Space Force: Trump To Send Illegals’ Kids Into The Stratosphere?
Letter from Llanaber
As Robert Burns once so famously said, ‘The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft a-gley.’ If you need it translating it means you might have a great plan but it can still get bolloxed. It was thus so yesterday. My assiduous efforts to deny the boss of the parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim access to the news feed ticker tape in the parish council building have been near perfect. I’ve been up early and have successfully filtered out any story that might influence the old bag that may result in a negative impact on village life. Also, I’ve been very lucky with the weather. Perpetual fog has lain heavy on the village for the last ten days. Whilst this hammers the tourist trade (the fog is especially thick in summer and we lose the occasional visitor into the massive sink hole in the high street) it has meant that there has been no TV signal, so Mrs. T has not been able to pick up news from that source.
Why am I so eager to deny my esteemed leader access to up to the minute world news? (I hear you ask).
Mrs. T is becoming increasingly obsessed with mirroring any barmy idea coming from the United States in general and from Donald Trump in particular. She has become a bandwagon jumper of mammoth proportions (literally – she’s worked in her sweet shop since she was a toddler, so she ‘doesn’t need much water in the bath’ if you get my drift).
So, why the reference to Robert Burns? (I hear you ask again).
I have erred!
I failed to take into consideration the news source used most frequently in Llanaber. I refer here to the official village gossip, Mrs. Winfrey, who, by the way, has aspirations of standing against Mrs. T for the job of boss of the council in the next election. She doesn’t stand a snowball in Hell’s chance. She blabs continuously, and can’t be trusted with a secret. It’s imperative that the village boss can keep his or her face-cave shut; otherwise everyone will know what’s happening to the village hospital’s budget.
I digress. I was bringing you up to speed with the latest development in the village.
Mrs. T, as you may recall, runs the sweet shop in the village, ‘Mrs. Trim’s Sweets ‘N’ Stuff.’ Mrs. Winfrey is partial to fudge. She would normally score her supply from old Mrs. Clinton who runs the card shop, but the poor old girl is still banged up in chokey after Mrs. T flushed her out as being a rabid commie subversive, in an Arkady Babchenco style sting.
The upshot was that Mrs. Winfrey had to buy her fudge from Mrs. T’s shop, which she was reported as saying was ‘just as good.’
N. B. For the avoidance of doubt, Mrs. T’s fudge is NOT ‘just as good.’ I know for a fact that Mrs. Clinton puts more butter in her recipe.
All went swimmingly with the transaction until Mrs. Winfrey started to offload her gossip. That’s when the damage was done. As soon as Mrs. Winfrey had waddled out of the shop (she eats a lot of fudge) Mrs. T closed up her shop and called an immediate extra-ordinary council meeting.
What had Mrs. Winfrey said that had so spooked Mrs. T? (I hear you ask yet again).
Before I answer my rhetorical question let me tell you a little about Mrs. Winfrey. She has a tendency to conflate her stories inasmuch as three separate stories go in her ears and one comes out of her mouth. With this made clear, this is what she said to Mrs. T. (verbatim):
“President Trump is separating children from the parents of illegal immigrants and making them join a new ‘Space Force’ to be used to reduce the outrageously increased levels of crime that now exists in Germany because of runaway illegal immigration.”
She went on to add:
“It’s an exquisite solution in that the President is using these illegal kids to dive in from their satellites in outer space to get rid of their illegal parents in a massive ‘zero tolerance to crime’ clamp down.”
Mrs. T didn’t for one minute seem to think this was all jumbled up crazy nonsense. Quite the opposite. At the extra-ordinary council meeting she banged on the table, pointed an accusing finger at me, and shouted, “What the hell are you doing about this?”
I asked what she would like me to do. It was a mistake.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she barked, glaring daggers at me, “Round up the undocumented illegal families in the village, drag the kids away from them, train them to be parenticidal astronauts, then fire them into space!”
I foolishly pointed out that there were several barriers to the successful completion of her instructions. These are but some:
a) The village has no undocumented illegal families. The best we can boast is the occasional visit by a bunch of ‘rowdies’ from the failing neighboring village, Spanibont. Even their visits have declined since Mrs. T appointed one of the rowdies, ‘Mateo the Knife,’ as the head of village homeland security.
b) Llanaber doesn’t have a space program, let alone a space ship capable of firing even a single child into the upper atmosphere.
c) Even if we were able to ‘rent’ a space ship we wouldn’t know what to do with it. For your information: Whilst it has never been confirmed as fact, it is rumored that there are at least two people in the area with fully functioning rockets. It’s strongly suspected that the leader of the Druids, Benjy Yahoo, owns a secret stock of ‘rockets.’ Our village cop, Robert ‘Robbie the Bobbie’ Muller once discovered a stash of them hidden in Benjy’s garage. Benjy fobbed off Robbie, telling him a cock-and-bull story that they were for ‘a special fireworks display’ he was planning for the Travelers.
