RON SCHALOW: The Emperor Has No Feathers

I’ve had some bad weeks. One August, I lounged on the deck of a pontoon in the sun so long that my shins and feet were seriously burned. There was smoke — and not the medicinal kind. I was in pain for at least a week, and gentle I had to be, to get the old shoes on. The hair on my shins never did grow back — smooth as a billiard ball — but I never tried to pull a fancy comb-over.

On a colder day, one of my rear tires lost hope and deflated more than a Tom Brady football. I didn’t blame it. Most of the rubber had abandoned ship long ago. This was before cell phones — at least ones smaller than an 8-pound block of sharp Cheddar cheese. So, in 50 below zero wind-chill weather, I jacked up the rear end and switched out the deceased tire with a slightly better one that still had the guts to retain air.

My thighs took the brunt. The permafrost ran Femur deep. The slow thaw didn’t feel like springtime — or any of the other seasons in Mohall, N.D.

Of course, I’m not including the deaths of loved ones, or a national tragedy. And I’ve never been to war. But then, neither has Donald Trump. I was fortunate. He was a dodger.

But even though my legs have endured 140 degree temperature swings, nothing compares to the week Donnie Trump took on the chin, starting with the giant FBI director calling him liar.

Millions of people have called the soft-brained simpleton a liar, but this one had to sting. Good old Comey. I hope he’s on our side.

I have doubts about the Trumpster. The Russians have landed on Mar-a-Lago beach, worked their way to the tennis courts and set up camp. They’re using the nets to snag bluefish, snappers and tons of plastic champagne flutes.

And the dope is worried about malnourished 36-inch refugee Syrian kids.

I worked with a Russian woman who had been in the states for four years and could speak English better than me. Not a high bar but disconcerting for several reasons.

Holy buckets. That was an, ooooh, it-had-to-hurt week. Leave-a-mark week and other cliches.

A week of going out for passes across the middle and the prolate spheroids (I had no idea) are continually getting chucked just a smidge high, while the ornery turbo charged cornerback licks his lips, waiting to separate some limbs from their sockets, bruise some innards and break multiple ribs of the receiver, front and back. Ouch. Bring out the cart. Warm up the MRI gizmo. Call next of kin. The number is glued to the fibrillation dealy.

Oh, a 15-yard penalty? That’s pretty harsh for nationally televised assault. Wipe that smile off your face and quit giggling!

David Crosby never had such as week, and most of his parts are used. Stills, Nash, and Young are still working with original equipment, as far as I know, so no need to worry. Except about their attitudes. Bad.

Dave’s pancreas is for sale on eBay, and even he couldn’t quit snickering, while the Trump University scammer sweated off his pumpkin concealer from the Katy Perry collection and his so-called waterproof Nordstroms mascara. Sad.

And, I enjoyed every minute of it, too. I don’t know where the chickens go before they come home to roost, but there were some fat Rhode Island Reds sitting on the gropers head-nest, and the sight was splendid.

Except for the hair pile — it was really distracting the poultry — and the sight always puts me into a trance, trying to figure out the structural integrity of the fuzz. There’s no load bearing head!

Gawd, I want to take hedge clippers to those, those, what are those? Side wings? Get a grown-up haircut, for crissakes.

I was thrilled for Kevin Cramer, too. He latched onto 45’s wrinkled Chrysler-sized rear end with both thin lips and never let up on the suction.

Before this current Trump gig, Cramer used to clean behind the cushions of any crusty couch in Cass County for a nominal fee — and got to keep the change. He was famous for his vacuum-related feats in Kindred, N.D. It was a nicer place after he left, according to Trump, who heard it someplace, from somebody. Maybe everyone. I can’t understand the man.

Speaking of the bootlick, our lone congressman has been bragging about voting to repeal Obamacare 793 times. He also counts a 15-minute visit on the kiss @$$ Rob Re-Port unheard of radio phenomenon as a town hall, so his perception of actual accomplishment is different than say, well, anyone who has ever had a job.

But Cramer never thought to conjure up a better health care idea in those years, and although Trump indicated that he, and only he, had a great plan, he didn’t. It was just his latest con, and Kevin knew it. Cramer would have voted for the most depraved moronic bill, for a pat on the head from DT.

“We’re going to have insurance for everybody. There was a philosophy in some circles that if you can’t pay for it, you don’t get it. That’s not going to happen with us.” — Dirty Old Man

That was lie.

When he lies, his apologists, like Cramer, say that Trump isn’t politician, as if being a politician wrings the truth from the memory-collecting gland before shooting the words out of the face hole.

Becoming a politician since he was 8 didn’t help Cramer with truthfulness. Maybe one needs a sense of morality. And the congressman is still afraid of girls, calling in the troops to keep 18 platoons of women from delivering a petition to his Fargo office, and they weren’t even wearing white — or checkered — pantsuits.

In the middle of the health care fiasco, Rob Port, the Forum Communication blogger in their factually challenged department, wrote that Trump was being the grown-up in the room, because 45 demanded a vote, thus moving the ball down the field.

It’s not the dumbest thing Port has ever scribbled, but it just proved that the “Mouth of Minot” had no clue about the bill Trump wanted passed. If Don negotiated the building of Trump Tower in the same fashion, the skyscraper would be hollow. Echo city. Melania-free.

The grown up said:

“I was the first and only potential GOP candidate to state there will be no cuts to Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid.”

“I am going to take care of everybody. … Everybody’s going to be taken care of much better than they’re taken care of now.”

Both statements were lies, and he wanted Congress to drink a tall glass of warm swill. It’s doubtful that the president even knew how little was left of formally bad legislation because he is a child with an attention span that makes George Bush look like Thomas Jefferson.

Oh, and Paul Ryan doesn’t know how insurance works, so that was good to find out.

After two courts shut down his ban of Muslims and this failure, the good guys are up 3-0 in the bottom of the first. Trumps is just producing divots in Florida, so he has bigly problems.

One thought on “RON SCHALOW: The Emperor Has No Feathers”

  • Mark F. Preston March 26, 2017 at 6:42 pm

    All this hatred from the ‘tolerant’ left. How about some solutions, please; beyond the knee-jerk visceral hatred of President Trump? All the problems in the Nation did NOT start on January 20, 2017. Full Disclosure: I am one of the ‘deplorables’ so generously referred-to by the lovely, kind, gracious Hillary Clinton. And so, by default any comments I would posit would be rejected as the shallow rantings of a racist homophobe. Perhaps we could ALL try to solve things in the realm of ideas and not simply in clever, self-indulgent hatred of our President. Despite the fear of so many of a russian lurking behind every tree, Mr. Trump IS the duly-elected President of The United States.


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