Now, believe it or don't, but none of this was Photoshopped. (My disclaimer is below*.)
It all started with the inexplicably urgent need for an innocent enough (cough, cough!) photo op by Bunker Buster in Chief himself. There was a little stroll through a (square) park—Lafayette, to be sure—by Humpty and his egg-cellent handlers, enablers, and co-conspirators, and Dumpties, let's not forget. Including little Billy Barr, who hadn't as yet been disbarred, as he ought to have been, long ago and far away. There were also at least two Marky's, an Esper and a Meadows, both of them in such minor positions (Defense, and Chief of Staff) that they scarcely even would have ever registered on anyone's political Richter scale.
There were numerous other extras and bit parts and cameos—Jarvanka, and also Stevie Miller and Patty Cipollone and Bobby O’Brien and Nicky Luna and Danny Scavino and oh so many other minor characters of that ilk within this endless drama that it just so bores me to even bother mentioning them—but they were of course strictly along just for the joy ride, the sheer joy of surrendering any shred of joy or humanity they may have aspired to at some distant time in the murky past, and it was purely for the pleasure, the insurmountable ecstacy, if I may, of complying with this so so innocent request that they lick His Boots (and like it), thereby serving to affirm to the Great Indispensable Fearless Leader Himself his immense, indubitable, dare I say tremendously potent virility and extremely unblemished character.
Now, the story, the myth, the legend, I hesitate to say the unparalleled saga—a saga, a tale, an epic of such magnitude so as to dwarf, to completely eclipse those minor fables of yore, by such tiny, minuscule, yes microscopic wannabes such as the Norse, the Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians, the Sumerians, and many other such groups that no one ever heard of—of this Photographic Opportunity, well, the way it went down, down low, it all came down to an indefinite article vs. a possessive pronoun, and some kind of what in the circumstances one could only surmise to be some kind of random book, and one that, in the circumstances at the time—one could only guess, but not in such a way as to infuriate a certain Someone—that was not all that many notches, truth be told, above let us say pulp fiction.
“Is that yours?” That was the general gist of the matter so humbly proffered to, inquired of, our Supreme KKKommandant. He, of course, certainly, without a doubt, never missing so much as a beat, in His indubitable Virility, and unparalleled Command of the English language—among countless other such languages—in such a supple fashion he did deign to produce such a facile shrug of His Shoulders that one could scarcely discern anything at all, such as (a) what all the fuss was about, and (2) whether all his epaulets and other such well-earned military adornments moved at all, quivered even, even to the slightest degree. And then He did dare decree definitively in His Infinite Wisdom: “ ‘A’, okay?”
Subsequently, it must be mentioned, although many scholars and researchers strove, over countless centuries, millennia, and epochs afterwards till time's end and beyond, to ascertain what the devil He Himself meant by such a Smart Remark, what he neglected to confess at the time was that during His Royal Stroll through Lafayette Square he just barely managed to pilfer, through the fog of those Street Wars, His what would become book prop at the boarded-up chapel, from a teargassed unfortunate who was, yes, yes you guessed it, short of breath, and who shall remain for the nonce and for all the foreseeable eternities nameless.
So, back in the day there were numerous wildly varying accounts of what The Book was, if it was, and whether it was upside-down or not, and did it have a title or not, and was it just “a” book or perhaps, just for the sake of argument, something a tad more “intimate” so to speak. This, ladies and gents, this is the stuff that puts the hair on the chest of, for example, History. It is legendary beyond what any mere Legend could ever aspire to. And those social media outlets, well, damn if back in that day they weren't plain old rife with suggestions, insinuations, plain old malicious speculation, all of it mixed together with conspiracy theories run amuck, all of it just plain old lies and statistics and shit about what was in essence a totally innocuous affair.
Pinocchio, you say. Well, that's something, coming from the likes of you. You didn't even know Pinocchio, didn't know him from Jack or Adam or whoever! But so, still, you still have the gall to claim that this Book that carried, that walked itself right over to that there boarded up church, that it somehow managed to sport some kind of super-long schnozz! That, that is just beyond the pale!
