I fancy myself a creative writer. But Donald Trump and everyone and everything associated with him is putting me out of business. I do not have enough imagination to come up with anything better than his reality.
For example, the wife of his ethics lawyer was caught having sex with an inmate in the back of a car outside the jail he was a guest in. Wife of the ethics lawyer.
That’s kind of like getting run over by the Welcome Wagon on your first day in your new town.
Besides, Trump employing an ethics lawyer would be similar to my hiring a chauffeur for the limousine I don’t own. Or a herdsman to look after my stable of unicorns.
I wonder if it’s too late for me to get my electrician’s papers or apprentice as a carpenter. With the U.S. president committed to keeping the world entertained every day, it’s just too hard for a simple guy to compete with his keyboard.
I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.
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