Trump’s Mad ‘Space Patrol’ Ramblings Sparks Defense Scramble
Letter from Llanaber
...Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...
The cheese-ball headed lunatic that runs America, Donald Trump, has decided to make my life a misery again by rambling on about ‘space’ at one of his car rallies in Ohio. This is bad news, primarily because the mad old bag that heads up the village parish council here in Llanaber tries to mimic Trump at every opportunity.
Why would the self-declared Braniac and escort enthusiast’s lunatic rants about space have any bearing on our little village? (I hear your long-windedly cry).
Let me give you the background.
I was idly killing a couple of hours hiding in the news feed ticker tape room this morning Sellotaping strings of ticker tape together to make a toilet roll for my faithful (but smelly) Bloodhound, ‘Comey,’ when I spotted the item below. It was a copy of a report on Trump’s latest red neck jamboree. The article claimed that in and amongst the ego-yadder was the following ‘oral blurtifart’ from the comb-over cutie:
“… I have also directed the Pentagon to begin the process of creating the sixth branch of the United States armed forces called the Space Force. Space. Very important… That’s going to be great. Look, so much is happening now in space, I’m not just talking about Mars and the Moon, I’m talking about tremendous defense capability, offensive capability. It’s in space, so we’re going to do the Space Force.”
Knowing how damaging this sort of talk from the anorexia denier can be, I quickly looked around to make sure no one was looking then stuffed the potentially dangerous ticker tape down the front of my trousers.
It was in the nick of time.
No sooner had I poked the last slip inside my ‘Y’ fronts when who should barge into the room but my esteemed leader and boss of the parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim.
“Anything going on?” she asked me, giving me that ‘if you lie I’ll know’ stare of hers.
I shook my head.
It was then she spotted the unusually large bulge in the front of my pants.
“Well hello, Big Boy,” she said, sidling towards me, “Are you pleased to see me or is there a roll of ticker tape stuffed down your pants.”
What happened next is too horrific to describe in detail. Suffice to say I was humiliated and Mrs. T. was disappointed.
When she’d wrestled the news item from my ‘front pocket’ she read it, and then re-read it.
She looked me up and down.
“What does this mean?” she demanded of me.
“It means that when God was handing out the big ‘wangers’ I was at the back of the queue,” I said.
“Not that, dolt!” she barked, “The ticker tape… The Trump news blurt!”
I cringed even more.
“… er, his blood sugar level was a bit low?” I said meekly.
“We need to find out NOW!” she yelled at me, “Go get Mateo!”
Those that are regular readers of my newsletter will know that our tiny village already has a ‘Space Force.’ It was created a few weeks back, and is headed up by the chap who was originally ‘brought on board’ as the Head of Village Homeland Security, Mateo the Knife.
It was a controversial appointment inasmuch as Mateo was once the boss of the ‘rowdies,’ a bunch of yobbos that come from the failing village on our southern border, Spanibont. He used to make our lives a misery by running up and down the beach in the fog, saying unkind things about men in Speedos and passing offensive remarks about ugly babies. Now he is one of Mrs. Trim’s ‘PETS.’ By this I mean his responsibilities were widened when she appointed him the head of the ‘Protection from Extra Terrestrials Service.’
You may also recall that I was made to reallocated funds from the village hospital budget to purchase silver ‘onesies’ with the logo ‘PETS’ printed across the chest for Mateo and two of his thugs.
Their new responsibilities included patrolling the village 24/7 hunting down all the undocumented extra-terrestrials, ripping the kids from their parents’ tentacles and throwing them into the hastily assembled cage behind the swings in the school grounds. The green skinned, bug eyed parents were then to be fired from the village catapult back to where they came from.
I am pleased to report that since this service was started we have not had a single incidence of an extra-terrestrial caught trying to illegally settle in the village.
Well done Mateo!
Back to my story.
I found Mateo practicing his coshing technique on one of the trash cans in the high street. I had to confess to myself what a magnificent sight he made, standing there, empty trash can in one hand, lead ‘persuader’ in the other, knocking seven shades of dottle out of it. No wonder our streets are free of undocumented illegal extra-terrestrial life forms.
I told him he was needed immediately back at the council building and we both made our way, post-haste, to Mrs. Trim’s office. We found her at her desk, the string of news feed ticker tape still in her hand.
When we had both settled on the ewes milking stool in front of her desk (a really tight squeeze – Mateo has a broad, muscle-bound butt) Mrs. T. began. She fed the tape through her fingers until she found the section she was looking for.
“Listen,” she said, “This is the important bit… ‘Look, so much is happening now in space, I’m not just talking about Mars and the Moon, I’m talking about tremendous defense capability, offensive capability. It’s in space.’”
I looked at Mateo.
He looked at me.
We were both flummoxed.
Why was this important to Llanaber?
My esteemed leader immediately picked up on the fact that, as far as this was concerned, we were both as dumb as bricks (Where have I heard that phrase before?).
She pointed towards the ceiling.
“The truth is up there!” she yelled.
“Where? In the loft?” asked Mateo.