And what about those, that oblique, obtuse, obsolete reference to kiddy hours, story times, deer-in-headlights same-party predecessor's famous Florida dog didn't bark Photo Op? As you can see, it's all upside-down. But truth doesn't lie. Sleeping dogs, hopefully, do. Until the bark worsens... Or is it the bite.
Some of us heard through the grapevine that that there ghostwritten thingy, was it The Fart of the
Weal, or somesuch, well, it was not only the worst crap ever but it was also some kind of kiss and tell, or a sort of fessing up, not in so many words, but nevertheless in coded language a mea culpa, if you will, of how not to pretend to do business unless of course you like lounging around later on forevermore in the latest in orange jumpsuits with the rest of your Mafia buddies. Guiliani, for instance. There, I said it. (Anyone remember the Rudy? That was it seems eons ago. Like it never even happened.) But now, those photo journalists, they have concrete proof that the perp in that infamous gaseous perp walk—the perp and the perp walk that are the subject of this very photo essay—well, he's apparently wearing that Fart of the... whatever shit on “a” book but also, and if you don't mind my saying so, not inconsequentially, clear down to, all the way down to, that shit that spilled on His sleeve.
Let it not be said that our Fearless Emperor never once sported any kind of shall we say face mask. I have it on good authority, and pictures don't lie, even though sleeping dogs ought, that, whatever!, He may have been tricked—I have to hesitate big time before even intimating anything of the sort—by some unscrupulous aid or cabinet member or some random advisor He never personally even met into “wearing” something just so vaguely resembling a “face mask” via some sort of nefarious
scheme whereby said mask somehow resembled an edible fast food delicacy, and wherein the inside of said mask had been just so slyly coated with only the slightest hint of eau de rancid french fry grease. Now it's a bit over the top to even venture to try to suggest anything of the sort, but there you have it. Anyway, I'm sticking to my story.
And... A word to the wise: if you look carefully, oh so carefully, you may just discern that the image in play, the one to your immediate right, well, it was originally featured on the very tiptop of such as the Sistine Chapel, the ceiling thereof, or equivalent. If you squint just so, you may be able to see the paint flakes, the oh so ancient paint flakes, flaking off, or at the very least preparing to do so. Take another look.
Now. Now. Now.
Now, when you, the proverbial you, when you take, when one takes a bite out of crime, it's not generally understood, at least not in my recent if I may say humble experience, if I can even speak of such, that a so to say “bite” of that nature would ever ever involve anything at all even remotely to any extent whatsoever resembling a hamberder.
Yet.
Yet. Yet. Yet.
These (non-Photoshopped*) evidences, if that's not too strong a word, they, well they speak, if they only could, for themselves! So well! You be the judge.
I only hope that you can somehow unthink what the omnipresent Thought Police in their Political Correctness have so maliciously rendered upon our Feckless Footloose Leader’s portraiture. For the, all those all but unpronounceable words, they do so pain the Unmentionable One, to such a great extent that to attempt to describe such would be utterly beyond the capacity of any mere mortal. How such Graffiti could have ever landed in such a Holy Place, that is certainly unsayable, forsooth unspeakable.
Yet there is a moral to the story. If you examine the chart above—which is to say the most recent image within this photo essay, this most true account—with utmost gravity and sincerity, if you meditate on same whilst praying to the gods who gave us this most Divine of Creatures in such a best-fit position of Leadership, just so, just only to sacrifice Himself and His Own, simply for our unending bounty and magnificent unparalleled prosperity, you would have to see that the aforementioned chart, well, succinctly put, it is no other than a Sacred Guide as to how the well-oiled machine of our Very Stable Genius’s thought processes churn along endlessly, with oh so Divine guidance, oh so well-oiled, oh so slick as an oil slick. Splat!
*Required (as promised) disclaimer: it's GIMP, foo’! “F” Photoshop!