JUST MUSING:“Liberté, liberté, liberté …”

A great lawyer once told a story about being informed by the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals, during argument, the case in which he relied was no longer good law. The great lawyer understood the import of the judges’ observation.  The plans of mice and men were just that – plans – and unless the great lawyer came up with a new case and/or an alternative method of traversing the vines of justice, his trip to New Orleans was meaningless, a waste of time.

Looking left, right, staring directly at the great lawyer’s inquisitors (the judges), then downward at the podium was his next moves.  Yes they were.

The great lawyer kept his head down and gave no indications of the next move.  The inquisitors looked for signs of life.  Counting in his head, talking to himself, giving no outward sign of reacting to the inquisitors’ proclamation was the great lawyer’s tact.

Reaching a count of seven – he never said why seven – but seven was when the great lawyer grabbed some of the pages form the case book he brought with him to the podium.  The great lawyer made sure he had in his hands the first and last page of the relied upon case.  With a dramatic aplomb the great lawyer firmly ripped the pages from the book and exuded, “So much for that.”  The great lawyer then flung the dislodged (well actually ripped pages) outward.  Gravity took care of the rest, pushing the papers downward onto the courtroom floor.

The great lawyer never told said how the case was resolved; meaning he never spoke whether the inquisitors ruled in for him or against him.  Laughter prevented anyone from asking.  In hindsight perhaps the story was one an elder provides, an example of life’s lessons many lessons.

Let’s trudge a different path:  the art of cooking oftentimes is lost when the cook slavishly adheres to a recipe.  Deviating, veering off course, doing the unpredictable and unexpected sometimes lead to new discoveries.  Of course, sometimes traveling the road less traveled can lead to predictable disasters.  Applying both analogies, I believe our political system is on the road less traveled.  Ruts and boulders be damned, moving over and against foreign objects, unwilling to see the predictable disaster awaiting us; ignoring the gross deviation from political norms, day-to-day, hour-to-hour, tweet-to-tweet. Do we survive by mimicking the great, intemperate, trial lawyer; adopting silence, grabbing the known, ripping, tearing – pages from the Constitution – declaring a new day; flinging established principles into the sea, from sea to shiny sea.  One more egg – should be okay?  Red pepper instead of cinnamon, no problem…? So we say; so they say.  Ignoring commonsense, placing the concoction in a microwave oven – might as well – instead of a regular conventional oven, praying for the best.  Robust laughter, merriment abounds with our foolhardy decisions.

Veering down a littered path, passengers screaming while others continue to repeat  their constant refrain, “floor it … floor it … floor it”.  Funny, funny, funny, behavior – funny, funny dreams are ours.  While the rest of us fall asleep, watch in horror, or flat hope against reality.  Maybe we will come to our senses before ripping away, wholesale, provisions from previously supposed sacrosanct constitutional provisions.

Fake new – “Oh Lord he’s so funny…”

“Would? Wouldn’t? I choose both. I see nothing in the rules saying I can’t choose both.”  Scrabble, Scrabble, Scrabbling away … indeed we are.

Making baseless accusations of improper contact with Russia, or being influenced by Russia, against the president is extremely inappropriate and the fact that people with security clearances are making these baseless charges provide inappropriate legitimacy to accusations with zero evidence.”

The wonderful experiment has gone awry.  Telling us (the passengers), and the rest of the world (standing on the edge of the cliff, believing the President’s men and women promises the location was a safe place to stand), that we/they/this country didn’t mean any of the promises held out in the past – to us, others, immigrants, the world.

We saw what we saw.  We heard what we heard.  Instead we are told we didn’t see or hear either.  Hearing faint whispers, “off with their heads”, during the time he/she/they applied maximum pressure to the gas pedal.  Their acts are the deliberate act of returning to the days of yore, the good old days, the converting truth to lies, lies to truth.

Angela Merkel, the German Chancellor, has astutely told the rest of the world the United States can no longer be relied upon.  She needed not have said so.  The world has seen this cartoon before.  When the parts were cast for the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote, we were not assigned the Roadrunner’s role.  We know how it ends.

She, Merkel, and the German people should help the French sneak in New York Harbor.  Attach two – three – four tugs to the Statue of Liberty (La Liberté éclairant le monde) (Liberty Enlightening the World) and bring the statue back across the pond.  Liberté, Liberté, Liberté …  the greatest, peaceful coupe d’etat the world has ever seen.

The great lawyer’s story was a wonderfully tale because the great lawyer threw anguish to the wind.  He – the great lawyer – exercised the unpredictable, refashioned the facts so as to move the case out of the twixt the inquisitors’ pronouncement had placed him.

He won?  He didn’t win?  Honestly don’t know; too busy laughing.

Our new plight differs.  We are coming dangerously close from being unable to stop in time.  No matter how entertaining/unpredictable/well told, this new tale’s conclusion – told by the Aw Gosh! Creator – has become abundantly clear.

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JUST MUSING: “Donald in Wonderland…”

“Jimmy Dean sausage and eggs and perhaps some toast, white not wheat. Thank you, madam.”

