The so-called judges, so-called reporters, and so-called refugees!

The meeting of the D.C. chapter of Sense of Entitlement Anonymous was underway at the upper Georgetown home of Judge Sowell Ame (who had just gotten his house de-ratted again by a rat terrier brought over by Sebastian L'Arche).  He had paid good money for the de-ratting, and the catering, and he was damned sure determined to get his fair share of the time allotted.

"I go to the annual Kuwaiti Embassy party every year," he began.  "It used to be a nice affair at the Four Seasons.  I could walk there, have nice food, champagne, walk home.  This year Trump pressured the Kuwaitis to move it to Trump International, and it was a nightmare!  First you have to take a taxi, then you have to get through the gauntlet of protesters, then you have to be searched by the Secret Service, then they take your cellphone away for the whole party, then you have to mingle with white trash wearing Ivanka Trump gowns they bought on sale at Tyson's Corner, and as soon as you are introduced as a judge, they roll their eyes at you!"

"So-called judges!" laughed Prince and Prowling junior attorney Bridezilla.

"'Judge' is a title that deserves respect!" cried Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts, turning red.

"They didn't respect Merrick Garland, either," said Federal Reserve Board economist Luciano Talaverdi.  "And the GOP is threatening to shut down the Fed.  It's bad all over."

"Oh, please!  Nobody ever respected economists," replied Judge Ame.

"That's true," said realtor Calico Johnson.  "The economists all said Trump would be a disaster for the economy and the federal budget, but he won the Election, anyway.  I get a lot of hate as a realtor, these days!  People just assume you're a slumlord and that you got rich snapping up properties in foreclosure, even if it's only partially true.  And that's the general public!  A lot of realtors think now you need to have your name on stuff or it doesn't count!"

"Well, I'd like to say that the Trump Administration respects some judges very much!" exclaimed a former member of the FISA Court.  "My colleagues are so busy fielding surveillance requests that they hired me as an outside consultant to get through all the filings!"

"Well, that's a waste of taxpayer money!" barked Dick Cheney.  "Why can't they just rubber-stamp 'em all?  In my day--"

"When dinosaurs roamed the Earth!" whispered a member of N.U.T.T.Y.

"I'm not deaf, missy, and I still have a drone pilot on speed dial!"

"Oh, Dick, you are the funniest!" squealed Bridezilla.  "I have bigger problems than all of you!  I'm supposed to build up the firm's new Russia practice!  How am I supposed to do that?  They don't have any exports except figure skaters and vodka, and the Russian mob doesn't leave any room for anybody else to make a profit."

"Putin should have been taken out fifteen years ago!" growled Cheney.

"Well, we all know you were too busy invading Iraq," said Talaverdi, rolling his eyes.

"You watch it, pal!  You think they're not thinking about putting Italians on the terrorist watch list?  If they're interrogating U.S. citizens returning from Peru, they're halfway there!"

"I'm a legal resident, and I'm married to an American citizen!" replied Talaverdi.  "Your little Mussolini's not laying a finger on me!"

"I would advise you to keep your political opinions to yourself," said Chief Justice Roberts, looking up at the ceiling.

"Don't you worry, Luciano!" said Bridezilla.  "I have a great place to hide you!"

Meanwhile, Washington Post "Metro" reporter Perry Winkle, who was still on anti-hallucination medication but still seeing monsters here and there around town, was desperately trying to become a political reporter.  For weeks he had been spending hours a day sitting in Lafayette Park, where various White House insiders would pop out on their coffee breaks to sit on his park bench, surreptitiously take the burner phone he was holding for them, and send out Tweets and emails to the Resistance.  Sometimes he would try to interrupt them with questions of his own, but usually they would wave him off and keep tapping on the burner phone.  At this rate, he was never even going to be able to write a single WaPo story, let alone convince the senior editors he had excellent sources and should be moved to the political division (which was, of course, the most coveted at the newspaper).  So today he decided to try a different tactic with the National Security Council employee sitting next to him.