Also, the owner of the village amusement arcade, the ‘beast from the east’ Putin Lotzadosh recently ‘annexed’ the local swamp, Bogbourne, into his slot machine empire. He claimed this was for the storage of his perfectly harmless life sized models of tanks, battleships and rockets. I’ve seen them through my binoculars. I suspect some may not be models, in particular the ones with warheads.
d) It’s traditional for kids to love their parents, not kill them.
Mrs. T would have none of it.
But, for once I was thinking on my feet. I pointed out that, whilst America and Germany have problems with illegal human immigrants, Llanaber has a huge problem with illegal sheep. Because there is not yet a ‘fence’ between Llanaber and Spanibont (they still refuse to pay for it), the bloody things stray in from Spanibont and eat our grass.
Also, the village may not have a rocket but it does have an alternative. In the year 1766 Llanaber was engaged in a brief war with Spanibont over which village had the rights to the collection of dottle from the fields for fertilizing the leek plantations. We won because we had better weaponry, i.e. a large wooden catapult. The village still has this catapult, and it has been meticulously maintained. Not only is it in perfect working order but it is capable of firing a four week old lamb for a distance of over ten yards.
It was just as I pointed this out I played my Trump card (no pun intended).
I produced a large bagful of Turkish Delight and put it on the table in front of Mrs. T. She cannot resist the stuff. She wired into it straight away, She has the attention span of an amoeba, so within moments she’d waved me away to ‘get on with it’ while she stuffed her fat face with the remains of the sickly confection.
I left the council building and went straight to see Mrs. Winfrey. I gave her £1 to spend on fudge and told her the story about how Donald Trump had just resigned and left The White House to jog naked to the South Pole.
Let’s hope Mrs. T jumps on that bandwagon.
That’s it for now.
We've uncovered another Letter from Llanaber:
Llanaber Follows US Lead and Pulls Out of Human Rights Organization
Two pieces of bad news from the village to report today, both of which I’m convinced will spell long term problems for Llanaber.
Firstly, the boss of the village, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, has pulled Llanaber out of BUTT (Bandage Up the Toddlers).
BUTT is a county wide human rights organization set up to monitor injustices being perpetrated on the weaker tribes in the county. By ‘shining a light’ into the dark corners of mostly covert, but unfortunately frequently overt acts of barbarism performed on the helpless, the organization hopes to shame the perpetrators into behaving in a more civilized way. It’s a noble endeavor, and all the villages in the county are active members.
Admittedly it has yet to have a single success.
Why? (I hear you ask).
Because it is an organization with no teeth (not literally – it includes a delegate from a village on the mountain, Blaenau Ffullinagob, where the villagers all have a mouthful of buck teeth). What I mean is that they can point at something bad that’s happening, jump up and down, shout and scream about it until they’re blue in the face, but ultimately the perpetrators can stick their fingers up at BUTT and carry on regardless. It’s a ‘name and shame’ outfit, not one that has genuine power to act.
Also, the delegates are dottle-scared of making waves. They are all career councillors and would never countenance criticizing the boss of any of the villages. i.e. someone in a job more senior to theirs, in case ‘the black spot’ was put on their file.
Is being a member of BUTT arduous? (I hear you ask again). Is that why Mrs. T has pulled the village out of this ‘do-gooder’ organization? I would say not.
Each village sends a single delegate to the monthly meeting in a café on the sea front here in the village. They enjoy a good lunch on expenses during which they ask each other if they’ve seen anything nasty going on ‘here or hereabouts.’ As the perpetual fog prevents anybody seeing anything, the answer from each delegate is usually in the negative. They all then have another pot of tea and a round of cakes, and then shuffle off back to their day jobs worrying about their cholesterol levels.
So the upshot is that BUTT exists in perpetual harmony with the county council regardless of whatever ‘evil doings’ are happening in the real world. By this I refer, obviously, to the Druids and their on-going persecution of the Travelers, where a ‘blind eye’ has to be turned by all the delegates at every meeting.
It is my responsibility to write and circulate the minutes. This usually takes the form of half a paragraph of the negative results scribbled on a sheet of A4 paper and circulated to all the county’s ‘village bosses.’
But not so at the last meeting. It was a complete nightmare.
Why? (you may ask).
She is the official village gossip, and just happened to be in the café on the next table enjoying a cup of coffee and a slice of Bara Brith (local bread made with sawdust). She was ‘earwigging’ all the way through the BUTT meeting. When I went round the table asking each delegate the usual question she piped in.
