Trevor's Column
This is just a simulation of our beloved essayist at work.  We really are not sure what his creative process involves, we just print the results.
All The President’s Comrades   I began by telling the president that there was a cancer growing on the presidency and that if the cancer was not removed, the president himself would be killed by it. – John Dean   I am looking for a Russian. I would prefer a woman, a redhead if possible, but that is just a personal preference and not a deal breaker. I know your culture well, having seen Rocky IV over a dozen times. I have also seen Dr. Zhivago, all but the last five minutes. My grandma taped it for me and her VCR timer stopped five minutes before it ended. I also know about Russian nesting dolls, vodka, those big furry hats, Faberge eggs, that it is best not to invade your country during the winter, that you put a dog into space, and some really randy things about Catherine the Great. I watched all of the Sochi Olympics. We Americans kicked your butts in hockey at the 1980 Olympics. Also, you love ballet. I have been to the ballet several times, and am pretty sure that might explain your vodka issues, but don’t quote me.   Also, through late night movies I have come to understand that all your men are named Boris, Ivan, Nikola, or Alexi.  I have seen Yakov Smirnoff on stage, “What a country,” and I forgive you. Your favorite English words are “moose, squirrel.” Oh, most importantly, I know all of the words to The Beatles “Back to the USSR.” So, I believe we will be fast friends. I need a Russian, because looking at the Trump administration, it appears that I am the only American not in bed with one.   If Watergate was a cancer on the presidency, Trump’s Russian scandal is a guy in the emergency room that has nearly stabbed himself to death with a cocktail fork.  It is scandal with more self-inflicted wounds than an epileptic in a bathtub of razorblades. Basically, it is Watergate involving those that don’t read.   This scandal has fat former commie spies that everyone knows are spies, shady Moscow businessmen with mob connections, and a shirtless Russian president who seems very proud of his sagging middle–aged man nipples. Don’t forget the Moscow prostitutes (who I guarantee you hate men and have Vietnam War-like flashbacks when someone turns on a faucet after what they have been through). We have our  President of the United States who could double as a Munchkin hand model, an Attorney General who sounds like Foghorn Leghorn visiting a gay bar for the first time. Oh, the list goes on; a slumlord son-in-law that looks like the love child of Pee Wee Herman and Jason Bateman, a Press Secretary that is so angry that he seems moments from stroking out, a Dudley Do-Right FBI director, a general who led the chants of “lock her up, lock her up,” who is willing to flip so he does not get locked up. Wait, take a deep breath; Yoo-hoo drinking (or whatever is the Russian equivalent) hackers under the names of “Fancy Bear” and “Fuzzy Bear,” which sounds like monikers a Republican Congressman would use on Grindr rather  than Putin’s geek squad, toady politicians right out of central casting, a gentleman that looks like the albino murderer in the movie Foul Play who could be trapped in the Ecuadorian embassy in London, like Rapunzel waiting for her prince, and a British spy with the perfect name, Christopher Steele. If your parents name you Christopher Steele, you were either meant to be a martini swilling, baccarat playing British spy or a porn star.   For gosh sakes, there is even a wife choking, white supremacist with his office in the White House right next to the president involved in all of this. Finally, Henry Kissinger makes one of the most amazing cameos ever. Granted, it is a Kissinger that now looks like a green, plastic army man that a kid has melted with a magnifying glass, but Henry Kissinger all the same. The only way it could have been better is if the president and him knelt down together in prayer, as Trump muttered something about the Jews.    (A good rule of thumb is, if you are going to fire a FBI director to make your Russian scandal go away, cough, cough, Saturday night massacre, cough, cough, you don’t invite into the Oval Office the next day the number one Russian spy in America because “Putin asked you to,” then divulge top secret information to him, and have Henry Kissinger afterwards. Even Ray Charles in a pitch-black room would have connected the dots. You also don’t threaten the guy you just fired by mentioning possible audiotapes, the thing that lead to Nixon’s downfall, in a public tweet.  The only thing scarier is 38 percent of the American population believes that President Cheetos Dust Kid is doing a great job handling the Russian scandal. The only way he could be doing a worse job is if he dug up Nixon’s corpus and did a Weekend at Bernie’s conga line with it through the West Wing.)   This scandal is like a community theater version of The Americans, except Jared and Devin aren’t the gay couple that run the local insurance agency and hope to have their house on the city’s tour of homes this fall. All that is missing is a dirty bomb somewhere in the city with a digital clock counting down. Give Trump time, I know, I know.   It all started so peculiarly. Republican candidate for president Donald Trump, who had hired several staff members with ties to Russia, expressing his profound admiration, boarding on receiving a restraining order for stalking, for Vladimir Putin, who he may or may not have met, depending on what he was claiming in which interview or speech. Every time he gushes over the Russian leader it is disconcerting, and not just because Putin is a monstrous thug who kills his political enemies and has stole millions from his people, but in that Crispin Glover just sent you a valentine sort of way. Vlad and the Donny seemed to be the new Romeo and Juliet. Okay, that one ended badly. Those cowboys in Brokeback Mountain? Okay, there are pretty good odds that their relationship is going to end in a little girl picking the petals of a daisy and a great big mushroom cloud, but I am an optimist.   