"So, um, can you confirm the rumors about ghosts in the White House?"

"Ghosts?" squeaked the staffer in a suddenly high-pitched voice.  "You mean I'm not the only one?"

Over on Capitol Hill, Congressman Herrmark's Chief of Staff, Ann Bishis, was having dinner with her identical twin cousins.

"Why were you delayed in Greece?!  It was supposed to be a two-week vacation!  Was there an immigration problem?!  The Congressman did all that paperwork to explain why you need the work permit to be his personal bodyguards!"

"No, that wasn't the problem," said Nick, pushing his food around the plate.

"Well?"

Nick looked at Costas, and Costas finally started speaking.  "Well, we got married."

"What?!  How?!  What?!  Nobody told me anything!  Why didn't you tell me?  I would have flown over there for the wedding!  But you've had so many girlfriends over here!"

"When you meet the right one, you just know it," said Nick.

"And they were the right one," said Costas.

Ann started laughing.  "How can they be the right one? Your English is so rusty after a month away!"

"So beautiful, double perfection," said Nick.

"Wait, what?  Not identical twins!"  Her cousins smiled sheepishly, and she punched both their arms.  "You two are mental!"

"That is an insult, no?" protested Costas.

"Are they here?  Did you get them visas?  That was the delay?'

"Well, the thing is, they're a little bit Syrian," said Nick.

"What do you mean a 'little bit Syrian?'"

"Kurdish, which is like Greek Syrian," said Costas.

"No, it's not!" retorted Ann.

"Well, it's complicated," said Nick.

"Are you actually telling me you married Syrian refugees?"

"That is such an ugly word, Ann, please!" cried Costas.

"They're not terrorists!" exclaimed Nick.

"I didn't say that!" protested Ann.  "But you can't just up and marry Syrian refugees!"

"Well, we did!" they retorted in unison.

Back at the White House, a somewhat inebriated and very lecherous Steve Bannon tried to follow Special Science Adviser Bibi Von Braun into the East Wing, but she pepper-sprayed him and pulled the door shut behind her.

"Did you see that?" he sputtered, turning around to the nearby Secret Service agent before falling down, half-blind and fully in pain.

"Sir, that's the residence.  We need you to stay in the West Wing."

"Get me help, you asshole, and arrest her!"

"She has access, sir.  She's his doctor."

"What kind of doctor pepper-sprays a Chief Strategist?  GOD, THIS HURTS LIKE HELL!"

"I thought you were a fan of Satan, sir."  The agent pressed his comm.  "Can somebody fetch the alt-doctor?  We've got Alt-Right One down.  Please bring the alt-stretcher because he's drunk off his alt-ass."

"You're fired!"

"Doesn't work like that, sir."

Bannon pulled out his gun to shoot the agent, but only blanks came out.

"Doesn't work like that, sir," the agent repeated.

**************************************************** 
COMING UP:  
The enemy of your enemy.... 

A new conspiracy theory!

Militiaman and conspiracy blogger Glenn Michael Beckmann had been to almost every Trump protest held in Washington in the past two weeks.  He would feign reluctance when his young roommate Brittani dragged him out of their Southwest Plaza apartment (which she was constantly doing, since the real estate demon was upsetting her a lot), and he would complain about his neglected Beckmann's Floral Cushions (AKA Beckmann's Bad Asses) clients, but secretly he was glad for the excuses to do a lot of reconnaissance, trying to understand what was going on.  The last meeting held of the Hunter-Gatherer Society had almost caused the group to disintegrate, with members arguing about everything from the Trump boys' namby-pamby hunting techniques to whether a Jew could be a white supremacist.  This afternoon he finally had some peace and quiet to think while Brittani was at her GED class prior to dragging him off to the Supreme Court this evening for another rally.  He understood that the poor girl had been through quite an ordeal in her young and bizarre marriage, and suspected she was running around to all these protests more for the adrenaline rush than from highly developed political opinions, but he was an adroit political analyst with years of experience in the military [imagined] and private security [criminal], so it was high time for him to connect all the dots and explain to his blog readers what was really going on in Washington.  He lit another joint and sat down to his computer.