“What about the Travelers’ kids!” she blurted out.
Mrs. Winfrey can usually be relied on to conflate five or six stories into one and get it all wrong. But in this case she had been succinct, a single short sentence!
We had nowhere to run. She had us by the nadgers!
We could no longer turn a collective blind eye to the blatant cruelty meted out by the Druids on the Travelers’ tribe. I had to come clean. I had myself only that morning passed through the next village along, Druidellau, and witnessed first-hand the Druidian ‘devil dogs’ being set upon a Traveler’s child, a newspaper delivery boy, and tearing the backside out of the twelve year old’s trousers. One of the dogs even cocked its leg on the poor lad’s newspaper bag. I felt a wave of shame roll over my head. I couldn’t look my fellow delegates in the eye. This travesty of justice, this blatant persecution of the Travelers by the Druids must no longer be allowed. The county MUST be officially notified.
With downcast ‘eyes of shame’ I include the following in my BUTT monthly report:
“Please be aware that the Druids are an absolute shower of rotters and frequently kick seven shades of dottle out of the totally innocent Travelers. Despite never being officially reported, it is common knowledge that the Druids’ henchmen keep the Travelers cooped up on a single sand dune on the beach and only allow them one hose pipe for water. The Druids are a nasty bunch that block book the golf course so no one else gets a look in, and their boss, Benjy Yahoo, is a big headed liar.”
I felt better. I felt clean for the first time in an age. It was at last ‘on the record.’
I felt good about myself.
However, Mrs. T did NOT feel good about me.
When she saw my report she went skitziloopy. She demanded that I retract my statement.
I stood firm.
Right is might!
I refused to buckle under the immense pressure of ‘the establishment.’
I felt I was on solid ground and would win the day.
As she looked at me a twisted grin formed on her face.
“Okay, she said, “I’m pulling us out of BUTT.”
I was gobsmacked. It was like a blow to my manly bits.
She went on, “BUTT is an organization not worthy of its name and a cesspool of political bias.”
Where had this come from?
Then it hit me. I hadn’t reckoned on the American factor.
While I was enjoying my slap up lunch with my buddies from BUTT in the seafront café, Mrs. T had been in the council news feed ticker tape room. She must have been rifling through the waste bin and found the report I’d ‘censored’ earlier that day. It was the report that the US had just pulled out of the United Nations Human Rights Council. Nikki Haley had managed to stay out of the ladies’ restroom long enough (I think she still has a touch of the ‘titus’ despite us sending her a crate of Cranberry juice from our overseas aid budget) to make a speech using the same phrase Mrs. T just had.
In Nikki Haley’s case she was throwing the American toys out of the pram over what she considered to be unfair criticism of the Israelis.
N.B. I can’t believe so much fuss is being made over a few Palestinian troublemakers getting gunned down in cold blood by Israeli snipers with high power rifles. It was clear in the news footage these children were ‘armed and dangerous’ with their catapults.
“So, no more free lunches for you, Mr. Man of Principles,” said Mrs. T as she bundled me out of her office.
She’s right. Speaking truth to power has its consequences. In my case it’s a free monthly steak & chips with all the trimmings, or now, the lack of it.
And what was the other piece of bad news? (I hear you ask).
Mrs. Trim has bought a cell phone, the first in the village. She plundered the village hospital budget and sent off for one. It arrived today. She’s cock-a-hoop.
“At last we can enjoy the benefits of social networking,” she crowed as she showed the bloody thing off in the council meeting.
She’s the only one that has one, so who is she going to network with?
Nevertheless, I’m dreading the day the village gets cell phone signal.
That’s it for now.
And here's a bonus letter:
Democracy Under Threat from Brutal Zero Tolerance Policy
There is a new word that has suddenly appeared in the lexicon of the esteemed leader of Llanaber parish council, Mrs. Dorothy Binky’ Trim. To be precise it is two words;
I know from the news feeds coming through on the village ticker tape that this phrase will be filling with horror the hearts (if not the pants) of undocumented illegal immigrants sneaking around in the dark shadowy desert just the richer side of the Mexican / US border.
But why should the phrase bother me, or anyone else, here in Llanaber? (I hear you ask).
Let me fill you in. Recently Mrs. T’s brain has been filled with a plethora of batty ideas all emanating from the masters of batty ideas, Donald Trump’s US administration. The most damaging of the nonsense wandering about in Mrs. T’s empty napper are:
a) She believes that being the council leader is the ‘will of God’ and, as God’s instrument on Earth, she must be obeyed without question. That’s down to the selective bible quoting from the lunatic ‘sideways-glancer’ Jeff Sessions.
b) She also believes that she has the power to pardon herself should she ever do anything wrong. That one’s down to the wild-eyed, bloated consigliore from the Godfather, Rudi Giuliani.
c) She believes that it is axiomatic that when she became the village top dog it was because God made it happen. As God is omnipotent, everything she does as ‘His instrument’ must be beyond question the right thing to do. I think the Duck himself is responsible this one.
