Tag Archives: satire

Trump, A Secret Family History

donald trump family tree

Trump, A Secret Family History (as revealed to me by his secret family!)

When the San Francisco police started raiding Granddaddy Trump’s hotel/brothel down by the wharf, out of sheer spite (because their favorite girl had dragged herself out of the whore business by her own corset & a married farmer down in Bakersfield)… well, when that started, Granddaddy decided things had gotten too hot. Down coast, Granddaddy found a good location near the train line for a hotel in a place with no cops. He couldn’t come up with $1,000 an acre, which is what the owner asked, so Granddaddy filed a placer’s mineral claim against the land. The U.S. Land Office was, and is, corrupt.

Despite the placer’s claim giving him no right to build any structure on the land, Granddaddy built a boarding house. As soon as the boarding house was there? The railroad built a station. To his credit, Granddaddy never attempted to mine gold on the land —the miners themselves were his source of income… when they weren’t mining, they needed to eat & sleep & occasionally find a willing woman. The land’s real owner tried to collect rent – but legal title didn’t matter much to Granddaddy, not then… or now.

“Title” is fiction; perception is reality. In the end, he practically stole that land from the first owner for $100 an acre. And not too long after that, he got himself elected to public office, winning justice of the peace by a vote of 32 for, 5 against. He found himself firmly attached to the government tit & at the same time earning money by violating the law he’d been hired to protect… well… it really didn’t get much better than that, he thought.

From crooked brothel owner to crooked justice of the peace in less than a generation. Not bad for a German immigrant, eh? Granddaddy dreamed big… multigenerational wealth transfers, the long view. He’d teach his son (Daddy Trump) the family tradition. Then his son (Trump) would teach his grandson. That tradition would practically be bred into the bone by the time his grandson would both win (and also not win) the presidency in 2016 (thanks to Russia, James Comey, and the alt-right movement). Think of the great-grandsons! There’d be Trump II, Trump III… well, the possibilities were endless.

Until the impeachment… but that would be giving too much away… I’d better let him tell you the rest himself!

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Why I Like Being a Federal Judge, a poem

illustration why i like being a federal judge

Why I Like Being a Federal Judge, a poem

My absolute favorite thing to do is to make
rulings without enunciating any reasons at all.
Sure, I like the black robes, the high chair,

smacking the little wooden hammer.  But mostly
my fiercest joy is mental.  I’m not a flashy
creature:  I wear the same glasses I’ve worn

for the past forty years on the bench.
The bulky style flatters my high forehead,
my firm jaw.  It’s what I’m used to, and,

like any octogenarian, I like the things
I’m used to.  So for the same reason I let
them sweat to figure out why I decided the case

the way I did.  The lawyers really scramble
around then, falling over each other on the way
to appellate review like fat geese with

clipped wings being chased by a Rottweiler.
I am that Rottweiler — I still exercise
for an hour every other day.  Both my parents

lived well into their nineties.  I love it
when attorney-faces bulge red.  It’s fun
to watch from my elevated perch.  Being

reversed on appeal is considered a failure
to many, but not for me.  I don’t care one bit
about that sort of consistency.  Ask my wife.

My job, instead, is to highlight the glamour,
the magical, supple qualities of justice.
That pretty lady doesn’t wear a blindfold

for nothing, you know?  Occasionally I wonder
if I’d feel as good about myself without having
gotten this appointment.  You have no idea how

the power of life and death feels until you’ve
heard the slender moans of the duly convicted.
I remember years ago, before I was a judge —

the things I thought my clients were entitled to!
Now I know better.  They get exactly what
I feel like doling out on a given day — and

God save us all if I’m coming down with the flu.
There is always a lesson to be learned
from making decisions, wrong or right.

The more mysterious my legal theory, the more
deference it gets.  Why, sometimes I even
cite cases completely at random:  keep them

guessing, it’s the surest way to get respect.
At least when they’re beginning, baby lawyers
think themselves just too dumb to understand;

that’s the way I want to keep it.  Too many
findings of fact and conclusions of law
can drive a person batty.  The better practice is

to decide how I’d like reality to be, then sweep
the slate clean and start over rewriting history.
It’s why I am never in a difficult position

deciding how to approach a case.  But the very
best part of all is:  saying nothing about
the innards of my rulings raises no impediment

to being obeyed.  The U.S. marshals wear that badge
whether the parties want him to or not.  Plain and
simple, everybody’s stuck with me, for life.

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