Meanwhile, psychiatrist Ermann Esse had seen a fair amount of odd clients over the years, but his undercover CIA work as Melania Trump's fashion designer "Gunther Zimmer" had been an extremely strange experience.  Every weekend he was in Florida with his pin cushion, needle, and thread for fashion emergencies--which usually consisted of his doing a quick hypnosis to calm Melania down while he fiddled with imaginary loose threads in the outfits the CIA was having made in NYC.  For most of the weekend, he would be left to wander around the resort eavesdropping on millionaires and billionaires--secretly diagnosing their Hercules complexes, Oedipus complexes, Napoleonic complexes, and Eva Braun complexes.  Then he would fly back to NYC, where he would work daily with Melania on her personal wardrobe, as well as her flagging fashion line, during the hours that Barron was in school.  His CIA mission was to hypnotize her into influencing Trump, but he could see no evidence that she had any influence on Trump, let alone influence that could be manipulated by him.  But with the CIA still blackmailing him, he had little choice but to stay on mission.  Sometimes he felt guilty that they ended up having kinky sex when he attempted the hypnosis sessions, but the woman was in the worst and most embarrassing trophy-wife marriage he had ever seen, and she was desperate for the touch of a man who did not give her the willies.  And, he told himself, it would be worse for her if she got caught having sex with Secret Service agents!  Better for him to satisfy her!  His CIA handlers, of course, would have loved nothing better than to receive tape of her having sex with Secret Service agents, but he did not want her to be the sacrificial lamb.  And so he would lock the door, let her strip to her underwear prior to trying on a new outfit for fitting, say hypnotic words until she relaxed, start offering suggestions to her for influencing her husband, and then find her ripping off his clothes instead of putting on her own.  It was a failed mission, but he was enjoying it.

Over at the White House, special science adviser Bibi Von Braun (real name Barbara Hellmeister), was in the White House bedroom where she now lived--though she still frequently visited her secret lair atop the 14th Street Bridge because she found it very energizing to be there (twenty feet above the demon Ardua).  She was pleased that the Hitler DNA coursing through Trump's veins was, in fact, leading to the advancement of policies putting the white race back on top, but she was pessimistic about his stability and stamina.  Her chemical experiments to strengthen his heart, clear his arteries, and melt his body fat were not making much progress, and she was quite certain that Melania was deliberately sabotaging him with fatty cheeses and cured meats.  Trump's sons were too obsessed with money to devote the needed time to racial advancement, and his daughters too obsessed with fashion.  And so Barbara knew it was up to her to bring the next great Hitler into the world.  She had read every word her Nazi scientist grandfather had written on fertility, and was constantly giving Trump vigorous sexual therapy sessions to try to get pregnant, but her frequent examination of his sperm under the microscope showed they were tired and unwilling to swim.  She realized she was going to have to do this in a petri dish and had set up all the lab equipment she needed in her (constantly locked) East Wing bedroom.  Trump would be very eager after his return from Florida--pumped up about his adoring "masses" (ha! nothing like the Fuhrer's) but frustrated by his wife's near frigidity (Slavic peasant stock!).  Bibi would bring him his nighttime smoothie and get to work.

Meanwhile, triple agent Charles Wu was delivering "C. Coe Phant" a nice wad of cash in exchange for spilling some State Department secrets over lunch at The Palm.  Unfortunately, the secrets were messy, confusing, and not very promising for re-sell to Beijing or London.  In fact, "Phant" could not actually verify what the new Secretary of State was going to do about anything because Tillerson did not have enough political appointees in place to develop more than a loose framework favoring petroleum-drilling and paying lip-service to the NATO alliance.  Though Wu had convinced Beijing to grant Trump a valuable Chinese trademark in exchange for affirmation of the One-China policy, the spy was under considerable pressure to get the U.S. to pull back from even the slightest deference to Russia.  This remained a seemingly impossible task, despite the best efforts of an army of Chinese and U.S. hackers to unearth counter-blackmail material.  Sensing Wu's frustration, "Phant" cleared his throat.  "I think, ultimately, there is actually not going to be much upheaval at State or in world diplomacy.  Probably a movement back towards a George H.W. Bush style of--"

