Hey Dope! The Pope Says Nope

Secret Service personnel dropping like flies to the virus. Who is going to protect the president?

Trump makes a call to the Vatican…

Trump (holding phone to his ear): “One ringy-dinghy, two ringy dinghies. Three ringy-…oh, hello, is this the Pope to whom I have called?”

Pope Francis: “Yes, this is Pope Francis. Who is this?”

Trump: “Donald J. Trump. (a long pause on the other end, audible sigh, longer pause). Hello, hello. Are you still there?”

Pope Francis: “Yeah, but I’m sort of busy. What do you want?”

Trump: “Thanks. Well, first of all, why did you name yourself after a talking mule? Why not after a manly stallion, you know, like Trigger?”

Pope Francis: “I’m named after St. Francis of Assisi.”

Trump: “Oh wow! That’s even worse. Francis the Sissy, a tree-hugging, kitten-breast feeding, peace-loving, vegan snowflake. You know the guy was so weak, he couldn’t even bench press a can of tuna, much less eat it.”

Pope Francis: “The purpose of your call… (we hear a loud gulping sound) …my son.”

Trump: “My Secret Service are all sick. Can I borrow your Swiss Guard? I hear those Swedish guys are some bad ass Viking hombres.”

Pope Francis: “They are Swiss nationals from Switzerland, not Sweden.”

Trump: “Really? I thought Switzerland and Sweden were the same country and some people just pronounce it differently, like REAL-TOR and RE-LA-TOR. I am a RE-LA-TOR myself. Can’t have my amazing business of putting up shoddy buildings, ruined by PC, nit-picking, language activists.”

Pope Francis: “Of course not. You’re on the wrong side of history, why not the wrong side of grammar.”

Trump: “Exactly.”

Pope Francis: “However, I’m sorry…m-m-my s-s-son…you may not borrow my Swiss Guard.”

Trump: “well, that’s too bad Franny, because I know you are up for re-election in November, like I am, and there are a lot of pro-Trumpers right there in that palace with you, wearing MAGA caps.”

Pope Francis: “That’s the College of Cardinals. Those red caps they wear are not MAGA caps.”

Trump: “Fine, fine. So, you have a lot of money, Francisco. Enough to wallpaper the Sistine chapel with $100 bills. How about letting me borrow a few million dollars””

Pope Francis: “Are you re-decorating your bunker, my son? If you can say Rubber Baby Buggy Bunker, five times really fast, I’ll give you the cash.”

CLICK!

 

 

 

Chasing the Elusive Monk

Notes on documentary: Thelonious Monk: Straight, No Chaser

How cool would it have been if Thelonious Monk had married Fontella Bass? Two of the most melodious names in music history. They probably would have named their daughter, Melodious. Okay world, meet, Melodious Bass Monk.

FANTASY SEQUENCE:

An evening at the Apollo Theater…

MC: “Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the newest star in the galaxy of jazz singers, Miss Melodious Bass Monk, singing her Daddy’s composition, ‘round Midnight, to the downbeat of Momma’s, Rescue Me.”

I am not a big jazz fan; but I love Duke Ellington, Billie Holliday, Chet Baker, Coltrane, Stan Getz and, of course, Thelonious Monk.

In the documentary, Thelonious Monk: Straight, No Chaser, he, and others, who were described as the earliest practitioners of bebop, were the first jazz performers who didn’t play necessarily to “entertain” the audience, but to express their musical artistry, simply for the sake of expressing it..

In many ways, those bebop jazz artists were like the Impressionist painters of the late 19^th century. They were less interested in finding wealthy patrons, or some Pope, to commission them to produce public works of art for the consumption of the masses. These guys were more fascinated with how light and color, along with new techniques of applying paint to a canvas resulted in something more intimately personal, rather than traditional, crowd pleasing artwork in a Paris salon, that would meet with the belching approval of close-minded, creatively constipated art critics.

Thelonious Monk and Vincent Van Gogh are kindred spirits. Both struggled with mental health demons, and their sanity, to find within themselves, notes, colors, shapes, and sounds to create unique, influential, enduring art.

Both succeeded.

