Oh, those festive evenings long ago when little donnie and I settled down in the barn with the goats who loved us.
Losers, liberals and Democrats might say it was a forced and uncomfortable love, greased by tranquilizers, and if necessary, temporary immobilization by electrical devices.
But hey, that’s how don john rolls.
Or may soon.
Every evening when we entered the barn, the goats rose up on their pretty little hooves, braying, “Baab’s here.”
Little donnie paid off the guards and the evening went as planned.
Nothing you don’t know already.
Little donnie still owes me $13,399.99 for medicaments and salve, by the way — a debt I have refrained from mentioning during our Anschluss, hoping he might pay me back one day.
He offered me 30% and quits, which worked for him before, but not with this tough hombre.
I know now that I was foolish. Little donnie doesn’t pay his debts even under court order.
Sure, that $1,339.99 could have saved Little Debbie’s life, but who is Little Debbie anyway?
I mean, who was she? Some girl? A Democrat? Who cares?
What’s important is that little donnie told me about goats, and their many uses, for which I will be forever grateful.
Even if the goats aren’t.
(Pause for commercial break.)
I have just implied that the president of the United States instructed me, and joined in having sexual intercourse with goats. And that I paid for his medical treatment for it, and he stiffed me for the bill.
Can he prove he did not do it?
And how is this fantastical story different from what played out before the world this week, live on TV, in the impeachment hearings?
This is how little donnie got elected, and governs: giving people demeaning nicknames, lying about them, about himself, about scientists — about science itself — lying about religion, nature, poor people, rich people, Russia, racism, justice, mammals — about where he put his hands, when, where and to whom.
Not why. We all know why.
And what he did next.
And who paid for it.
That’s how little donnie has carried on ever since, as he goose-steps around the White House, elbows out. This is how he governs us — you, me, the goats and his sheep — and will continue to govern us until he is thrown out of office, by hook or shepherd’s crook.
Donald john Trump is the apotheosis of smarm, money-grubbing and ignorance.
Did he ever have sexual intercourse with goats?
Did he ever get a hoof job from anyone but Satan?
I don’t know. It could have happened — if you believe in Satan. But we’ll never know, will we?
Why, then, do I bring it up?
Because that’s the “defense” his Republican congressmen and senators are throwing up for him. I mean “throwing up” literally.
We have 525 representatives in Congress. And this is … what? Aside from weakness. Weakness before the power of Vladimir Putin, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, Viktor Orban, and the rest of the remnants of Fascism.
I resort to metaphorical goats because that’s how little donnie got elected, and how he governs us: throwing vile, unsubstantiated, criminal allegations against anyone who opposes him, about anything.
It’s what Trump’s “national security adviser” John Bolton — good heavens — did with as much gusto as his boss. Bolton has said that Vladimir Putin’s interference in our presidential election did not come from Russia at all: It was a “false flag” operation, carried out by — wait for it — not Ukraine, but by President Obama and Hillary Clinton.
And now decent, presumably self-respecting Americans pretend to believe and hope that Bolton will say anything useful in the impeachment inquiry?
Here’s what’s clear, so far, in the Republican Theme Park Impeachment Show (health insurance optional): All of us may be traitors.
Just by living our lives as we’ve always lived them.
Traitors to what? Or to whom?
And can you be a traitor by being unfaithful to a what? Or a whom? To a man elected to a temporary office, no matter how high?
Answer me one question, my fellow Americans: Can you prove you are not a traitor?
How will you prove it?
(Full disclosure: Robert Kahn speaks a foreign language.)