"Starting a new war in the Middle East?" Wu interrupted.  "Iran?  To drive up oil prices?  Will he nuke Tehran?  Does he realize that would cause nuclear fallout on Trump hotels and golf courses in Dubai and Saudi Arabia?  Does he understand how any of this works?"

"I just work at State, Charles," replied "Phant", adding a suggestion that Wu search for a reliable source inside the White House.

Wu pulled back the cellphone case he had placed on the table, unzipped it, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, handed it to "Phant", and stuck the case with the remaining wad of cash back in his coat pocket.  "Alright, see you around," Wu said, getting up to leave.

Back in Southwest Plaza, with the hot breath of both global warming and the local real estate demon causing the buzzed Glenn Michael Beckmann to sweat profusely, and after having perused all his favorite #alternativefacts news sites on the Web, he was finally confident about, and ready to blog on, his latest conspiracy theory:  Donald Trump was a puppet king installed by aliens to weaken human civilization and make the imminent invasion of Earth easy....

****************************************************
COMING UP:  The so-called judges, 
so-called reporters, and so-called refugees!

And Justice for All!?

"General Sessions?"  Justice Department Attorney Atticus Hawk grabbed his pen and yellow pad to listen to his new Attorney General--Jefferson Beauregard Sessions (who liked to be called "General Sessions")--give a new assignment over the speaker phone.

"Now, they're not telling me about this new Executive Order exactly because they've got so many leaks in the White House.  We just need to prepare for all possibilities."  (Sessions spoke in a slow and easy Alabama drawl, which Hawk found soothing...except for when it was not.)  "I need you to work on a brief for the defense of a possible order allowing Immigration to hand arrivals over for transport to Guantánamo."

"GITMO?!  Sir!"

"'GENERAL!'" barked Sessions, losing his cool and his drawl.

"General, sir, Guantánamo was for enemy combatants picked up during conflict."

"The conflict is everywhere, Hawk!  We can't have namby-pamby lawyers showing up at airports saying they're gonna represent people likely to be scum of the Earth just because they're refugees or resident legal aliens working as emergency room doctors or Microsoft engineers!  These people need to be interrogated!"

"Oh, boy," sighed Hawk.

"I was told you had written more legal memos and briefs about Guantánamo than anybody else," said the Attorney General.

"Well, yes, sir, General."

"I'm not gonna let another DOJ embarrassment happen like the Acting Attorney General did in the Ninth Circuit," said Sessions.

"No, sir, General, sir."

"I think this Order could go in various directions, and I need briefs ready for all of them."

"General Sessions, there are no precedents for--"

"Don't talk to me about precedents, son!  We are livin' in unprecedented times!"

"If somebody is a legal permanent resident--"

"Then they should've stayed permanently residing in the U.S. instead of traipsing off to crazy foreign countries on vacation!  Now, get to work lickety split!  I got other skillets on the campfire!"

"Yes, sir, General Sessions."  Hawk hung up the phone.  If somebody in this Administration has a heart attack, they're gonna be shocked at the sea of brown faces working the GW Hospital emergency room.  He clutched his gut with one hand while grabbing the Pepto Bismal bottle with the other.  And somebody already told him, and now I'm the Torture Expert again.

Of course, for every Atticus Hawk available to the new Attorney General, there were dozens of other civil servants who had resigned and could not be replaced under Trump's hiring freeze, not to mention a suite full of empty offices not yet filled by his own political appointees.  And of the hundreds of attorneys he had at his disposal, he sure did not trust most of them.  And so he had already turned to outside counsel....

