Trump And Giuliani’s Campaign To Tarnish Mueller
Letter from Llanaber
...Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...
I arrived at work this morning to find my esteemed leader, the boss of the village parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, sitting in my office, her fist under her chin and her thinking expression on her face.
“Is everything alright?” I asked.
She held out her hand towards me. In it was a string of news feed ticker tape.
I slowly read what was on the tape (I’m a slow reader).
It was a news report from the USA about the cheese-ball headed self-declared Braniac and fanny magnet, Donald Trump, and the upcoming trial of his erstwhile Campaign Manager, Paul ‘back-hander’ Moneyfraud. It was a complicated story and I must confess I struggled to get to the bottom of what it was all about. I asked Mrs. T. if she understood the complex arguments. Instead of giving me a straight answer she asked me this.
“If you could summarise the story for me, what would you say?”
I was flummoxed but had a stab anyway, and gave my answer as follows:
Paul Moneyfraud is a crook of the first water. He took a wheelbarrow full of money ($60 million) off the bent Ukrainian commie government to lobby the American administration (at the time) to convince them that the rumours aren’t true about Ukrainian politicians being a bunch of dottle-bags and in Russia’s pocket. However, he did bugger all and pocketed the lot. He now faces 18 criminal counts for nicking the dosh off the Ukrookians, not declaring he’s a thieving ratbag and, the worst offence of all, not paying taxes on his ill-gotten bootee.
If Moneyfraud is convicted, it gives momentum to Robert Mueller’s investigation into collusion between the Trump campaign and Russia. Mueller already has 32 people, and three companies, that have pled guilty since his investigation started 14 months ago.”
I was rather pleased with myself. I thought I had précised the piece rather well.
“Read on,” said my esteemed leader.
“The next bit is about Trump’s tweet on the subject.”
“Read his tweet to me,” she said.
“Collusion is not a crime, but that doesn't matter because there was No Collusion (except by Crooked Hillary and the Democrats)!”
“Now let me have your précis on the rest?” she said.
“The last bit makes the argument that, whilst Trump is technically correct in that collusion is not a crime, the word is used as a ‘catch all’ for a collection of other misdemeanours, making it a ‘partnership in crime’ which is conspiracy. Legal clever-bods argue that working with a foreign government or citizen to nobble the US election violates multiple laws. If Mueller can prove Trump or his cohorts colluded with Russians to nobble the Clinton campaign it would be highly illegal.”
“Not bad,” she said to me, “I’m beginning to see through the fog.”
I simpered. Praise from my esteemed leader is rare and must be cherished.
“Where’s this leading?” I naively asked.
She stood up, and kissed me full on the lips (not in a sexy way, in the way you’d kiss a greyhound that had just won you a wad of cash).
“Trump!” she bellowed, “The man’s a living God!”
She then turned on her heels and stomped out of my office. As she had a tight grip on my tie I had no choice but to follow her.
She marched me out of the council building and all the way to the high street. She finally stopped outside the cop-shop.
“I want you to do a little job for me,” she hissed in my ear, “Get in there and have a little chitty chat with Robbie the Bobbie. I want you to winkle out of him all the crimes he’s likely to hit me with when he publishes his report into the alleged nobbling of the 2016 parish council leader election.”
She fumbled in her handbag for a few moments then pulled out three £1 coins which she then thrust into the palm of my hand.
“Take him to Trevor the Trot’s Trattoria and buy him a slap up lunch. Get him ‘well oiled’ then pump him.”
I looked at her red-faced and flummoxed.
“I’m not of the *DUB persuasion,” I stammered out, “I’m not that way inclined.”
“For information, you dolt!” she barked at me, “And, for the record, if you fail me on this, I’ll make your life a living hell.”
Ten minutes later, Robbie the Bobbie and I were ensconced in a quiet corner table in Trevor the Trots’ café. Each of us had a plate of food from Trevor’s ‘all you can eat’ spaghetti buffet (it’s just spaghetti) and each of us had a tankard full of the local wallop, ‘journey into space.’