Jazz, like its contemporary art form, the cinema, is inherently political. All jazz artists are underground, anti-establishment rebels protesting the strictures and structures of conventional music norms, in dingy, smoke-filled cafes and nightclubs.

Most were exercising their right to Free Musical Speech and Artistic Expression. Some, like Thelonious Monk, became the Poet Laureates of Jazz.

What I have always found inspirational about Monk was a statement he made that his often seemingly asymmetrical, discordant compositions which were, on closer examination, mathematically logical chord progressions, precise, but intricately complicated meditations, like a  Da Vinci drawing of a futuristic craft that would be powered by solar winds, was, at its core, his life-long search for the notes between the keys of his piano. Metaphysical motivation from a true poet. Yeah, as a writer, I want to find those hidden, abstract words between the keyboard. Drive my editor and Spell Check crazy.

It was obvious Monk was mentally ill. On stage, he would get up from his piano, during a solo from another band member, and turn in slow, clumsy circles, like an autistic toddler.

He suffered from bouts of depression and mania. Manic depressive. Today, bipolar. At a certain point in his career, he said he did not want to play music anymore. He did not say it like he was burned out or had nothing else to compose. He just did not feel like playing music anymore. Thelonious had become a bored child who no longer had any use for his favorite teddy bear.

Thelonious Monk died in 1982. He suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, went into a coma, and died two days later, peacefully in his sleep.

Legend has it, the coroner listed the time of death as ‘round midnight.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FxMN4N952Rk

Fruit is Stranger Than Fiction

They found two Black guys hanging from trees in Southern California. Preliminary reports say it was a suicide. I have my doubts about that theory. I think the medical examiners know that will not fly. If Black guys want to commit suicide, they don’t go out into the forest and hang themselves from a tree.

They drive into a White Neighborhood, wait to get stopped by the cops, then get shot to death. No, those two Black guys did not hang themselves. I’m sure the coroner will come up with a better explanation.

County Coroner gives a press conference to explain the hangings of two Black men.

Coroner: “We’ve concluded it was NOT a suicide.”

Reporter: “Then what? A lynching?”

Coroner: “No, no. It’s much more tragically sublime than that.”

Reporter: “Was it some sort of sublime, kinky sex stimulation thing?”

Coroner: “No! What we have determined from the forensic evidence is these two African Americans were participating in a simulated lynching for a music video remake of Billie Holiday’s Strange Fruit. The director forgot to yell ‘Cut, that’s a wrap.’ The film crew left without advising the two young Black actors the shoot was over, they got tired, fell off their stools…and, well, we’re officially ruling it an accidental music video simulated hanging death due to fatigue.”

Reporter: “So who is responsible?” Someone must be held accountable.”

Coroner: “Exactly. We have a team of investigators talking to Miss Holiday right now.”

Reporter: “What? Billie Holiday is dead!”

Coroner: “I didn’t say she was cooperating.”

 

 

Easiest Pop Quiz Ever

Pop Quiz:

Q: What former high-ranking White House official has now become totally irrelevant to anything happening currently on Planet Earth?

Q: Who played “hard to get”, far too long, with the American reading public?

Q: Who, during a time of dire constitutional crisis, proved himself to be a shameless, brazen, expedient huckster?

Q: Whose, as of yet unpublished book, will  join Rod McKuen’s, Listen to the Warm, James Frey’s, A Million Little Pieces, and Donald Trump’s, The Art of the Deal, as totally useless, boring pieces of literary shit?

If you answered Sean Spicer, Anthony Scaramucci or Boris Epstein, you would be close, but no enchilada.

The correct answer is: JOHN BOLTON

Bolton claims parts of his upcoming book, The Room Where It Happened: A White House Memoir, that are being leaked to the press, will reveal that Congress was guilty of impeachment incompetence, by focusing exclusively on the Ukraine Quid Pro Quo scandal, and not the other countless other similar foreign policy misdeeds of the Trump administration.

First question every reporter (and American citizen) should ask John Bolton is:

“Why the fuck didn’t you speak up when it mattered?”

Johnny, you need to pull your fat, self-important head out of your ass and look around. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a global pandemic, on the verge of another Great Depression and millions of American citizens are protesting the senseless, racially motivated murder of too many of our fellow Black American citizens by White Cops.