Mrs. T smiled (never a good sign).
“No, silly,” she said, sounding benign, i.e. at her most dangerous, “In space. If Trump says something’s happening up there we need to be in on it.”
Mateo and I remained befuddled.
What the hell was she on about?
“Let me ‘Janet and John’ it for you two dottle-for-brains, we are behind the curve on this one!
Trump is well ahead of us in the space race. So is Russia, China, France, Canada, Australia, blah blah blah…”
She went on to name over 200 countries that are ahead of us in the space race, which I found amazing as there are officially only 195 currently.
“So what?” I uttered under my breath.
A heavy paperweight whizzed past my ear.
“We are vulnerable from an attack from space!” she yelled, then added, “The first duty of any and every government is to protect its citizens. So, what are you two going to do about it?”
“Do about what?” asked Mateo bravely.
I saw Mrs. T’s hand shoot out towards a heavy paperweight so I jumped in quickly to save Mateo from a bruising encounter with a 2lb glass globe.
“There’s my ‘Skywatch Patrol’ scheme,” I barked out.
I was just in time.
She put down the paperweight and said, “Go on.”
“We were discussing it on the way up to your office,” I lied, “It involves the village catapult, a camera, an idiot and a parachute.”
I went on to lie through my teeth that Mateo and I had devised a system whereby we could monitor the activity of all the heavenly bodies and space junk as follows.
Because of our unique micro-climate, Llanaber is bathed in fog all year except for the three weeks of bad weather we get in summer. The fog lies in a layer about twenty feet thick. The village catapult can fire a man twenty five feet into the air (not fat Leonard, obviously). We find a volunteer stupid enough to allow himself to be repeatedly shot skywards from the catapult.
This idiot is fitted with a parachute and a camera. As he or she reaches the apex of his flight, i.e. above the fog, he or she takes a snapshot of the sky. On his or her return to earth the photograph is analyzed for signs of an invasion from space. Should one be spotted, then we would immediately put the village defenses (the ‘stick it to ‘ems’) on high alert.
The ludicrous scheme was swallowed hook, line and sinker by Mrs. Trim. I was immediately appointed as head of Skywatch Patrol, and Mateo was sent off to ‘persuade’ one of the villagers (preferable one of the thinner ones) to be an idiot.
Once again, blessed peace returned to my life.
Had I learned anything from this incident?
Yes, dear reader, I had.
It was this.
When drooling over the male form, Mrs. Trim is a front-packet fan. She couldn’t give a toss about the butt size. So in future, stuff the bloody news feed ticker tapes down the back of my trousers, not of the front.
That’s it for now.
And we've uncovered a bonus Letter from Llanaber!
Disturbing Treatment of Escorts by ‘Boss’ Leads to His Butt-Print Removal from Hall of Fame
Through the centuries Llanaber has been the birthplace of many great men and women. For example, in 1867, a technique for the colouring of cloth made from sheep’s dottle was invented by ‘Dai the Dye.’ Later in 1906 the idea of using a strip of wood to decorate a wall was invented by another of our villagers, ‘Dai the Dado.’ The sheer genius of combining both these discoveries to produce a coloured strip of wood to decorate a wall was invented by Dai the Dado’s son, ‘Dai the Dado Dyer.’
Where is this drivel leading us? (I hear you cry).
It is this.
Each and every one of our ‘villagers of note’ has his or her name commemorated in perpetuity in our village. This is done by means of the hero in question’s making his or her butt print (pants off) into wet cement in the patch of ground beside the bus stop in the high street officially designated as the ‘Llanaber Butt of Fame’ Memorial Garden.
The same honour and privilege is extended to all holders of the office ‘Boss of the Parish Council’ whether they are on the left, right or centre on the political spectrum.
The current holder of this office, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, is no exception. In fact it was I myself that officiated at her ‘butt-dipping ceremony’ where, in front of a crowd totalling over fifty villagers (She subsequently claimed it was over 57 million, the largest crowd gathering in history), she dropped her voluminous undergarments, lowered her posterior and ‘dipped’ for posterity.
We’re still none the wiser (I hear you grumble).
I will get to my point in a moment, but first you need to know more about the Llanaber Butt of Fame.
There is an old bird that lives at the edge of the village called Myfanwy Plop. There has been a Plop in the village since its inception when ‘Plop the Dozy’ and his stone-age family dug a hole and started sleeping in it with their sheep 8,000 years ago. Because of the kudos that goes with being a family descendant of the village’s founder member, special rights and privileges are assigned as a birth right. One of these is being ‘Keeper of the List.’ This is a hereditary position handed down through the centuries, oddly enough, from Mother to Daughter.
Myfanwy Plop is the current incumbent.
Yes, but what the hell is this about? (I hear you now screaming).
The ‘Keeper of the List’ is the one person in the village that has the power to remove a butt print from the Llanaber Butt of Fame patch!
There you have it!
Or have you?
I think I missed the key point which is this.
There is turmoil in the village because Myfanwy Plop has removed the butt print of Mrs. Trim from the Llanaber Butt of Fame patch!
