Trump Tweet ‘May Be Fibs’ Shock Horror
Letter from Llanaber
Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...
I was hiding in the restroom, sitting on the can in a cubicle enjoying a quiet ‘cup of Joe’ when to my horror the door was kicked open. There stood towering over me was the boss of the parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim.
She glared down at me.
Luckily I had had the foresight to lower my pants before squatting just in case of some such intrusion (better to be caught with one’s actual trousers down than be caught with one’s metaphorical trousers down).
“So, you’re not skiving then,” she barked, “When you’ve finished, my office, straight away.”
Minutes later I was sitting on the sheep milking stool in front of her desk. It’s too low down to see over the top of Mrs. T’s desk so I flinched when a string of news feed ticker tape fluttered down on me (Mrs. T has been known to throw paperweights).
I slowly read the article on the tape (I’m a slow reader). It was one of the cheese-ball headed anorexia denier and Braniac Donald Trump’s famous tweets. I reproduce it below for you verbatim:
“Just out that the Obama administration granted citizenship, during the terrible Iran Deal negotiation, to 2,500 Iranians, including to [sic] government officials. How big (and bad) is that?”
The article went on to inform the reader that there was absolutely not one single shred of evidence to substantiate president Trump’s mad assertion. Naturally I laughed. A paperweight bounced off my head.
“Dolt!” shouted Mrs. T, standing so she could see me, “Don’t you see what this means?”
Quite frankly I didn’t and said as much. Mrs. T attempted to clear the perpetual fog from my brain.
“Trump is a genius!” she bellowed, “Why didn’t I think of this?”
I remained flummoxed until she came to the point.
“It’s my one big chance to get shot of old mother Clinton.”
FYI – Mrs. Clinton is the lady that runs the card shop in the high street and had the audacity to stand against Mrs. T in the election of 2016. She would have won were it not for ‘certain electoral irregularities,’ i.e. interference in the form of bribing the electorate carried out by the man that runs the amusement arcade on the seafront, the ‘beast from the east’ Putin Lotzadosh.
“How?” I naively asked.
She didn’t answer. Instead she handed me a sheet of A4 paper. The following words were scrawled on it in Mrs. T’s spider-like handwriting. I reproduce below what was written.
“Just out that old mother Clinton granted Llanaber citizenship, during the terrible Iran Deal negotiation carried out by that dufus Obama, to 2,500 Iranians, including to [sic] parish council officials. How big (and bad) is that?”
My heart sank.
I could see where this was going. She would ask me to print this in the village newsletter and distribute it throughout the village to blacken Mrs. Clinton’s character with this blatant lie. But it turned out to be much worse. This is what she instructed me to do:
“Get hold of Mateo the Knife* and Round up 2,500 Iranians. Take a snap of them boozing it up in the high street and kicking over the waste bins. Photoshop in Mrs. Clinton drinking Champagne and snogging some of them. Then print it up, along with my note, in the parish newsletter. Make sure the Druids get a copy!”
*He is the thug from Spanibont who heads up the parish homeland security and the ‘protection from extra-terrestrials service’ (PETS).
I mustered up as much courage as I could and pointed out the shortfalls in her evil plot which were as follows:
1) It’s a pack of lies and no one in their right mind would believe the story.
2) There are no Iranians in the village, the neighboring villages, or even the county. The nearest Iranians to Llanaber are probably in Iran. It would be impossible to get hold of one, let alone 2,500.
3) Whatever Photoshop is, I’ve never heard of it.
4) Iran is a Muslim country. They don’t drink alcohol. Neither does Mrs. Clinton. She is famous in the village for being the only tea-totaller.
5) The whole mad enterprise is about her obsession to rubbish the opposition. A much better strategy would be to outshine the opposition with enlightened, forward looking policies that grow the economy to the benefit of every citizen in the village.
Not for the first time a heavy paperweight bounced off my head.
“Just get on with it!” she barked.
With a heavy heart I trudged out of her office in search of Mateo.
Then, out of the blue, an idea struck me. A story suddenly entered my head about a primitive village in the north east of England called Doltpool. There is a legend concerning the incredibly ‘dumb as a brick’ folks that lived there during ancient times. It goes as follows:
England was at war with France and all the coastal towns were warned to keep a look out for French spies. One stormy night there was a shipwreck just off the Doltpool coast. The next morning, into the harbor floated a lump of driftwood. Clinging to this for dear life was a monkey. The dumb folks of Doltpool had never seen such a beast before and the local cops were called in. They scratched their heads for a while and decided to call in the village wise man to ask his opinion.
“It’s obvious, you numbskulls,” said the wizened old sage, “It’s a French spy!”
The cops fell upon the poor creature and clapped it in irons. A court session was called for there and then on the beach. The monkey was given no legal aid, nor was a lawyer assigned to the monkey’s defense team. It had to speak for itself. When asked to confirm or deny the accusation made against it of being a French spy, the poor creature could only jibber. The judge, Lord Justice Hangem-High, couldn’t understand a word the monkey said. As such he assumed the jibber to be French, thus confirming the creature was beyond any reasonable doubt a French spy. He sentenced the poor creature to death by hanging. Without delay a hastily assembled set of gallows was erected on the beach, and the monkey hung by the neck until dead.
What is the relevance of this load of old twaddle? (I hear you cry).
No one in Llanaber has ever seen an Iranian.
I found Mateo and told him to buy a dozen tins of blue paint then nip across the border into Spanibont and rustle up 2,500 sheep. This he headed off to do whilst I nipped home for my camera.
When it was all over, I looked at the article in the newsletter with a feeling of a disaster averted and a job well done.
The picture was of a flock of sheep painted blue negotiating its way around the rim of the giant sink hole in the high street. I had amended the headline to the article, i.e. Mrs. T’s note, to read as follows:
“Just out that old mother Clinton wanted Llanaber grazing rights for 2,500 Iranian sheep-people, (the Blue Bleaters tribe) but Mrs. T. said no. They are here now but will be sent back to Iran once the fog lifts. How big (and bad) is that?”
I know it still casts old Mrs. Clinton in a bad light but it’s less harmful to her than it would have been. Also, Mrs. T comes out looking tough, and there are sufficient leftie, pinko, live-on-your-knees, sandal shuffling liberals in the village to see Mrs. Clinton as the ‘good guy’ for trying her best to help the downtrodden sheep-folks from Iran, forced to graze on sand.
That’s it for now.
Photo by Eneas De Troya from Mexico City, México || CC-BY-2.0