At this point, do you seriously think anyone is interested in reading your pretentiously titled book? “The Room Where It Should Have Happened” was that big room on the floor of Congress during the impeachment hearings. Your testimony could have proved valuable in convicting and removing the Incredible Presidential Hoax, Donald J. Trump.

But you chose the promise of pesos over patriotism and now you will pay the price. We know where your book, The Room Where It Happened: A White House memoir, is going to end up, the bathroom. Your book, your legacy, and that annoying walrus moustache of yours, will get flushed down the toilet of history and wind up in the stinking sewer of anonymity.

Goo goo g’joob!

 

 

 

 

Cool Hand Pat

You know you’ve been insulted when hep cat, bebop-a-lula, I don’t mean maybe, Beatitude Beat poet, Pat Robertson says Trump is not “cool” for turning his Storm Trooper dogs, armed with ominous weapons, on those peaceful demonstrators, in order to clear a path, like the parting of the Red Sea, so Trump could have that Bible-wielding photo op.

Robertson: “Yo-yo daddy-o! Not cool, shit-for-brains. Most definitely not cool.  You see what I’m saying, Jim? When you do that nasty ass stuff with the Holy Book, you be dissing my main man, Nazzy Jay-C., The Big G, The Man Upstairs. See what I’m saying, dog?”

Trump: “I don’t need a seeing eye dog, padre”

Robertson: “Man oh man, Bunker Baby Boy, you just too lame for the game. Dig?”

Trump: “I went down in that bunker to inspect it.”

Robertson: “Inspect it? Whatchoo gonna inspect, Willis? Huh, boy? What?? You be checking to see if it gots a window for your KFC deliveries?”

Robertson laughs, shakes his head, bends over, and slaps his knees.  He straightens up, reaches in his pocket, pulls out a harmonica and begins to play…

Robertson: “Check out this blue-eyed soul, white boy.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-Qn9CVnpmc

Bible Thumper Trump Takes the Oaf of Office

About 160 days to the election. Unfortunately, there will only be about 75 people left in the USA, after the trumpvirus pendejodemic has run its course. Seventy of them will be illegal immigrants who will commit voter fraud by voting several thousand times for Biden. Trump will cry foul. The Supreme Court (which will just be Clarence Thomas) will turnover the election and swear in Donald.

Thomas: “Is this your personal Bible, Mr.  President?”

Thomas opens it up and leafs through it.

Thomas: “Interesting, your Bible has a picture of the singer, Madonna, standing on a crescent moon wearing only a bra and panties.”

Trump: “Hey, you seen one Madonna, you’ve seen them all.”

Thomas: “Back here in the church services for the Passion of the Christ, you’ve changed the 12 Stations of the Cross with the 12 Stations of the Double Cross.”

Trump: “Well, I’m a businessman, a very successful one.”

Thomas: “You’ve changed the proverb; It’s easier for a camel to jump through the eye of a needle, than it is for a rich man to get into Heaven to read: It’s almost as much fun to stick a needle a in the eye of a camel as it is to stick a needle in the eye of Nancy Pelosi by lowering corporate tax rates to Zero Percent.”

Trump: “I’m a firm believer in Biblical Economics.”

Thomas holds Trump’s Bible up to his nose and stares at it closely.

Thomas: “Hey, this looks and smells like somebody took a whiz on it.”

Trump: “Okay, let’s use yours.”

Thomas takes out his Bible out from his judicial robes and hands it over to Trump.

Trump: “Clarence, there’s pubic hair all over this Bible.”

Thomas (sheepishly): “Yeah, it was supposed to be a present for Anita Hill. She turned it down.”

Trump: “Another ungrateful black bitch. I’m telling you man.”

Trump grabs the Bible and takes the Oath of Office.

Thomas: Okay, you’re president.”

Trump turns to make his Second Inaugural Address. He stares out at a vast, empty wasteland that once was Washington, DC. One MAGA-cap wearing guy sits alone. All around him tumbleweed rolls in front and behind him. Huge rats, the size of adult Filipinos, stand upright, orange eyes glowing. In the distance, coyotes are fucking like rabbits. Lady Bunny asks her Jackrabbit boyfriend, “Can you do that?”. Buzzards pick at the bones of dead trumpvirus victims.