"Ladies and gentlemen," began former Senator Evermore Breadman, sitting at the head of the largest conference table Prince and Prowling had.  "Our law firm has been retained to assist the new Attorney General in preparing legal defense memos pertaining to the dozens of lawsuits already filed against President Trump."  (Several half-chewed brownies and blondies actually fell out of people's mouths as jaws dropped around the table.)  "Now, some of you are aware we sidestepped getting hired by Trump operatives during the campaign, but things are different now.  We have always said this law firm can thrive in any political scenario, and this will be no different."

"No different?" asked several partners in unison, while senior associates took swallows of coffee trying to make their brain cylinders start firing more rapidly.

"My husband couldn't even get into the country two weeks ago!" complained one of the tax partners.  "He's a law professor at Georgetown!  He was returning from an international conference on chemical weapons!"

"This was not an easy decision," said Breadman, "but when a law firm is called to serve its country--"

He was interrupted by a peal of laughter from junior partner Bridezilla.  "Goodness gracious!  The amount of Ivanka Trunk clothing I was able to purchase on 70% discount yesterday!  This is all too funny.  Yes, let's serve our country!"

Breadman frowned at the increasingly odd junior partner and looked for reinforcements from the Managing Partner, who told the assembly that they had negotiated a great billing package.  (The Managing Partner did NOT tell them that a big part of the deal was allowing their state-of-the-art review center bunker to exit from further legal monitoring on deferred-prosecution labor violations.)

"But a wide variety of parties are suing the Administration, including private corporations," said junior partner Felix Cigemeier.  "We might end up with a lot of conflicts of interest."

"In these times of economic uncertainty for corporate America, we actually feel it is financially safer to take on a large government client with a booming case load and severe understaffing at the moment," said the Managing Partner.

"And there's no reason to tell any of your corporate clients about this," said Breadman, and Bridezilla started laughing again.

"Of course not!" she exclaimed.  "Some of our corporate clients are probably owned by Trump anyway!  Nobody's seen the tax returns explaining his five-thousand different limited liability corporations all over the world!"

"Well, I don't think this is humorous!" said the disgruntled tax partner, who had already decided it was time to take up that offer to jump over to Prince and Prowling's arch-enemy:  Lye, Cheit and Steele.

"We don't take this decision lightly," said the Managing Partner.  "Evermore even believes the Trump Administration will be shorter-lived than almost any Presidency in our nation's history."

"But we will gain valuable DOJ insights which will serve our clients for years to come," added Breadman, to more than a few gasps.

Not far away, contract attorney Laura Moreno was carrying a box of binders when she passed Breadman's Wall of Me.  She put down the heavy box to take a breather while she examined the updated photos:  Breadman standing next to Jeff Sessions, Breadman standing next to Steve Mnuchin, Breadman standing next to Tom Price.  It was the disappointed lechery of Breadman that had gotten Moreno demoted back down from a staff attorney position, and she only hesitated for a moment before removing several framed photos and walking them out into the hallway to be dumped in the ladies' room trash.

A mile to the south, Dulles Samuelson finished cleaning the upper deck of his houseboat, Singapore Surprise, and headed down to the smells of Angela de la Paz's cooking.  She was going on very few assignments for Charles Wu, and, as far as he knew, not taking on any supernatural missions, either--despite the large amount of time she spent in the Dreamtime.  She wouldn't tell him much about the Dreamtime, and he couldn't tell her much about his new FBI workload, so lately they had not talked much at all except about the weather and whatever television program Angela was currently binge-watching.  Was she feeling guilt?  Despair?  Anger?  Whatever it was, she wasn't the kick-ass killer of zombies and demons he had once known.  But he was determined to do what he came to Washington to do:  fight evil.  He had just hoped it would be more by her side, and less in the entrenched bureaucracy of the FBI--where he was pretty sure the entire White House staff (including Trump) were under investigation, but where he, a new agent, was still assigned to routine criminal investigations.  He knew there was nobody in Washington who could bring down Trump faster than she could, but she wouldn't.  Why?  He had asked himself that a hundred times.  She knew Trump had no soul!  Why?