Then came the Russian hacking of the Democratic National Committee. Russian computer geeks propagating fake news on social media sites, indications that Trump might be willing to lift Obama’s sanctions on Putin, potentially secret back channels of communication, campaign staff, including his own son-in-law, forgetting to mention that they had meetings or received money with Moscow businessmen and spies. He, strangely, even attacked his own intelligence agencies for suggesting that all evidence pointed to Putin trying to influence our election. Trump, instead created obese hackers that could not get out of bed, claiming he knew more as a private citizen than people for whom that was their entire job.   I feel the need to defend Trump at this point. The president has made sure to assert that he has no financial relationship with Putin’s thugs, tweeting he has “ZERO investments in Russia.” Although he might have wanted to hashtag his sons on that tweet, because Donald Jr. believes that the “Russians make up a pretty disproportionate cross-section of our assets. We see a lot of money pouring in from Russia.”        If there was only some way to tell who was lying, Big Daddy or Little Donny, you know, like tax returns. Oh wait, nobody cares about those things being publically released, well, except for the thousands that marched on tax day over it. It is almost like the president and future prisoner #34671345 has something to hide.   Donald Trump claims that it is a political witch-hunt, no politician has faced the unfair slings and arrows of accusation that he has. The president’s defenders, Fox News, and the middle-aged men with enlarged prostrates that inhabit talk radio, claim that this is much ado about nothing, there is no proof, and an investigation is uncalled for.   These are the same people that foamed at the mouth over Cattlegate, Travelgate, Vince Foster’s death, the hundred or so other Clinton scandals that were not really scandals at all, and Benghazi. Millions of taxpayers’ money spent on fruitless fishing trips.  Not an ounce of proof of graft, criminality, or malfeasance to be found in any of them. So, I think Hillary Clinton might have a response or two for Trump’s defenders and his “poor me” snowflake protests.  Like it or not, Donald J. Trump is still in the shallow end of the pool compared to her and she was innocent.   There is a lot of smoke here, too many lies to even count, too many meetings that people conveniently forgot to disclose, too much money exchanging hands, just plain strangeness at times, and more incompetence than seems humanly possible. It is about treason and obstruction of justice, things that supporters of both parties should be concerned about. This is not a “he’s my president right or wrong” thing. I am not even sure if he were proven guilty, given the current political climate, that Trump would be impeached. The truth will come out eventually. It always does. I am just hoping that this scandal’s deep throat is Trump’s comb over.   
Trevor's Column
This is just a simulation of our beloved essayist at work.  We really are not sure what his creative process involves, we just print the results.
All The President’s Comrades   I began by telling the president that there was a cancer growing on the presidency and that if the cancer was not removed, the president himself would be killed by it. – John Dean   I am looking for a Russian. I would prefer a woman, a redhead if possible, but that is just a personal preference and not a deal breaker. I know your culture well, having seen Rocky IV over a dozen times. I have also seen Dr. Zhivago, all but the last five minutes. My grandma taped it for me and her VCR timer stopped five minutes before it ended. I also know about Russian nesting dolls, vodka, those big furry hats, Faberge eggs, that it is best not to invade your country during the winter, that you put a dog into space, and some really randy things about Catherine the Great. I watched all of the Sochi Olympics. We Americans kicked your butts in hockey at the 1980 Olympics. Also, you love ballet. I have been to the ballet several times, and am pretty sure that might explain your vodka issues, but don’t quote me.   Also, through late night movies I have come to understand that all your men are named Boris, Ivan, Nikola, or Alexi.  I have seen Yakov Smirnoff on stage, “What a country,” and I forgive you. Your favorite English words are “moose, squirrel.” Oh, most importantly, I know all of the words to The Beatles “Back to the USSR.” So, I believe we will be fast friends. I need a Russian, because looking at the Trump administration, it appears that I am the only American not in bed with one.   If Watergate was a cancer on the presidency, Trump’s Russian scandal is a guy in the emergency room that has nearly stabbed himself to death with a cocktail fork.  It is scandal with more self-inflicted wounds than an epileptic in a bathtub of razorblades. Basically, it is Watergate involving those that don’t read.   This scandal has fat former commie spies that everyone knows are spies, shady Moscow businessmen with mob connections, and a shirtless Russian president who seems very proud of his sagging middle–aged man nipples. Don’t forget the Moscow prostitutes (who I guarantee you hate men and have Vietnam War-like flashbacks when someone turns on a faucet after what they have been through). We have our  President of the United States who could double as a Munchkin hand model, an Attorney General who sounds like Foghorn Leghorn visiting a gay bar for the first time. Oh, the list goes on; a slumlord son-in-law that looks like the love child of Pee Wee Herman and Jason Bateman, a Press Secretary that is so angry that he seems moments from stroking out, a Dudley Do-Right FBI director, a general who led the chants of “lock her up, lock her up,” who is willing to flip so he does not get locked up. Wait, take a deep breath; Yoo-hoo drinking (or whatever is the Russian equivalent) hackers under the names of “Fancy Bear” and “Fuzzy Bear,” which sounds like monikers a Republican Congressman would use on Grindr rather  than Putin’s geek squad, toady politicians right out of central casting, a gentleman that looks like the albino murderer in the movie Foul Play who could be trapped in the Ecuadorian embassy in London, like Rapunzel waiting for her prince, and a British spy with the perfect name, Christopher Steele. If your parents name you Christopher Steele, you were either meant to be a martini swilling, baccarat playing British spy or a porn star.   