Layers of Lies and Lawyers, and Maybe Some Cherry Pie with that

Photo, Courtesy of seriouseats. Will you get your share, or just get burned?

Will you get your fair share of the NEW American pie?

The many cases of whiplash that USA citizens are experiencing are hoped to be addressed by the fantastic and “best ever” healthcare plan put forward by the greatest predisent ever known.

People cannot keep up with the day by day, and often hour by hour, changes. Our POTUS is so unbelievably great that he just can’t stop improving everything, every moment of everyday, and people are getting seriously exhausted by all the winning.

I sat down in small town America, to have an informal talk about Trump’s overwhelming — often overbearing — greatness over a slice of delicious cherry pie with some of his most courageous supporters.

“My neck hurts.” Sighed Betsy Devoid, complaining of whiplash. “And I don’t think he realizes that most of us just don’t have his limitless IQ, or the excellent insight, to comprehend how and why he is performing the Greatification of America in his unique, and super bigly, classy style.”

“I am quite certain that Trump will assign me a clean coal job.” Said Mr. Rick Berry-Coleman, a former miner, and black lung patient ready to enjoy all the benefits of finally having access to great healthcare, full employment, and healthy work conditions — with enough to retire comfortably.

“Lately, I have taken some work in the booming solar industry,” he added, “But I think we all know the sun is not reliable, and may not come up in the morning. Coal — now that’s different, even though only four workers are needed to use the complex machinery involved in blowing off the tops of mountains, there are a lot of mountains in the US.”

His wife, Kelly-ann Kooky, agreed. “I’m watching a live-stream and trying to keep up with all the horrific and discouraging details about the Witch Hunt of this administration. So many people are unfairly attacking, and accusing, and implicating our president, and only about half of them are Donald Trump.”

I asked the group at our table about lawyers, lies, and the alleged ‘witch hunt.’

The grumbling reached a dangerous pitch and the diner felt like it was having a fracking quake, so I quickly changed the subject for now.

When asked about the words ‘Predisent’ and ‘covfefe,’ the folks at the Pie Paradise, small town diner, had varying, and fascinating, views.

“Oh, the man is a poet. Way full of culture, word play, all that Shakespearean stuff,” said Kelly Ann. Pre-descent, or pre-dissent, or maybe it even means pre-decent. Trump is forced to be tough on the weaklings and witch-hunters, before he can become decent, and then address our needs.

Except for our waitress Wendy, who whispered so softly that only this reporter noted her comment, the Pie Paradise patrons appeared to concur with the brilliant Trump word-play angle.

“ Pre-Descent into Madness …and Hell.” She whispered under her breath, her hand shaking as she poured.

The others nodded at my question, and added their individual thoughts about Trump’s often mischievous, clever word play and pronouncements, which some in the lame stream media often view as lies du jour.

“I think pre-dissent means he will be hiring more and more security to smash heads and body slam all those dissenting people who don’t get it that he is the greatest.” Rick coughed.

“I think it was a typo.” Murmured waitress Wendy Wise, just before the others turned on her, knocking the coffee pot out of her hand, slapping and kicking her to the floor for her foolish, left-wing rant against our emperor.

“What about Covfefe?” I asked, pulling Wendy her back up to her feet.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Betsy, bearing her teeth in a grimacing, forced smile.

“…with cream and sugar please.”

“Me, too, please,” croaked Kelly Ann’s brother, Rants Pubis.

The topic of lawyers came up and had to be addressed delicately as it was apparent that these Trump supporters, (Wendy was now a convert, having suffered brain damage and the innate survival instinct of wanting to live to vote again someday.)

“What do you think about Trump’s lawyers, does anything about their hire suggest that something inappropriate, or maybe just incompetent, is occurring in this administration?”

“Not at all.” Coughed Rick. “Everyone knows that a businessman as astute as the Donald is just messing with their heads. It’s a psych-move. He feigns incompetence to identify the witch-hunters.”

“And messing with our heads a bit too,” Wendy said, pouring coffee all over the table in a steady drizzle, because she had no idea what was happening around her anymore, and now had the sense and motor control of a crack addicted, newborn preemie.

“Because Trump’s technique and delivery is far above our comprehension, and education.” Added Rick, and that third thing, too. Oops, can’t remember.”

“May the Lord Trump open,” murmured Betsy, apropos of nothing.

“I’m NOT being investigated for Medicaid payments stolenz from the till to replacezzz what they’ll take from me myzz paycheck,” slurred Wendy, her face beginning to noticeably twitch convulsively.

“So, ummm, none of you think that Trump ever lies?” I asked, carefully moving my chair back and avoiding the scalding coffee –err, covfefe? — stream, while pivoting my body toward the door, in case of the need for a quick getaway.

There was a long, and painful sustained silence, while the defrauded rabble of rubes glared with the fire of lost dreams, broken promises and the kind of extreme denial that only the lost, disillusioned and tragically dysfunctional, group-thinkers suffer.

As I inched away from the table, I realized that decades of political corruption and extreme exhaustion had ground these good people down to mere sound-bite containing vessels of a lethal and ubiquitous brew.

Covfefe had turned the best minds of many to mush. Our Predisent and his greatness have confused, and at alternate turns, placated, and frenzied up the populace. An ominous rumble began.

Then, suddenly,

“Blessed be the fruit,” Betsy spat angrily, banging her fist on the table.

Pie filling and plates spilled everywhere. It looked like a Twin Peaks murder scene, with stark Handmaiden undertones…

“May the Lord Trump open!” Responded a circle of people who had arisen from other tables and were now quickly circling in on me.

Just before I sprinted away from the diner, knocking down two chairs and upsetting a clattering tray I heard the voices in unison chanting insistently, and growing louder.

“Under His Lie. Under His Lie. Under HIS LIE. UNDER HIS LIE!”

Many thanks, readers, please DO give me some highlight, heart, or comments. Alex