“Thank you,” Chad said moving out of the view of the cameras; discrete, circumspect, deciphering the unusual request.  Smiling to herself, at the use of the word madam; he said it almost right, almost.

Later Chad retraced the same steps, and reentered the room.  She waited for an appropriate moment to inch forward, along the outward outline, receiving instruction of the pool producer she was permitted to move.

She inched closer, to emit a clear response to the request – at least she thought she was clear.  The response was delivered in a whisper – “Chef’s said, bunch…”

He – Complicit John – never expected this response.  He didn’t.

Complicit John was part of the world’s most powerful political contingent.  Moments before their contingent moved through the halls of the grand building, choosing a separate entrance, laughing at the “others”, who seemed shocked at the change in protocol. “We rock stars” – they bragged, which sounded like a misguided teen movie.  Breaking rules, wreaking havoc, turning the world upside down; up is down, down is up. Their sex, drugs and rock and roll is chaos.  They adopted a strange mantle, “famous, stable geniuses”; laughing at the rest of the world when they moved from one target to another.  They were their own weapons of mass destruction.  They never understood why the others laughed at their self-labeling.

Complicit John didn’t see Chad watch the contingent move down the hallway.  He was giggling with Complicita Sarah at the time.  Chad remembered him. She wondered about the awkward smirks.  He seems so cocksure – so she thought.

Complicit John repeated what Chad said, not because he didn’t hear her.  He was shocked she didn’t understand that her answer meant, “No”.  She couldn’t have meant, “No.”

Chad knew what she was saying.  Her response was clear, layered with an additional dose of incredulity – “Bunch!?”  Not at all unsure was the tone and manner.  A response as forthright as the forthrightness of reality and certitude burned her darkened skin hue.

Complicit John only saw Chad’s color.  In Complicit John’s world, Chad couldn’t say no.  Do what I say. Do what I want – his world, their world – a daily ride to Wonderland; a daily, discounted pass to Donald in Wonderland.

“Bunch,” she repeated, “bunch!” removing the question mark, accentuating the exclamation.

Complicit John had requested what he believed to be a Texas sausage – part of the base, so he thought.  Jimmy Dean was no longer a Texas sausage – if it ever was – long before purchased by a conglomerate.  Jimmy Dean was sold by the singer/originator in 1984 long before the singer/originator’s death in 2010.  Ironically (irony is one of those things which is full supply in Wonderland), Complicit John made the request even though he didn’t particularly like pork sausage.  A bit too spicy, made him gaseous.  One of the foods found on the list given to him by his doctor.  Written as a suggestion, implying he should avoid.  The suggestion was later converted to a demand – by his body – joining an additional list of foods he should assiduously avoid.  An unexpected frown and facial twitches always followed when Complicit John ate Jimmy Dean – if fact any pork sausage.  The frown was – always, always, always – followed by violent, silent gaseous odors, which appeared at the most inopportune times.  Jimmy Dean was ordered anyway.  To see what they would say, how they would react, loud enough so that everyone on the other side of table could hear him.  The world was their oyster.

Chad didn’t flinch.  Bunch meant brunch.  She wasn’t bringing him Jimmy Dean sausage and eggs, even if the kitchen had a dozen rolls in the kitchen.  It didn’t.

Moving quickly away, listening to the room fill with gaseous odors; away from Complicit John, past Elton John’s Comparator, who sat to the left of Complicit John.  She smiled at the Comparator, not because she liked him – the stable genius – she didn’t.  In addition, she flat out hated the Comparator’s comparison of himself and Mr. John.

He doesn’t like gays. I’m gay. Elton John is gay.

Furthermore Comparator can’t sing; at least she didn’t believe he could.  Sure she knew who Jim Nabors was; she wasn’t a friend of the late actor/singer.  When walking past she thought, he aren’t Jim Nabors, even in Wonderland.  She also knew John was famous / famous – white famous as one comedian has mused.  He is only famous in his own mind, infamous is better word.

Chad laughed when on the other side of the room.  Out of hearing distance of the odious, gaseous sounds, moving towards the kitchen for the first time, to tell the Chef what she had said.  She wanted to make sure he knew.  She lied on him.  She had never asked him about Jimmy Dean and eggs.

He didn’t mind.  Not in a thousand immigrant days did he object.  His history silenced any possible objection.  Chef Algiers travelled from Africa when he was eighteen, twenty years ago, and joined the French Army.  He was later was assigned to NATO.  When the position of chef came open five years ago, he applied and was hired.  He reasoned Chad, a native of Chad, technically didn’t lie on him.

Chad requested to leave early.  She told Algiers’ she intended to travel from Brussels to Great Britain – to cross freely over the border – an act she intended to repeat, as long as England remained in the Union.  Chad told Algiers she wasn’t going to visit relatives this time.  She wanted to join in the protest against the Great Comparator.  She hoped Complicit John saw her in the crowds.  She particularly wanted to see the Baby Comparator.

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