President Rain Man, My Fat Ass!

(By Cyril Blubberpuss, Conservative-American)

I am so sick of this cant and twaddle!" I said to my executive secretary Miss Waddlebody just as I shoved my freshly-shined wingtip in the face of the bootblack before quickly scuttling away, "Trump misses one 100th anniversary of the World War I Armistice and people are all over him like white on Stephen Miller."

     All right, two, including Arlington. So sue me.

     It seems all those liberal Gold Star pussies jump on Trump every time he slights the troops or is merely perceived to have slighted the troops. And, unfortunately, in politics perception is 90% reality whether it is or not. And even if our president did fly all the way to France to meet with world leaders in time for the 100th anniversary of the Armistice, can you blame the poor man for not wanting to go out and look at a bunch of headstones in the rain? After all, he was fully expecting a parade in his honor like when he went there summer last year. How the fuck was he to know France wouldn't have a parade on Armistice Day and that the frogs only do it on Bastille Day? Talk about bait and switch!

     And I ask you, Dear Reader, what possible political benefit could have come from Trump going to Belleau Wood and coming back looking like this? Who knows what could have happened, especially with Jim Acosta there to cover it? Maybe that grabby intern that tried to snatch that microphone out of his hand last week like a fag sailor grabbing twink cock on liberty would've gotten hold of Trump's umbrella by accident and how could that have elevated our skyrocketing international prestige in Western Europe?

     Oh so now I suppose you'll say, "But, but Merkel, Macron and Trudeau honored their fallen soldiers!" Yeah and like Mom used to say to Cecil and me when we were growing up, "Cyril, Cecil, if the other prep school boys set fire to homeless men, does that mean you have to?" (I still have a permanent flat spot on the back of my head from all the times Mom would slap me back there after all the times I said. "Yes!")

     And you never find anyone who loves the troops more than our president and me.

     Well, actually, that's not entirely true. In my previous contributions to my byline, I'd glossed over my kid brother's mercifully brief flirtation with the United States Navy. It was around 1980, when Trump had begun building up Trump Tower and Cecil, trespassing on the construction site, got fresh with one of Trump's minimum wage-earning Polish laborers. There was a dust-up and the judge decided, after looking at Cecil's stout but soft frame,

     "Son, you have been found guilty of public exposure and solicitation. You have two choices for the sentencing phase: Either you can be remanded to Riker's Island or... Or you can join the United States Navy, where, after a rigorous course of basic training with scores of other young men with whom you'll be showering, you may one day be cooped up in tight confines on a ship with many more young men, again, some of whom will be naked, for months on end with no possibility of escape. The choice is yours."

     Well, Cecil's beady little eyes got as big as they'll ever get and let's just say his mandatory standing posture before the judge proved a bit embarrassing as he visualized being a member of our superior fighting force on the seven seas. In fact, in a burst of patriotism, Cecil raised his chubby little arm and immediately wanted to be sworn in on the spot.

     It wasn't to be, not at that time, anyway, and after taking the ASVAB seven times, finally passed it, barely, and we saw him off at the AFEES in Flushing, leaving behind a family full of confidence that he'd be a five star admiral before his 20 years were up.

     Instead, 20 days later, he was deposited on my father Ambrose's doorstep, flanked by two very stern-faced Marines like the ones whose graves Trump wouldn't visit because he refused to tie up traffic in France like he does every other weekend when he's at Mar a Lago. When Spenser our butler took in the scene, he called my father who immediately demanded to know what was going on.

     Apparently, there was another dust-up and misunderstanding between my kid brother and some of the other recruits in the barracks shower at the training base in Orlando. Allegedly, some bodily fluids were voluntarily exchanged on my brother's end, sending three of the recruits to the base hospital's psychiatric ward.

     Well, that served Cecil in good stead later when he needed that military discipline and bearing when he really did go to Riker's Island after that other dust-up involving the Eastern European hostel boys and www.cecilsprays.com.

     In fact, if anyone else in our family can be said to love the troops more than Cecil and I, it's my baby girl Bertha. In fact, she'd briefly enlisted for a time after seeing Goldie Hawn in Private Benjamin back in the mid 90's. And as a US Marine, it was said she was putting US Navy SEALs to shame by beating them at arm wrestling with her weak arm. She probably could've had a shot at being the first woman on SEAL Team Six if it weren't for her nocturnal activities in the women's barracks.

     Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that Donald Trump didn't visit that bone yard where over 2200 US Marines died in some war between the frogs and krauts for the same reason he didn't allow himself to be drafted or why he didn't enlist. As he told me himself at the White House last week right before he left for France,

     "Look, Cyril, you should understand better than most what it woulda been like being the son of a rich man in a place populated by gooks. Look at what happened to McCain. They took him because they looked up at his plane, somehow recognized him and shot him down because they knew his old man wore scrambled eggs on his lid, OK? I didn't want to be a distraction to the rest of the boys. Because if there's anything I hate being, it's a distraction with senseless drama."

     And if that doesn't put this silly matter to rest, ladies and gentlemen, well, I don't know what will.