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McCain Mocks Trump In Séance Shocker, Llanaber Issues Apology To Trump

McCain Mocks Trump In Séance Shocker, Llanaber Issues Apology To Trump


There have been recent ‘events’ in our tiny village that I feel compelled to tell the world about, but firstly some background:

It has been widely reported in the world’s media that the self-effacing boss of America and small handed baldy comb-over, Donald Trump, recently let fly with an unprompted vitriolic rant attacking the late war hero and all round good guy Senator John McCain. This happened during a speech Trump made at a tank factory in Lima, Ohio.

The incoherent garbage that vomited from the president’s mouth included the following:

“I gave him the kind of funeral that he wanted, which as president, I had to approve. I don’t care about this, I didn’t get a thank you – that’s okay. We sent him on the way. But I wasn’t a fan of John McCain.”

Trump has never forgiven McCain for, ahead of the 2016 US elections, handing the ‘Steele Dossier’* to the FBI and for not giving Trump the nod and the chance to bury it.

(* a report on Trump’s alleged links with Russia that contained the famous ‘two escorts’ golden shower on Obama’s bed’ incident – the dossier, whilst never verified, is widely believed to be true).

Ever the coward, Donald Trump no doubt felt safe attacking McCain, a man that died last August and, as such, was in no position to fight back. This would seem to be an error of judgement. Which brings me to recent ‘events’ in Llanaber.

It has been a while since my last newsletter from our tiny village in Wales. Being the village Foreign Secretary and having responsibility for communications, it falls to me to let the world know how events ‘out there’ impinge upon life ‘in here’ and vice versa. This is my duty and I will fulfil it with neither fear nor favour.

A quick update:

The parish council is still headed up by my esteemed leader Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, and she is still as mad as a box of frogs. This is evidenced in many ways, not least of which is that she has recently taken to calling herself, and insisting everyone follows suit, ‘Mrs. President.’ (We are a tiny village in the ass-end of nowhere in Wales, for f*ck’s sake!)

The cast of characters in the village is more or less the same with one notable exception. The village now boasts a ‘medium.’ This takes the form of an elderly lady called Madame Arkarty. She is a distant cousin of old Mrs. Clinton, the lady who runs the card shop in the village, and is currently living above her shop pro-tem.

There is a sign in Mrs. Clinton’s card shop window that reads:

What does the future hold for YOU?

Want to contact your dead pals?

Want to find out where Granny hid her gold coins?

Then pop in and make an appointment

Choose your weapon – Tarot & other cards readings, palm readings, séances, head bumps felt, and much, much more…

Madame Arkarty – Will open the door to the secrets of the beyond for you for £1.50 an hour (tea and cake included in the fee).

What is this to do with Trump’s nasty slagging off of John McCain? (I hear you cry).

It is this.

We had a rather scruffy American tourist loitering in the village yesterday, a nasty little individual who went by the name of Steve Bannon. He saw the sign and booked Madame Arkarty for a séance.

I happened to be in the shop when the creep came in and made the booking. I was hanging around trying to choose a get well card for the village gossip, Mrs. Winfrey, who is in the village hospital at the moment. She is awaiting an operation, a Tonsillectomy. The operation will take place as soon as the village doctor, Dr. Mengele, can prise enough of the hospital’s budget money back from ‘president’ Trim so they can afford a few candles for the operating theatre, and to have the village scalpel sharpened.

“Would you like to join us and witness the event?” Madame Arkarty asked me.

How could I refuse.

At the outset, the obnoxious Bannon laid bare his intentions.

“I wish to contact the dead,” he told Madame Arkarty, “Specifically, Jim Mattis, Nikki Haley, James Coney, Sally Yates, Michael Flynn, Preet Bharara, Walter Shaub, Michael Dubke, Reince Priebus, Sean Spicer, Michael Short, Anthony Scaramucci, Sebastian Gorka, Tom Price, Omarosa Manigault, Andrew McCabe, Rob Porter, David Sorenson, Hope Hicks, Gary Cohn, Rex Tillerson, HR McMaster, David Shulkin, Michael Cohen and Paul Manafort.”

“But these people aren’t dead,” said Madame Arkarty.

“They are as far as Donald Trump is concerned,” snapped Bannon, throwing £1.50 in non sequential used pennies across the table at the medium, “Now get on with it!”

The medium did as she had been told. In moments the room above the card shop was plunged into darkness, the only light coming from a single candle in the middle of the small round table around which the three of us were gathered.

We all joined hands, a particularly unpleasant experience as the dreadful Bannon’s hand was as cold and clammy as that of a man standing at the gallows, or a peeping Tom watching through the curtains as Stormy Daniels rehearsed her ‘stand-up’ routine.

It took but moments before Madame Arkarty started to sway gently in her seat.

“Is there anybody there?” she muttered, “Knock once for yes and twice for no.”

I could not help myself. I had to challenge the logic of her request to any spirits present.

“If there isn’t anybody there, how can they knock twice for no?”

Bannon glared hate at me for my interruption and hissed ‘SHHH!’

Then it suddenly happened.

Madame Arkarty seemed to enter into a trance-like state. She spoke, but it was not her voice that came from her mouth.

“Hello Bannon, you heap of crap,” it said.

Bannon instantly recognised the erstwhile owner of the voice.

“McCain!” yelped the unshaven scruff-bag Bannon, a look of horror forming on his face.

“That’s right,” said the spirit voice through the medium, “And I have a message for your pal, Trump.”

We all held our breath. All was deathly still. You could have heard a mouse fart.

“Tell him from the beyond, that he’s a fat, arrogant, lying, misogynistic, dumb, racist, greedy, vain crap-bag with a mouth like a baboon’s ass. Tell him I’ve seen what’s in the Mueller report. Tell him not to book his holidays because he’s going to chokey for a very, very long time.”

The words seemed to linger in the cold, dark air. Bannon’s trembling hand reached a new level of repulsive clamminess. The man suddenly stood up, his face as white as a sheet, knocking over his chair in his haste.

“Don’t break the circle!” cried Madame Arkarty, but to no avail. Bannon snatched back his hands then ran screaming from the room!

As the door slammed shut behind him, Madame Arkarty smiled, then turned to me and said, “I never liked that weasel or his ex-boss, Trump.”

Later, as I slumped home through the perpetual fog, the memories of that séance played over and over in my head.

Dear reader, I have previously never held strong feelings either way about the existence of a ‘hereafter,’ another world invisible to us where the dearly, and sometimes not so dearly, departed exist as spirits. However, after that séance, I am minded to believe that there is such a place, and I had just witnessed a message being delivered from ‘the beyond.’

As Foreign Secretary I felt duty bound to let the world know what I had witnessed and in so doing send an apology to president Trump from Llanaber for enabling this to happen.

Hence, dear reader, this newsletter.

Also for the record, and to quote Madame Arkarty, “it was a good laugh creeping out that butt-lizard Bannon and hopefully putting the crap up his dreadful ex-buddy Trump.”

That’s it for now.



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

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