Therefore, in summary, because she believes that everything she says is true and everything she does is correct, it follows that every one of her orders must be obeyed to the letter without question or dissent.
The following story deals with the first part of the statement above, i.e. that everything Mrs. T says is true by edict.
At last night’s council meeting an incident occurred that caused Mrs. T to eyeball us all menacingly and say, and I quote verbatim, “Matthew, chapter 12, verse 30, ‘whoever is not with me is against me.’”
(I think I can jointly blame Ronna McDaniel’s attempt to ‘Crush All Dissent,’ and the bible thumping sideways-glancer Sessions for this one).
But why did she suddenly do this? (I hear you cry).
Because there was dissent in the ranks!
Let me paint the picture for you.
The incident happened immediately following the short break we have at about 7.00pm for a cup of tea and a slice of Bara Brith, the confection made from bread ingredients and sawdust that is a favorite amongst the villagers. As time was pressing, Mrs. T told us to take our teas and snacks back into the council chambers so the meeting could continue.
This we did.
When we had all resumed our seats, Mrs. T took a quick slurp of her tea before calling the meeting to order. As she returned her cup to its saucer, she grimaced and said, “This coffee is cold.”
The room immediately fell into a deafening silence. We all looked at each other. Who would be the one amongst us brave enough to correct Mrs. T’s error? I decided it would be old councillor Thomas, the village grave digger (an honorary title – the village doesn’t have a graveyard), and gently prodded him in his testicles under the table with my boot. He understood immediately what was required of him.
“Hahem,” he coughed quietly, “Er… I think you’ll find it’s tea, your worshipfulness.”
Mrs. T glared pure hate at the poor old duffer before, barely audibly, uttering the aforementioned bible quote.
It was then that I noticed something I’d never seen before. There was a small, silver bell to the right of the papers on the desk in front of Mrs. T. Still glaring at old Thomas, she lifted up the little bell and gave it a shake. It let out the quietest of tinkles, but the effect was monumental.
The doors to the council chamber crashed open and in marched none other than the newly appointed head of village homeland security, ‘Mateo the Knife.’
He was not alone. On both his left and right hand side stood his henchmen. Both I instantly recognized. Both were rowdies from Spanibont, bullies and thugs I’d once had to hide from in the sand dunes when they were going up and down the beach saying hurtful things to any of the village men fogbathing in speedos.
The three men stood like mute, muscle bound, badly sculpted statues, awaiting their master’s orders. You could have cut the atmosphere in the chamber with a knife.
Then it happened.
Mrs. T simply nodded her head towards old Thomas and barked, “Zero tolerance!”
In an instant the three thugs set upon the ageing grave digger and dragged him from the room, slamming the doors closed behind them. We could hear the old man’s pathetic, wheezy screams fading into the night as we all turned our eyes towards Mrs. T. After an interminably long silence I was the first to speak.
“What will happen to him?”
Mrs. T eyed me coldly, and with a sneer on her face she said, “He will be separated from his parents and thrown into a cage. His parents will then be charged with a criminal offence of my choice then sent back to where the buggers came from.”
Where does she get these insane ideas from?
Old Thomas’ parents are both in their nineties! The two of them live in the sheltered accommodation for ‘out of datecode’ villagers in the wooden houses on stilts provided by the council at Bogbourne. Further, they were each born and bred in Llanaber.
I said nothing.
I instinctively understood what was happening. Another bandwagon was being jumped on by Mrs. Trim, but for once, in this case, it was not the cheese ball headed anorexia denier, Donald Trump’s ‘bright idea’ that was being plagiarized. Mrs. T had seen the admiration that was oozing from every orifice of the wanabee brutal dictator Trump for the soccer-ball headed lipstick wearing despot, 'Chinaman' Kim Jong Un.
It was obvious. Mrs. T ‘wants some.’
If Chinaman Kim can create an oppressive brutal dynasty in North Korea, then why shouldn’t she do likewise in Llanaber? She’s just as fat if not fatter than him, and her hairdo is even worse than his.
Further, she would be stealing the march on the Duck by doing it here before he does it in America.
Whatever, it spells bad news for old Thomas, his folks, the village, and if history is anything to go by, poor old Mrs. Clinton who runs the card shop.
All I’ll say is AMERICA BEWARE!
Don’t let the Duck do to your democracy what Mrs. Trim is doing to ours.
That’s it for now.