Trump’s ‘Stiff Employees to Get Rich’ Ploy
Letter from Llanaber
...Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...
It was a bad day for Llanaber when the boss of the parish council here, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, took control of the news feed ticker tape room in the council chambers. This she did by having her ‘handyman’ chubby-hubby, Leonard, brick up the common entrance from the corridor outside then knocking through the wall from her office into the ticker tape room. There is now only one entrance, i.e. past Mrs. T’s desk, giving me no chance to ‘censor’ any articles that may cause the village harm should the mad old bat get wind of them.
Further, Mrs. T has now taken to destroying news feed ticker tape articles where she thinks it better that the villagers are kept in ignorance of them. To make matters worse, Mrs. T is becoming increasingly obsessed with mimicking the antics of the boss of America, the cheese-ball faced anorexia denier and Braniac, Donald Trump. He can do no wrong in her eyes. I do my damndest to limit the damage she inflicts the village with her ‘me too’ (no relation) bandwagon jumping antics. I get up early and sneak past her while her attention is diverted when she’s ‘putting her slap on.’
However, I fear I failed yesterday ‘big style.’ The circumstances were thus.
I was late for work due to particularly heavy fog. I was shuffling through the village on my way to the parish offices when I happened to pass the local church hall. Due to the excessive thickness of the fog that morning and I had my hands out in front of me in case I bumped into something huge and solid.
It was old Mrs. Winfrey, the official village gossip. I had my wits about me so before she could corner me with one of her conflated-stories-gossip-vomits I deftly did a neat body swerve around her huge girth and immediately upped my shuffling pace to a brisk walk. A burly hand caught me by the collar and brought me to a sharp halt.
“No jumping the line!” snarled a deep, threatening voice.
I recognised the manly timbre immediately. It was the voice of the village top-cop, Robert ‘Robbie the Bobbie’ Muller. A moment later and his huge muscly arm bundled me back to the position I was in moments earlier, standing behind the formidable backside of old Mrs. Winfrey.
What on earth was going on?
I suddenly noticed a heavy wheezing noise approaching through the swirling mist, and the outline of a tattered scarecrow-like figure emerged. It was a man, a rag-bag, gnarled and pathetic, bent out of shape through deprivation and want. He was shuffling towards me clutching a Tesco ‘bag for life.’
The moment I could see the man’s face I recognised who it was. It was none other than old Thomas the gravedigger (an honorary title - the village doesn’t have a graveyard).
“Oh, you as well,” he muttered, wiping the dew drop from his nose onto my sleeve, “Am I too late?”
I was baffled.
“Too late for what?” I asked the wizened old codger.
“The church hall,” he replied, “This is the queue for the food-bank, isn’t it?”
I wasn’t aware our little village either had or had need of such a thing.
I enquired further.
“Haven’t you heard?” he wheezed, “All our wages have been stopped.”
I swiftly pushed the old duffer to one sided and sprinted to the High Street and the nearest cash machine. When I inserted my cash card to check that my salary had been paid to my horror the ATM started its automated simulated laughing noise.
Shock horror, dear reader, there was £zero in my account. Not only had my wages as parish Foreign Secretary and Anti-Corruption and Nepotism Tsar not been paid, but my balance had been cleaned out.
Old Thomas hadn’t been paid and I hadn’t been paid. I would find out as the morning drew on that no other member of the parish council, or council employee, or anyone else that received any kind of payment from the parish had received a single penny they were entitled to. All legitimate payments to the people of the village had suddenly ceased.
Who could have done such an evil thing? (I hear you cry).
Who was the criminal mastermind behind such a wicked act?
I put my fist under my chin, closed my eyes and made a thinking noise.
It hit me like a kick in the butt from one of Dai the Donkey’s scabby mules.
There is only one man in the village and one man alone who is capable of such a heinous crime. That man is the owner of the fruit machine arcade on the seafront, the ‘beast from the east’, Putin Lotzadosh! He’s a wizard with a screwdriver and knows how to ‘fiddle the odds’ on his penny falls machines.
I took my life in my hands and sprinted through the fog towards the parish council offices. Mrs. T must be informed of this devastating news as soon as possible. She would know what to do.
I burst into her office only to be confronted with the most staggering sight that stopped me dead in my tracks.
Mrs. T was there. She was puffing on a huge cigar and holding a glass of Champagne in her hand, and horror of horrors, so was none other than Putin Lotzadosh himself!
She was sitting on his knee!
“Come and join the party,” she giggles, obviously the worse for drink, “We’ve just had a bit of a windfall, haven’t we Putty?”
“Da, my little Babushka,” replied the ‘baldy Balkan,’ as he jiggled his knee up and down, making Mrs. T’s giggling more raucous.
I couldn’t stop myself.
I blurted out, “But your worshipfulness, you haven’t got time for this. There’s terrible news. None of the parish council employees have been paid and all the money’s been filched from their bank accounts!”
The two of them burst into uncontrollable laughter. Mrs. T rolled off Putin’s knee and fell to the floor, writhing around, too overcome with mirth to speak.
It was at that moment I realised the awful truth.
It was Mrs. Trim and her ‘partner in crime’ Putin Lotzadosh who were the masterminds behind this financial scandal!
I held out my arm and pointed an accusing finger at my esteemed leader and shouted, “J’accuse!”
Her laughter stopped immediately. She rolled onto her hands and knees and gradually hoisted her huge heft off the floor. Once erect she squared up to me and said in a menacing tone, whilst simultaneously reading from a string on news feed ticker tape looped around her neck, and I quote verbatim:
“I take advantage of the laws of the parish because I’m running a council. My obligation right now is to do well for myself, my family, my pal Putty, and my sweet shop. And that’s what I do.”
She then took a sip of her Champagne, a puff of her cigar and slowly lowered her huge butt back down on to Putin’s knee.
“Now, either grab a glass and join in the fun or sod off, you po-faced minion!” she bellowed at me.
I slipped quietly from the room and left the two to their celebrations.
I was later to discover that the news clip that she read from was a debasement of a quote from none other than her super-hero, the comb-over king himself, Donald J Trump. The cheese-ball cheapskate is notorious for (allegedly) not paying his bills, and stiffing his employees out of wages they’re legitimately entitled to. Even his limo chauffeur of over 25 years, claims he’s been robbed of $ hundreds of thousands in overtime payments, and called Trump ‘an unrepentant (expletive).’
Unlike the thin skinned, hair triggered ‘shoot from the hip’ Trump, Mrs. T has the hide of a Rhino, so such insults will not bother her.
Also, now her ‘relationship’ with Putin appears to be out in the open, we won’t need the special investigation report expected any day now from our top-cop, Robert ‘Robbie the Bobbie’ Muller, into ‘irregularities’ that occurred during the 2016 election. He’ll be too busy anyway, controlling the crowd of destitute council employees lining up to use the food-bank.
More troubled times ahead I fear.
That’s it for now.
Photo by Gage Skidmore || CC-BY-2.0