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Trump Signs Off On $3.9 Billion For His Two New Posh Planes At Taxpayer’s Expense

Trump Signs Off On $3.9 Billion For His Two New Posh Planes At Taxpayer’s Expense

Letter from Llanaber

...Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...

An unusual start to the working day, today. On arrival at the parish council office I was immediately summoned to the office of my esteemed leader and mad old bat, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim. I instinctively made for the ewes milking stool in front of her desk but she stopped me.


“Don’t sit down, butt-monkey,” she barked, “Put your jam jar bottom glasses on and read this.”


She handed me a string of news ticker tape which I took from her and read slowly (I’m a slow reader).


“Hurry up!” she yelled.


I reached the end and was flummoxed as to what the relevance was to Mrs. Trim, me, or village life. I reproduce what was on the ticker tape for you below verbatim:


‘US News Latest: Boeing will receive $3.9 billion to build two new aircrafts to use as Air Force One planes to serve the president of the United States. The agreed upon deal comes after then-President-elect Donald Trump criticized the original $4 billion contract with Boeing for two new planes in December 2016.”


“So what?” I asked naively.


“Dolt!” she bellowed, and a paperweight whizzed past my ear, “Don’t you see?”


I didn’t.


“The man is a comb-over cutie Braniac and a living legend!”


After a twenty minute eulogy to Trump and his weasel ways the deranged old megalomaniac eventually got to the point, or in this case two points. These were as follows:

 


1)    Having two brand new ‘feck-off’ state of the art luxury airplanes, fully stocked to the gunwales with posh nosh and booze, luxury fixtures & fittings, gold plated bog handles and a crew fit for the world’s biggest fanny magnet is a terrific perk for the cheese-ball headed anorexia denier. Llanaber should not be left behind. According to Mrs. T, free ‘state of the art’ luxury transport should go with the job of village parish council boss.


2)    If you moan a bit about a posh perk then you reluctantly accept it, it looks like it’s being foisted upon you. No matter what the bump, kick back, bung, freebie or ‘fact finding tour’ is, you come out smelling of roses, not looking like a crook for demanding it in the first place. 
“It’s brilliant!” she added. She went on to say, “We (she meant me) need to prepare a list of posh freebies so I can moan about them all then raid the village hospital budget, go on a spending spree and get some half-decent paybacks for doing this crappy job.”


I could foresee problems, so I quickly reminded my esteemed leader about the Gwynedd Council policy on gifts, junkets and freebies.


“Er, in case you’ve forgotten,” I started meekly, “County council policy is strict on this sort of thing. If you can’t eat it, drink it or screw it within 24 hours, the Gwynedd Chief Auditor, Wyden Fiddlestop, classes it as a bribe and sends in the top-cop (Robert ‘Robbie the Bobbie’ Muller) to carry out an unbiased investigation before throwing whoever took the bung in clink.”

 


“That’s ‘county’ policy, not ‘village,’” she said, a sly grin forming on her lips.


She then demanded to know how much was left in the village hospital budget. When I told her she looked a little crestfallen. 


“That won’t even get me a fecking bike!” she snapped.


Then she seemed to perk up (No pun intended).


“You’re supposed to have your finger on the pulse,” she said, grinning at me again, “Tell me, what’s the current American national debt?”


I had to confess this was a question I hadn’t foreseen her asking.


I ran out of the office to find ‘Ginger’ the young lad from the post-room. He’s a whiz with this sort of thing, and numbers in general. I found the young whipper-snapper in the office canteen drinking a bottle of ‘pop’ whilst, pencil in hand, idly filling in the ‘O’s, ‘D’s, ‘P’s, and ‘Q’s in an application form to join the village space force (Protection from Extra-Terrestrials Service (PETS). I came straight out with it and asked the lad if he happened to know the size of the American national debt. 

 


He glanced at his watch.


“As of five seconds ago it iiiiis… $21, 270,069, 298,377 and change,” he said, then resumed his ‘filling in.’


I was flabbergasted.