Trump: “My fellow American.”

MAGA guy takes off his cap and waves it.

Trump: “Yeah, you! Today I am announcing I am lowering the corporate tax rate to -7.9%. And I’m immediately signing a Presidential Directive to put a stop to all this coyote fucking. This canine fornication stops here and now.”

The upright, Filipino adult-sized rats look at each other, and shrug their shoulders with bewildered looks on their faces.

 

 

 

Why There Are No Black Rugby Players

Despite advice to the contrary, Trump could not help himself and finally held a news conference to answer questions about the murder of George Floyd. It proved to be a most fateful day.

Yamiche Alcindor, White House correspondent for the PBS News Hour and the bane of Trump’s news conference existence, questioned the Incredible Hoax President.

Alcindor: “Mr. President, how do you feel about the murder of George Floyd?”

Trump: “Look, the MAGA people love the Blacks. I love the Blacks. No one has done more for the Blacks than me. Have you noticed all the Black lawn jockeys on the White House lawn? No one is writing about that. I have the highest number of Black lawn Jockeys on the White House lawn since Woodrow Wilson.”

Alcindor: “But, specifically, sir, what about the murder of George Floyd by that Minneapolis police officer? Can you speak directly to my question?”

Trump: “MY administration has also strongly condemned minstrels shows. No one hates banjo music more than me. Meanwhile, watermelon sales are at a record high and I consume more fried chicken than the entire NBA.”

Alcindor: “Please, sir, what about George Floyd?”

Trump: “Look, nobody cared when Lloyd George was killed as far as I know, George Floyd was not a member of the House of Lords, neither the Lord Jesus nor Traci Lords. But I love me some Black folks. Yeowzer, yeowzerr, brother. I love black singers, like Smokin’ Joe Robin Hood and, of course, I eat fried chicken by the lovin’ shovelful. I hear the darker the beery, the sweeter the juice. I get tested for Jungle Fever every day, but I am looking very strongly at Halle Berry. Who would have thought Wallace Berry would have produced such a hot hunk of brown sugar.”

Alcindor: “Mr. President, that’s Wallace Beery, not Berry. But again, what about police brutality? What about excessive force by the police in black communities?  What about the murder of George…”?

Trump (interrupts): “Okay, that’s enough. You’re a very rude, horrible, unattractive person, who should be taking Halle Berry Pills.”

Alcindor: “There’s no such thing as Halle Berry Pills. Believe me, if there were, I’d be taking them by the lovin’ spoonful.”

Trump: “I’ve got Jared forming a pharmaceutical commission to look into it.”

Alcindor: “when can we expect a report?”

Trump: “As soon as he gets peace in the Middle East, streamlines the government and finds a cure for the Yellow Slopehead Virus.”

Alcindor: “In other words…never.”

Trump: “You are a failure as a reporter.”

Alcindor: “What about police brutality in the black community?”

Trump: “Okay, missy. You want to talk about brutality. Rugby! Now that is brutal. But rugby players never complain about brutality. You know why?”

Alcindor: “I’m holding my breath.”

Trump: “Because there are no black rugby players. Maybe if that stone-cold loser QB, Colin Kopperhead, took a knee on your neck, you’d understand.”

Trump makes a face and begins to pass gas.

Press Secretary: “OK, EVERBODY, CLEAR THE ROOM!”

Several white House staffers take out cans of Air Freshener and begin to spray the room. A departing reporter is seen by a staffer beginning to strike a match to light his cigarette.

Staffer: “DO NOT LIGHT THAT MATCH!”

FLASH! KA-BOOM!

A huge flaming fireball explodes out of Trump’s ass. A firestorm engulfs the White House and it burns down into a smoldering pile of ashes.

That night on HBO’s “Real Time” with Bill Maher.

Bill Maher: “well, someone finally figured out a way to get Trump out of the White House…. turn him into a charcoal briquette.”

Trump’s favorite Smokin’ Joe robin Hood tune…and mine.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0P2a6aLDkkM