For gosh sakes, there is even a wife choking, white supremacist with his office in the White House right next to the president involved in all of this. Finally, Henry Kissinger makes one of the most amazing cameos ever. Granted, it is a Kissinger that now looks like a green, plastic army man that a kid has melted with a magnifying glass, but Henry Kissinger all the same. The only way it could have been better is if the president and him knelt down together in prayer, as Trump muttered something about the Jews.    (A good rule of thumb is, if you are going to fire a FBI director to make your Russian scandal go away, cough, cough, Saturday night massacre, cough, cough, you don’t invite into the Oval Office the next day the number one Russian spy in America because “Putin asked you to,” then divulge top secret information to him, and have Henry Kissinger afterwards. Even Ray Charles in a pitch-black room would have connected the dots. You also don’t threaten the guy you just fired by mentioning possible audiotapes, the thing that lead to Nixon’s downfall, in a public tweet.  The only thing scarier is 38 percent of the American population believes that President Cheetos Dust Kid is doing a great job handling the Russian scandal. The only way he could be doing a worse job is if he dug up Nixon’s corpus and did a Weekend at Bernie’s conga line with it through the West Wing.)   This scandal is like a community theater version of The Americans, except Jared and Devin aren’t the gay couple that run the local insurance agency and hope to have their house on the city’s tour of homes this fall. All that is missing is a dirty bomb somewhere in the city with a digital clock counting down. Give Trump time, I know, I know.   It all started so peculiarly. Republican candidate for president Donald Trump, who had hired several staff members with ties to Russia, expressing his profound admiration, boarding on receiving a restraining order for stalking, for Vladimir Putin, who he may or may not have met, depending on what he was claiming in which interview or speech. Every time he gushes over the Russian leader it is disconcerting, and not just because Putin is a monstrous thug who kills his political enemies and has stole millions from his people, but in that Crispin Glover just sent you a valentine sort of way. Vlad and the Donny seemed to be the new Romeo and Juliet. Okay, that one ended badly. Those cowboys in Brokeback Mountain? Okay, there are pretty good odds that their relationship is going to end in a little girl picking the petals of a daisy and a great big mushroom cloud, but I am an optimist.   Then came the Russian hacking of the Democratic National Committee. Russian computer geeks propagating fake news on social media sites, indications that Trump might be willing to lift Obama’s sanctions on Putin, potentially secret back channels of communication, campaign staff, including his own son-in-law, forgetting to mention that they had meetings or received money with Moscow businessmen and spies. He, strangely, even attacked his own intelligence agencies for suggesting that all evidence pointed to Putin trying to influence our election. Trump, instead created obese hackers that could not get out of bed, claiming he knew more as a private citizen than people for whom that was their entire job.   I feel the need to defend Trump at this point. The president has made sure to assert that he has no financial relationship with Putin’s thugs, tweeting he has “ZERO investments in Russia.” Although he might have wanted to hashtag his sons on that tweet, because Donald Jr. believes that the “Russians make up a pretty disproportionate cross-section of our assets. We see a lot of money pouring in from Russia.”        If there was only some way to tell who was lying, Big Daddy or Little Donny, you know, like tax returns. Oh wait, nobody cares about those things being publically released, well, except for the thousands that marched on tax day over it. It is almost like the president and future prisoner #34671345 has something to hide.   Donald Trump claims that it is a political witch-hunt, no politician has faced the unfair slings and arrows of accusation that he has. The president’s defenders, Fox News, and the middle-aged men with enlarged prostrates that inhabit talk radio, claim that this is much ado about nothing, there is no proof, and an investigation is uncalled for.   These are the same people that foamed at the mouth over Cattlegate, Travelgate, Vince Foster’s death, the hundred or so other Clinton scandals that were not really scandals at all, and Benghazi. Millions of taxpayers’ money spent on fruitless fishing trips.  Not an ounce of proof of graft, criminality, or malfeasance to be found in any of them. So, I think Hillary Clinton might have a response or two for Trump’s defenders and his “poor me” snowflake protests.  Like it or not, Donald J. Trump is still in the shallow end of the pool compared to her and she was innocent.   There is a lot of smoke here, too many lies to even count, too many meetings that people conveniently forgot to disclose, too much money exchanging hands, just plain strangeness at times, and more incompetence than seems humanly possible. It is about treason and obstruction of justice, things that supporters of both parties should be concerned about. This is not a “he’s my president right or wrong” thing. I am not even sure if he were proven guilty, given the current political climate, that Trump would be impeached. The truth will come out eventually. It always does. I am just hoping that this scandal’s deep throat is Trump’s comb over.