The rest of you can keep on pinwheeling your high-minded legalisms and towering constitutional interpretations until Gabriel blows that high note. Keep on frowning those hyper-intellectual justifications for feeling the way you feel about President Trump, Robert Mueller and the gangs on both sides. I choose to admit that I am in a post-moralist period, so I'll quickly get down to the burlap and admit that my feelings are primitivistic, strong and raw. Gone are the lofty salvos of pretense. At some point I became an authentic human, having little to do with seeking to convince the world that I've been kissed by tongues of righteous flame.
Now it's real simple. Trump is my boy! Trump got to become my boy by my satisfying myself that his accomplishments border on the politically supernatural. OK, he didn't achieve his wall even when the Republicans ruled the House as well as the Senate. Don't you understand that he had to win over the Republican party even after he won the election? Have you anti-Trumpers ever heard of full employment including, but not limited to, blacks, Hispanics and women? Have you ever known a president to rattle the tambourine under the noses of NATO tightwads who got warm and cozy letting America pick up the tab for their defense for the last half century against a no-longer-so-threatening Russia? Is there an amusement park anywhere that can give you the pringle and tingle of a major economic surge?
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I welcome myself back into the domain of authentic human beings. It's really quite simple. Trump is my boy, and to me the bad guys are the ones that are messing with my boy. Got it? The teachings, tricks and tactics of his political enemies should be enshrined in the annals of juvenile delinquency. Go, Nadler, Go! You've got 22 percent of the nation with you. The Never-Trumpers have proven their brilliance in making political grenades. Forgive me for hoping that those grenades explode in their faces!
We pundits don't have the right to name our own columns. Our editors do that. I hope my esteemed editor Ron Strom will allow this column to be entitled, "Does America deserve Donald Trump?"
Trump would triumph on the issue of energy alone. If you were to tie a rope around his waist and dip him like a tea bag into the Hudson River at the 79th St. boat basin, within 41 minutes you'd have soda water from the Statue of Liberty to the George Washington Bridge!
The rise and fall of Robert Mueller deserves five full-fledged operas on successive evenings. Never before have so many been so suckered by one pitiable man. Mueller is a decorated war hero and a legendary prosecutor. His presentation before Congress started out weak – and then gradually tapered off! Let him go to the Prosecutors' Hall of Fame and sit on his throne. But first, would somebody help him get his foot disentangled from his own perjury trap? He doesn't belong on the same playing field as Donald Trump.
Can anyone help me understand what happened to the Democratic Party? You can understand how it is that, growing up in North Carolina in the 1950s, I never met my first Republican until I was 25. If I were asked to direct a play about Democrats in that era and area, I could do no better in casting than Jerry Nadler, Adam Schiff and the other real-life players of the Democratic Party today. Their physical appearances are just right – salt of the earth, oregano of the universe. But what happened to their politics? How could the likes of Nadler and Schiff lend themselves to such gargantuan lies? How could they aid, abet, empower and permit the Democratic Party to become a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Social Democratic Party? If they're smart enough to get themselves elected to Congress, why aren't they smart enough to realize there has never been a socialist or communist economy? Not one! There have been, by my count, 39 such collectivist economies attempted. And yet not one single success.
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In Moscow the people ask: "What would happen if the Communists took over the Sahara Desert?" Answer: "For two years, nothing. Then they'd have to start importing sand!" If your cat tore up 39 of your sofas, would you be in a hurry to purchase sofa number 40 upon which your charming little pet might cavort?
Where is the Democratic Party located today? Don't give me any address in Washington, D.C. Let's be poetic. The new address of today's Democratic Party is, I fear, up there where the elephants make love!