Why? (I hear you ask in a more temperate voice this time).
I will reproduce for you the statement Myfanwy Plop issued when she announced that Mrs. Trim’s butt print was to be dug up and cast into the sea:
“I, Myfanwy Plop, have adopted a resolution to remove Council Boss Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim’s ass-print from the Llanaber Butt of Fame Memorial Garden (the patch of grass beside the bus stop in the high street), due to her disturbing treatment of male ‘escorts’ and sausage hiding cabaret artists, and other actions that do not meet the shared values of the village and the county... P.S. her enormous butt print takes up too much space anyway… P.P.S. She’s a ratbag!”
I for one was not surprised. There has been enmity between these two ladies since they were toddlers and Mrs. T. bashed Myfanwy over the head with her rattle and stole her bottle of sheep’s milk.
But why now?
Myfanwy was magnanimous enough in the first place to allow Mrs. Trim to ‘dip the butt’ as we refer to it.
I had to know what was behind the sudden decision by Mrs. Plop to scupper Mrs. Trim’s dreams of immortality, i.e. having her ass-print forever on view to the world at large. I took a long lunch break and nipped out of the office and went to see Mrs. Plop at her home inside the disused nuclear fallout shelter just inside the parish limits south of the village.
As usual, she greeted me affably and invited me in for a cup of tea and a ‘good gab.’ However, when I touched on the subject of her decision to dig up Mrs. T’s rump-print, her face hardened. Her manner became condescending and aloof, bordering on snotty.
“Is there no one in the village that will take a moral position on this woman, this stain on our values?” she said, “Even the effete wet, liberal, live-on-your-knees, sandal-shufflers of West Hollywood have had the balls to do something as a gesture of their disgust at their comb-over cretin, Trump”
She went on to tell me that the City Council there was considering adopting a resolution to urge the Los Angeles City Council and Hollywood Chamber of Commerce to remove President Donald J. Trump’s star from the Hollywood Walk of Fame, due to his disturbing treatment of women and other actions that do not meet the shared values of the City of West Hollywood, the region, state, and country.
“It’s a bit wishy-washy, though, isn’t it?” I said, “… Rather too many ‘urges’ and ‘considerings.’”
“It’s easy to sneer at others others for their actions but what about you? Where’s your balls in all of this?” she said, wagging an accusing finger in my face, “You are the village Foreign Secretary for Chrissakes!”
“… And Anti-corruption and Nepotism Tsar,” I added meekly.
She then went on to list the many sins Mrs. Trim has been accused of committing since she took office in 2016. At the conclusion of her tirade she abruptly stood up and shouted in my face, “Why haven’t you stopped her yet?”
She was right.
I was a powerful member of the governing body of the village. Our leader was, and is, out of control. Life gets worse for the village in general and for me in particular every day.
I felt a wave of guilt for my inaction breaking over my head.
I suddenly felt angry at myself.
I should have started a coup!
I should have gathered strong allies and like-minded influential people around me then seized power by force.
Right is might, and right will prevail!
There was fire in my belly as I rose to leave her home. I shook the old dear firmly by the hand and turned to leave. It was then that I noticed the photographs mounted in a glass case in the corner of the room.
“Is this your family?” I asked as I moved closer to take a better look.
The old girl shuffled uncomfortably in her carpet slippers and tried to usher me out.
“Well, thanks for calling,” he said as she manhandled me towards the door, but I was determined to examine the pictures more closely. I spun on my heels and the old girl wobbled off in the opposite direction as I stepped over to the glass cabinet.
What I thought I saw, I saw!
There were four photographs in gilt frames standing in a line in the glass cabinet.
I looked at them one by one.
“I recognize him,” I said, pointing at the first photo, “Isn’t his nickname ‘Big Boy’?”
“And isn’t that one nicknamed ‘Wanger’?” I added.
She nodded again.
“My Nephews,” she said meekly.
“… And that one? Isn’t that Spanky Dambuster the famous sausage hider and cabaret artist?”
“My Cousin,” she mumbled.
“And the one on the end, that’s Mrs. Clinton from the card shop, isn’t it?”
“My Sister,” she muttered.
There is was, dear reader.
Myfanwy Plop’s act of removing Mrs. Trim’s butt print was not the start of a revolution at all. It was a tawdry act of revenge.
I can see how the diabolical treatment meted out by Mrs. T. would stick in Mrs. Plop’s craw. All poor old Mrs. Clinton did wrong was to have the gall to stand against Mrs. Trim in the 2016 election.
But come on!
My fountain of sympathy is definitely dry when it comes to any ills that befall that bunch of butt-fiddlers!
I nodded politely to Mrs. Plop and left the house, and within fifteen minutes was back in harness, i.e. at my desk working my tripe out.
Did I learn any valuable lessons from my experience with Mrs. Plop and the Butt of Fame episode? (I hear you cry).
Yes, most definitely.
It is this.
If you’re ever visiting someone’s nuclear shelter, always check out their family photos.
That said, I don’t think it’s a lesson that will greatly affect my future life.
That’s it for now.