Ken taps his foot to the latest dance, the Trump-Clinton side-step.
As a trial attorney, I have forced many unwilling adversaries to answer obvious, but difficult questions under oath. Admit it. You are jealous—don’t we all wish that we had the power to pop people’s balloons when their balloons deserve popping? I know—sounds fun, huh? Over the years, my questions have met with facial expressions that only a physician or mental health professional could diagnose. My personal favorite was not a reaction, but a bodily function and a quick exit to the bathroom. Really, folks, like you didn’t think that I would ask? Anticipate and prepare—with Depends, if necessary!
Most of us, however, don’t have the legal system or a judge to leverage direct answers to common everyday questions in life, like “you can’t play golf after dark, where were you, dear?” or “that dress and pair of boots were free, right?” or my oft-used fatherly favorite, “please tell me that you didn’t drink and drive, son?” We know the answers, but do we get them? Of course not. Instead, we are often left to pin down others by playing the adult equivalent of “Pin The Tail On The Unwilling Donkey”—and the problem is the ass keeps moving.
And speaking of backsides—donkeys or elephants—why is election day almost upon us and so very few tails have been pinned as yet by the public on our Presidential candidates and their surrogates? Media outlet after media outlet ask questions about Hillary’s emails, or her health, or her public service record on this or that, and Trump is peppered daily with more “what the bleep” questions than Bill Nye, the Science Guy, Google, or Ask Jeeves. The result—with only handful of exceptions—is a shock and awe display of deflection and obfuscation. Where is a judge when you him or her? Please, the election needs to come soon before I have no hair left. At this rate, I may be bald by the first debate. I only wish that I could use Trump’s birther conspiracy answer “I’m not talking about that anymore” to the question “you can’t play golf after dark, where were you, dear.” Guys, wouldn’t we all?
Laugh now because it’s not going to happen—only in politics, starting with the master, Trump. When faced with tough questions about his antics and insults, Trump redirects the question and instead pins donkey tails on Hillary daily, calling her such endearing terms as crooked, unfit, and untrustworthy. Imagine if he didn’t like her. Near as I can discern, Trump must have an endless supply of tails because he regularly pins others, too—like Generals Powell and Gates, Senator “Pocahontas” Warren, a federal judge, Hispanics and blacks, the Gold Star Khan family, the N.Y. Times and Washington Post, CNN, and even the pastor in Flint. His box of spare tails even includes elephant tails for late night tweeting emergencies. Don’t believe me? Just ask Lyin’ Ted, Little Marco, and Low Energy Jeb.
Poor Hillary—she is out of her league. She tries to pin Trump with tails of unfitness and temperament, but the tails seem to flutter to the floor in the eyes of his supporters. We may never know why. My working theory is that the thickness of his skin on his backside is considerably thicker than his psyche. My advice—push harder, Hillary.
Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on one’s perspective, Hillary played other games as a child. For her part, she is particularly adept at playing “The Cookie Jar” song. When confronted with direct questions about her emails, instead of transparency, she responds with the song’s refrain, “who me, not me, No. 6 took the cookies from the cookie jar.” If you don’t know the game, it is because politicians bought all legal rights to the song decades ago—before Google. So go ahead, Google away now. The winner is the one who is best at blaming others. As good as Hillary is at playing, however, Trump obviously played, too, as a child. Does anyone doubt that she has met her “Cookie Jar” match?
Amen, the election will be over soon and Christmas is coming. My present to Hillary is a lesson, not a physical gift—learn to swish your tail daily to clear your backside of unwanted postings and purge the “Cookie Jar” song from your memory banks. And Trump, what do you get for the professed self-made man who was born on third base but claims that he hit a triple? An endless supply of tails, I guess. He must surely be running out.
