Donald’s Duck Dynasty
Phillipe and Jorge are giddy with excitement as we welcome the dysfunctional new First Family into our lives, a writhing snake pit of preening, self-absorbed poseurs who will take the reality show art of bringing a cringe-worthy dumpster load of rotten-brained inbreds to the national stage to new depths.
Unfortunately, the president’s wife, Zsa Zsa, has elected to give Washington a miss, deciding instead to stay back home at the gilded Trump fortress in New York. There she will be dumping son Barron on a cadre of nannies while she curls up daily on her harem bed with a handle of vodka, listening to Rosetta Stone tapes and re-reading Michelle Obama’s speeches until her lips get tired. Meanwhile, liveried staff will be kept busy smuggling hot young Chippendale dancers up to the penthouse in the freight elevator to ease her ennui.
We will also get more than we can take — ie, two minutes worth — of The Donald’s oily sons, Beavis and Butthead, two odious little slimeballs of the first water who make your skin crawl. When they are not on “safari” in Africa, shooting exotic prey that have been tethered to stakes so they can play Great White Hunter, they will be seeing how far they can stick their noses into the air, not realizing others are doing the same, mostly to avoid the stench that emanates from them.
Then we have Ivanka the Terrible, the new “First Lady,” who will be performing her prime duty of rubbing up against aging, lecherous foreign dignitaries. She will also display her business acumen, polished as the designer of highly combustible, made-in-China scarves and shameless flogging of ostentatious jewelry that appeals mainly to mobsters’ wives and QVC shoppers, and flaunting her cleavage so Daddy can ogle her tits in Zsa Zsa’s absence.
Let us not forget The Orange Orangutan’s second-in-command, Veep Mike Pinhead. Mikey’s tiny, perfectly round but vacant skull, with his beady little black eyes, is the perfect frame for designing an entire inventory of emojis coming from the Trump administration, shaped to whatever feeling is being conjured up, provided it can be backed up by Pinhead’s allegiance to biblical references, even if they are, as we have seen in the past from this phony God-botherer, hypocritical or totally bogus.
This shower of assholes will be tended to and cultivated by chief of staff Ratso Priebus, the president’s repugnant, rodent-faced little go-fer, and The Donald’s chief strategist, “Seig Heil Scott” Bannon, who should doubtless enjoy giving chummy, fireside rants to Ivanka the Terrible’s ultra-Orthodox husband, Jared Kushner, about how greedy Jews are destroying America from within. Can’t wait for those two to be sitting next to each other at a state dinner.
This should produce a great new class of President’s Medal of Freedom award winners, featuring the philanthropic cast of Duck Dynasty; academicians Snooki, J-Woww, Pauly D and The Situation of “Jersey Shore;” dedicated social activist and KKK icon David Duke; classical musicians Ted Nugent and Kid Rock; massive force of the modern theater Scott Baio; admired athlete (and ignorant as a hammer) Ryan Lochte; whoever wins the Miss Universe contest, providing she’s not too fat; and, of course, the brightly burning symbol of an America made great again, Gary Busey.
Sleep tight, dah-lings. You got what you asked for.
Little Rhody’s Trump Toadies
Locally, folks have been delighted by the fact that Vo Dilunders have been included in the upcoming, doubtlessly apocalyptic, Trump administration.
And they represent the state perfectly, one being totally delusional and thoroughly absorbed by fake news on Twitter, and the other being a professional liar. Sounds like they might have been plucked directly from our General Assembly.
Huzzahs for retired Lt. Gen. Michael Flynn, named to be the Donald’s powerful national security advisor. Ooh, Middletown native. Ooh, URI grad. Ooh, fired as head of the Defense Intelligence Agency by current National Intelligence Director James Clapper for any number of management issues, including a chaotic style and making up what his subordinates reportedly called “Flynn facts.” Ooh, wants to wage global war against all Muslims (they all look alike anyhow). Ooh, posted fake news stories to Twitter. Ooh, also his son was fired from the Trump campaign team for disseminating fake news about a Washington pizza parlor that was allegedly housing a pedophile sex ring supported by Hillary Clinton, which led to it being shot up by a deranged Trump supporter (sorry for the redundancy). Like father, like son, eh?
Ooh, Sean Spicer, Whitehouse press secretary and director of communications. Ooh, Barrington native. Ooh, Portsmouth Abbey grad and masters from Naval War College in Newport. Ooh, director of communications for the Republican National Committee, that bastion of truth, justice and the American Way, provided you are a white male. Ooh, will now be backing up the president’s outright, blatant lies to the national media without blinking an eye, coolness in the face of dishonesty and prevarication well-honed by years of selling bullshit by the barrel for the RNC.
So a Biggest Little salute to these kings of post-truth who will be representing the Ocean State as the world hangs on their every twisted word in years to come. “Rhode Island’s famous for you,” as the song goes. Walk tall, citizens! (And you thought being identified with the mob was bad.)
Phillipe and Jorge enjoy country music as much as the next pair of regular guys (provided they are also wearing feather boas and peppy capri pants), and are still mourning the death this past year of the legendary Merle Haggard, the Okie from Muskogee (well, Bakersfield, California, actually), who penned the epic political line, “It was back before Nixon lied to us all on TV,” in the amazing “Are the Good Times Really Over?” (Answer: Yes, for now.)
So we doff our beret and sombrero to Justin Moore, and give our “Song Title of the Year” award to his “You Look Like I Need a Drink,” which we predict will gain epic status. Been there, seen that.