directly unto his accuser, Mrs. Jones. “As far as this fake test-cheating thing? What about all the people who get killed by refrigerators falling on them?” he sayethed. “Big issue, folks. Why do all these refrigerators keep falling on people? Probably it’s the gangs. Might also be that black kid—don’t get me wrong, I love the blacks, but that black kid who had that banner up praising MS-13? Maybe he’s standing behind the fridges, pushing them over. I’ve been hearing about that.”

Yet, in spite of the power of these words, Little St. Don still got detention.

In the wilderness that was detention, Little St. Don entered a deep state of contemplation. What was the meaning of life? What should he be when he grew up? Why was the world so unfair? You live in a big house, the biggest, actually, and everyone in the whole school knows your name, and you are always giving these amazingly well-attended talks, from chairs and stools, and yet, for all of that, people don’t always do what you say, or admit that you are above reproach in all things and always have exactly the right idea about everything, even better ideas than the so-called experts, like Mrs. Gut-Symphony Jones, though you never even crack a book.

Sad.

And then there came upon Little St. Don a powerful vision.

All around him? Carnage. In his city, on this very street, gangs were rampaging, people were trembling in fear, cars were burning, the sounds of machine-gun fire filled the air, people were taking terrible advantage of him. And of his country. Well, admittedly, mostly of him.

Little St. Don arose and went to the window. Hmm. That quiet street out there was not typical, he realized. Carnage sometimes went mute, apparently. That ice-cream truck? Who knew what was going on inside there?

•

St. Don would recall this great trial years later, when he accidentally had an affair with a porn star and inadvertently paid her to keep silent. In the course of time, all came to light. St. Don kept his counsel, stayed quiet. Very, very quiet. Really kept his counsel. Then, on the birthday of his wife, he stated publicly that he hadn’t bought her much, because he was too busy.

And yet still he retainethed office.

St. Don was continually pulling off these sorts of miracles, to the amazement of the people, especially those on the left. And the center. And those on the more reasonable right. And even those on the far right, numbering among them even then those who had acquired much gold supporting Little St. Don, such as, for example, his chief scribe, St. Sean of Hannity, might be heard to mutter, in the privacy of their dwellings, as the hour grew late, “Wow, how long can this hustle keep going?”

•

Shortly after what came to be known as the Detention Vision, one of St. Don’s friends, Little Rudy, proposed beating up a boy named Sandy, who, it was believed, had been the one who had narced out Little St. Don over the whole test-cheating witch hunt. And Little St. Don spoke unto Rudy, saying, “Well, yes, it was bad, what Sandy did. Was it criminal? I don’t know. Do we go around beating up criminals? Maybe we should. I wish we did. Some people do. Strong people. At other, better schools. Because those criminals? Are some bad folks, folks. I do consider what Sandy did somewhat criminal. We’ve got to be tough, people. Got. To. Be. Tough. Believe me. But some people—like Sandy, or Mrs. Jones—they don’t get that. They’re, like, best friends with all the criminals. Next thing you know, our class’s pet rabbit, Briggs, is dead in his cage—killed by what? Criminals. Was it Sandy? Maybe so. Mrs. Jones? Should she also be beaten up? It’s not me saying that. We’ll see what happens.”

And the other kids rushed to Mr. Briggs’s cage, only to find him very much alive, kind of massaging an old carrot he had in there, with both front paws, like he was logrolling or something like that, and Little St. Don said, “It will happen, folks. Believe me.”

And a few years later Mr. Briggs did, indeed, pass away.

Many similar miracles were reported, and signs, and Little St. Don’s fame grew and grew.

•

At that time, in that country, there was, living nearby, a man of many years, Mr. Gonzalez, who had been working among them near unto three decades, on a green card. Twenty years earlier, he had been convicted of a misdemeanor. And it came to pass that ICE cameth and arrested him as he was sitting on his porch, and an hour or so later his adult daughter arrived home from her fourth job, and she spoketh to Little St. Don, being much aggrieved, saying unto him, “My dad never showed up at his second job, and the people at his third job haven’t seen him. Have you seen him? I’m so worried. He works so hard for all of us, every day, and his heart is not so good lately, Little Don.” (And with her eyes she could not see, and lo, did not get it about him being a saint, which was why she erred by calling him merely Little Don, which got under his skin in a big way, even back then.) She was crying. She had her baby in her arms, baby Victoria. Nice baby. He loved kids. Who didn’t? And Little St. Don thought unto himself, Good thing the old man wasn’t watching the baby when ICE got here.