Robbie (who is well known for being an idiot) downed his pint in one swallow.
I, on the other hand, did not drink mine knowing that, despite the high alcohol content, the brew is not to be imbibed. Its primary purpose is for rubbing into donkey saddles to improve the butt grip.
“Have mine,” I said cheerily to Robbie, pushing my tankard towards him.
This he did, downing the noxious brew in one long glug.
His tongue started to loosen (literally).
I leaned in towards him conspiratorially and whispered in his shell-like, “This report you’re working on about ‘irregularities’ in the 2016 election; got any dirt yet on Mrs. T?”
He tapped the side of his nose and winked at me, then went back to twirling spaghetti round his plastic knife, fork and spoon combination cutlery utensil.
“Come on,” I encouraged him, “You can tell little ol’ me.”
He suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair and stared at me coldly with his ice blue ‘Adolf Hitler’ style eyes.
“Absolutely not, no way, jamais!” he barked.
“But why not?” I pleaded.
He did not answer; his face was a mask of contempt.
I wriggled uncomfortably as if a pint of maggots had been poured down the front of my boxer shorts. I decided to come clean.
“Robbie,” I said, “We’ve known each other since we were kids. I need to know what charges you’re going to throw at Mrs. T. If I don’t find out she’s going to make my life hell.”
Robbie’s expression softened.
“I knew she’d be behind it,” he said, “Sorry old chum but no can do. I’ve seen what Trump is trying to do in the States with the world of dottle he’s got heading towards him.”
“What’s he doing?” I naively asked.
“Drilling down on the technicality of every single word so everything becomes blurred and meaningless.”
I still could not see through the fog in my head.
“Let me help you ‘cotton on’ by working through an example,” he said to me, “Suppose I charge you with conspiracy to commit treason.”
“But I’m innocent,” I cried out.
It was a reflex reaction I always have when asked a question by anybody in high authority.
He ignored me and pressed on.
“You respond by saying, ‘Ah, by conspiracy do you mean the act of two or more persons to secretly obtain some goal, usually understood with negative connotations?... and by to commit do you mean pledge or bind a person or an organization to a certain course or policy?... and by treason do you mean the crime of murdering someone to whom the murderer owes allegiance, such as a master, wife or husband?’”
I was lost.
He came to my aid.
“So,” he said, “You would respond to me by saying, ‘for the avoidance of doubt, you’re accusing me of colluding (not a crime) with two or more people to bind an organization to a policy to murder my wife?’ See! If you challenge an indictment word by word, the actual crime gets lost in the definitions, and the whole thing looks like nonsense.”
At last I understood.
“How do you know this is what Mrs. Trim will do?” I asked.
Another tankard of ‘journey into space’ arrived and Robbie took a long slurp before he answered.
“We both know Mrs. Trim jumps on any old bandwagon that cheese-ball headed idiot Trump comes up with in America. That’s what he’s telling the loose-brained Giuliani to do over there, that and rubbish his ex-best buddy Cohen. His latest effort is too daft to laugh at! Regardless, she’s bound to get her lawyer, Rottweiler Rube, to follow suit.”
“But what am I going to do? She’s threatened me with a life of hell if I don’t bring back the bacon!”
“Easy. I’ll wager the crafty old bat bunged you a few quid for a slap up nosh and some booze, right?”
“Yes, she gave me strict instructions to get you bladdered.”
“There’s your get-out-of-jail-free card,” he said, “Tell her I got so zonked on JIS (journey into space) that I had to arrest myself for being drunk in charge of a spaghetti buffet. Tell her I’d slapped my own handcuffs on my wrists and whisked me off to chokey before I had a chance to blab.”
It was an exquisite solution, and it worked.
When I told Mrs. T. later she looked at me quizzically and asked, “Drinking what, did you say?”
When I explained it was the local brew she looked a little crestfallen.
“Pity,” she said, “If it had been the ‘other stuff’ I might have had something on the bugger at last.”
That’s it for now.
Photo by Gage Skidmore from Peoria, AZ, United States of America || CC-BY-SA-2.0