"Smells good," he said, entering the kitchen area.

"I'm going to go to El Salvador for awhile," she replied, not looking at him.

"What?!"

"Visit my relatives."

"You're not in touch with any of those relatives!  Who's still alive down there?"

"A couple cousins."  She added more ingredients and resumed stirring the pot.

"Are you mad at me about something?"

She put down the spoon and finally turned to look at him.  "I tried to do it."

"What?"

"Get Trump's soul back from Satan.  I couldn't do it!"

"What?!  Is that why you've been been in the Dreamtime so much?!"

"I couldn't do it!"

"What about Steve Bannon?"

"Don't you think I tried that, too?!"

"That's all the more reason for you to stay here!  A lot of people need protection!"

"You think I don't know that?!" she cried, tears welling up.  "I just need to be in some other country for awhile.  I can't stand any of this.  I can't believe what my parents went through to get to this country, and the politicians are just throwing it all to Hell!"

He put his arms around her and let her cry into his chest.  "It'll be okay," he said.  "There are plenty of other people in this fight.  You do what you need to do.  I'll be here when you're ready to come back."

A few miles away, attorney Coretta Rosa McIntyre smiled grimly after her final reading of the next lawsuit Goode Peepz was filing against the Trump Administration the next morning.  "I will do this as long as it takes," she said to the photo of Jeff Sessions and Donald Trump adorning her dartboard.  "You're all going down!"  She turned back to the computer and pressed the print button.

****************************************************
COMING UP:  A new conspiracy theory!

White House Diaries

Diary of Clio, the White House butler:
I've never felt so low since the twins fell off the roof and died!  Everything is so UGLY now.  Ugly people, ugly words, ugly gold spray paint.  Making the maids change his damned hand-wash satin sheets every day because he's doing such ugly things in that bed with God-knows-who, since his wife is never here!  Those Russian and Slovenian women sent over from the hotel as "massage therapists"!  What a disgusting man.  And that strange woman Bibi Von Braun!  They say she's Trump's Special Science Adviser, but he gave her full access to the EAST Wing, and she's always messing around--up to no good, I'm sure.  She keeps putting special-blend smoothies in his mini-fridge for him to drink first thing in the morning, and Rhonda swears she saw Dr. Von Braun collecting hair from his bathtub!  Is she doing voodoo on him?  I don't know!  The worst thing is I'm seeing Regina and Ferguson everywhere!  I'm gonna have to look for a new psychiatrist.  I see those kids running around on a tear--making people trip, hiding their keys, changing the TV channels to CNN, rubbing spare scarves and neckties in the potted plant dirt, sending Tweets on people's phones.  And I KNOW Reggie and Fergie were the ones that sprinkled white pepper in Trump's underwear drawer!  That man's always walking around scratching himself!  But I have to admit, I laughed pretty hard when I heard that they keep finding a jar of Mexican salsa on Trump's Oval Office desk!  That's the only thing that's made me laugh in quite awhile.