For in truth it was he, Little St. Don, who had called ICE, as a prank, with his pal Little Stephen Miller, for the two of them had not many friends, except each other. And they would sometimes call ICE, for fun, doing their part to reduce the level of infestation. And then sometimes they would go ride bikes.

•

A sparrow fell from a tree. Little St. Don ran over it with his bike, on purpose. A white-haired lady from down the block came and unfairly accused Little St. Don of knocking the sparrow out of the tree with a rock, then running it over with his bike on purpose. Her old coot of a husband doddered over to see what the trouble was. Little St. Don quickly hid the rock with which he had killed the sparrow. Then he hired a spokesperson. That girl Traci, from homeroom.

And Little St. Don thoughteth to himself, Man, was that a good throw. One of the best throws ever.

Quoth now the old lady to Traci, “This young man hit that sparrow with a rock and then ran over it on purpose, with his bike.”

“Truly,” answered Traci, “it is sad that all animals must, in time, die.”

“No, he killed it,” the old lady said. “With the rock. Then the bike.”

“Which one was it, the rock or the bike?” answered Traci. “Can’t be both. If you’re going to make a serious accusation like this against a sitting saint, you should get your story straight. Otherwise, you seem a little, you know . . .”

Then Traci did that thing of circling a finger around the ear area, suggesting: “Senile? I’m not saying that. But some people are discussing that.”

“But I saw it,” the old woman replied. “Saw it with my own—”

“Ma’am, I think you need to calm down,” sayethed Traci to the old sinner. “Accusing a saint of murder—that’s a big deal. Also, I’m not sure it’s ‘murder’ if it’s just a bird. Kind of disrespectful to all those actual human beings who’ve been murdered. And their families. Especially in combat.”

•

After the old sinner and her old, weak sinner husband left that place in confusion, Little St. Don went unto the place he was staying, and thought upon many things, while playing Legos. He built a factory and a farm and did skillfully arrangeth the people therein so that it seemed that they were looking up at him. Being Lego people, they had movable arms, and he raised one arm on each, so it seemed that they were waving up at him. Or taking some kind of pledge.

Then Little St. Don noticed that a few of the little Lego people’s arms had slowly begun to drop. Stupid failing Lego company—couldn’t even make an arm that stayed up. And now it seemed that the little Lego people, or at least a few of them, were looking up at him skeptically. Doubt dawning on their tiny noseless faces. What? What, you stupid hicks? thought Little St. Don. Get those little arms up, pronto. You think anybody else is interested in you at all? Where are those little coal miners?

•

Then St. Don left that place and went unto the living room. And turning on the TV he heard, from some preacher, the words of Jesus, as follows: “Suffer the little children, and forbid them not to come unto me, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.” And he took these words to heart, and would recall them, and abide by them, wisely, years later, when there were some issues at the border, but only a few of the words, like the first four.

This is the word of the Lord.

[veya_victaous]

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Trump is the stupidest president in American history....

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The dumbest asshole in the universe arrives in England...

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[Original Quill]

Does the cape come in leather?

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Does the cape come in leather?

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This describes the low-life Trump administration to a tee....

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[Original Quill]

Yet, people still judge him by normal standards. They feel he deserves state honors.

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[veya_victaous]

[Andy]

Trump seems to be conspiring with Putin fof an overthrow of Western Europe. They both want to rule the world, both are billionaires, both are far right, powermad meglomaniacs and both own hue nuclear arsenals.
The quicker someone"takes the shot" as M said to Eve in Skyfall, the safer the world will be.

[nicko]

You favour assassination then, what a dickhead you are ! There you go folks, left wingers solution,---Murder !

[Andy]

But what if the gunman was working blackops for a covert Government department who had discoversd Trump was working for Russia ( which he probably is).
he would be following orders.

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