“But that’s over 21 trillion dollars!”


He nodded.


“Blame Trump,” he added distractedly, “He keeps cutting rich men’s taxes and buying new nukes.”


I ran back to my esteemed leader’s office and gave her the figure.


“What’s ours?” she asked.


“We don’t have a village debt,” I told her, then added, “The chap that does the village accounts, Stevie Munchkin, always says to me with a chuckle, ‘Davie-boy, in life always pay as you go, and if you can’t pay then don’t go…’”


“Shut your pie-hole!” she yelled, cutting me off mid-sentence, “Here’s a list of things I’ll reluctantly accept after moaning about the costs. Start borrowing.”

 


She then went on to order me to nobble the agenda for the next parish council meeting. I was to add a new agenda item as follows:


Supplementary points of order:
1.    Parish Council Leader’s Jumbo Jet x 2
2.    Parish Council Leader’s Ferrari 250 GTO
3.    Parish Council Leader’s Fact Finding Tour of The Maldives, Winter 2018
4.    Parish Council Leader’s Breast enhancement & Tum & Bum Liposuction surgery with lip ‘plumping’
5.    Parish Council Leader’s ‘Elocution’ lessons with ‘Big Boy’ & ‘Wanger’ 
6.    Parish Council Leader’s Fact Finding world cruise with Leonard Spring 2019
7.    Parish Council Leader’s blah de blah…


The list went on and on, dear reader. 


I could not sit idly by and simply follow orders. If she had her way and the village took on a debt specifically for bungs to Mrs. Trim, then our children’s children’s children’s children would be saddled with the bloody thing till the sun stopped shining.


I stood to my maximum height and stared her straight in the breasts (I’m not a pervert. She’s eighteen inches taller than me). 


I challenged her ‘demands’ one by one. 


I repeat for you below as accurately as I can how the conversation unfolded:

 


Me: The whole idea is insane! We have no money and no assets to borrow against. What’s more, if we spent on this lot, we’d be lumbering the village with a mega-massive debt.


Mrs. T: I’m the king of debt. I’m great with debt. Nobody knows debt better than me, and if things don’t work out I renegotiate the debt. I mean, that’s a smart thing, not a stupid thing.


Me: About the airplanes, we don’t have an airport, runway, or even a strip of land on the horizontal. We live on the side of a mountain. And the posh car is no use. There’s a bloody great sink hole in the high street. You wouldn’t get it into the village, and if you did, you wouldn’t be able to get it out again. The fact finding holidays are blatant bungs. You’ll wind up having to pay all the money back then go to clink. As for the cosmetic surgery and more sessions with ‘Big Boy’ and ‘Wanger,’ how can these be justified to the auditors? The costs would be horrendous. Those two ‘escorts’ charge by the minute, and Dr. Mengele is off the scale when he does private work. Most importantly, the total debt would be…* (*that’s as far as I got. She cut me off).


Mrs. T: I SAID, I’m the king of debt. I’m great with debt. Nobody knows debt better than me, and if things don’t work out I renegotiate the debt. I mean, that’s a smart thing, not a stupid thing.


I turned and traipsed out of the office, the list of her demands clasped in my hand.
There was a parish council meeting scheduled for later that evening in which I was ‘under orders’ to propose the items on the list.


I did not attend.


I bunked off and hid in the dog’s kennel with my faithful but smelly Bloodhound, ‘Comey.’


As darkness fell I glanced at my watch. 


According to my Timex it was $24, 540,837,527,560 and change in America. Either Trump’s ‘lingerie model potential’ wife, Melanie, has had another gastric band fitted or old Cheese-Ball head himself has had to bung another couple of hookers to stop them blabbing about his ‘small hands’ This time, rather than trusting his crap-weasel Michael Cohen,  he must have shoved it all on expenses.


I kissed Comey goodnight and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.


That’s it for now.


Cheerio!

 

 

Photo by Gage Skidmore from Peoria, AZ, United States of America  ||  CC-BY-2.0

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