Diary of Randy "Bubba" Blaylock, Trump's personal security detail:
And my ex said I'd never amount to anything!  HA!  First, I freed our daughter from that white slavery thing, then I found that Rolex, and now I got a job working for the President of the United States himself!  I would've thought my criminal record would prevent me from getting a gig like this, but Mr. Bannon recruited me straight off my Facebook page!  Said he liked what I was posting about Darth Vader, Dick Cheney, and the need for every man to fulfill his bad-ass destiny!  I mean, I knew I was a bad-ass, but after I got Brittani out of that dungeon, things just TOOK OFF!  (Where is that girl, anyway?  Her dumb-ass mama and new sissified husband already lost track of her!)  I LOVE working for POTUS!  Yeah, that's what we call him around here!  Except some of us call him KOTUS 'cause he's the KING, baby!  Don't get me wrong--I know he can be an asshole sometimes, and I honestly don't think I would take a bullet for a man too cowardly to kill his own spiders (he won't do it!).  But, man, I'd love to SEE somebody try to take him out so that I can whip out my gun and shoot the perp!  And then I'd pistol-whip him and stomp on him, too--although maybe that would be hard if a bunch of other people jump him at the same time.  My real fantasy, though, would be for Bannon to say, "Dudes!  We've discovered that ALL the reporters at the White House briefing are secretly working for North Korea and Iran!  We need you to put on your gas masks, then go in there and beat the crap out of them after they're blinded by the tear gas!"  And I would be like, "Are we KILLING them, like Trump said on that O'Reilly interview??!!!"  And Bannon would just WINK!  And then I would be like, "What about the Fox reporter?  Or that blogger from the Aryan Nation?"  And Bannon would be like, "They'll be taken to safety with Angry Spice first!"  (That's what we call Spicer!  What a Spice Girls fag!  He should shave his head, get a tattoo or something.)  Man, I really do hope I get a chance to beat the crap out of somebody soon, or I might have to find a new girlfriend, ha ha ha ha!  Man, this Rolex itches.

Diary of Ghost Dennis:
He's listening to everything I say!  This is the first U.S. President who has actually listened to me since Richard Nixon--in his first two years, that is.  Trump can HEAR me!  Unfortunately, he argues with me constantly!  He thinks I'm the ghost of Nelson Rockefeller!  In what universe do I sound like Nelson Rockefeller?  "That's not true, Nelson!" Trump says!  "And I don't take advice from guys who can't get into the White House by themselves."  WHAT?! I tried to talk to him about why Nixon almost got impeached, and he said, "LOSER!  Resigned the Presidency!  They'll never impeach me--the people love me!  And I'll get anybody who doesn't have my back!"  I said, "Mr. President, your approval rating is hovering between 30 and 40%, and your own WIFE does not even have your back--didn't you see that footage of her incredible frowny face when you were taking the oath of office?"  And then he went off again about how everybody's lying that his inauguration was NOT the greatest, most impressive spectacle ever witnessed in the history of television democracy ratings.  Then I got tired and went away for awhile.  When I tried to go back to tell him he's being lied to about Poland's invading Belarus, he said, "Not now, Nelson!  I gotta reply to Arnold's latest Tweet!"  Can a ghost go insane?  I think I'm losing it.

Diary of @RoguePotusStaff:
Saturday Night Massacre--Bannon got a dozen people fired while Trump was in Florida.  He trusts almost nobody, with good cause!  But he actually fired some of the wrong people.  Still, we're switching out the burner phones again and lying low for a bit.  If he only knew!  Cooks, maids, Secret Service agents, protocol officers, RNC staffers, chauffeurs.  But after he fired those people, a couple more turned to our side!  They said their wives had them kidnapped by Solomon Kane and de-programmed from the Trump cult by a weird group of clerics calling themselves the Seekers!  Whatever works, man.  Resist!  Thank God no major policy announcements during the Super Bowl, but I know we'll be dealing with fallout from a bunch of asinine Trump Tweets soon enough--I'm a little terrified to find out what the ACLU is going to unleash, actually.  They're rich!  Surely the first time in history they have enough donations to buy a Super Bowl ad.  And Lady Gaga?  Man, if somebody doesn't get him to turn the channel over to the Puppy Bowl during her halftime show, it's gonna be ugly on @RealDonaldTrump.

Diary of Bridge, the White House gardener:
Crocus and daffodils starting to poke up a bit, too soon.  More freezes coming.  Maybe Hell will even freeze over.  Clio's kids gone hog-wild again, but those pre-schoolers more mature than #SoCalledPresident.  I gotta work on those rose plants tomorrow, even though I'm not sure he'll ever sign anything in the Rose Garden.  Just Tweets, then signs what the #UnholyTrinity tell him to sign, and then he Tweets some more.  And Ghost Dennis?  Ooh, boy.  Things are too riled up on that side, too riled up.

****************************************************
COMING UP:  And Justice for all!?