No matter the parallel universe, Democrats are earnest. Which translates, in all languages, as BOR-ING.
Beau Elliot
So, we’ve been visiting this parallel universe (better to travel in pairs, a snap for us Geminis) called WGT170672. Wiggy, for short. Yeah, we know ugly. Big Data names all the universes. (Note to selves: Big Data might be a tad too big.)
How do you travel to a parallel universe? you ask. Well, you can’t. Usually. The parallel universe let us in because we never took any physics after high school, so they figured we weren’t educated enough to know what’s going on. Which was true.
But you don’t need a knitting stand to know which way the strings blow, as Nobel Laureate political philosopher Bob Dylan once put it. And besides, the Irish have known about, and visited, parallel universes for eons; it’s right there in the songs and poetry (putting the verse in universe). I mean, where do you think Gaelic comes from? Or, for that matter, Finnegan’s Wake?
Wiggy is kind of fun, outside of making cauliflower a saint; Iowa has no snow and below-zero temps and all the trappings of winter that we believe devoutly builds character when actually, of course, all it builds is frostbite. Wiggy Iowa has the weather like San Diego, only without the San Diegans. On the downside, the Padres drafted Kris Bryant.
Wiggy has another drawback: The Republicans are completely out of their gourds. Which explains why there are so many vacant gourds hanging around street corners, smoking cigarettes and generally being a nuisance. Hey, man, got any spare Republicans? they keep saying.
So you have all these Republicans littering the landscape, time on their hands, so they went into politics. And won. Apparently, the populace in Wiggy U.S. had some time on its hands and was bored, so it wanted some entertainment. And let’s face it: No matter the parallel universe, Democrats are earnest. Which translates, in all languages, as BOR-ING.
Among the Republicans elected was a clown. Well, perhaps there was more than one. But this clown actually played a clown on TV, Trumpy the Clown. Apparently, he used to run around on TV sets and hit people in the face with key-lime pies. Whipped cream and all. Maybe you had to be there.
Anyway, Trumpy the Clown settled into the White House, and everybody laughed in anticipation of the zaniness that would ensue in a clown-car government.
But there was a blot on the horizon. Out, out, damned blot.
Turns out, the FBI was investigating the Clown’s campaign. Illegal contacts with Russians. Nothing to see here, Trumpy the Clown said. Move along.
But people on his campaign kept being found having met Russians of nefarious backgrounds. Two, three, four, six, eight. Nothing to see here, Trumpy the Clown said. Then indictments started coming like the first snow fall, which was weird, because Wiggy doesn’t have snow.
Nothing to see here, Trumpy the Grumpy Clown said. It’s all a plot by Democrats, who have taken over the FBI. People who had become tired of clown capers pointed out that the Democrats were too earnest and BOR-ING to hatch plots. Or even eggs.
Then along came the Memo. The Republican Memo would ride in and save the day, proving that the Democrats’ plot used the infamous Dossier to get the crucial FISA warrant. Aha. vindication. Aha. Peace in the clown cars at last.
But. (Are we going to fast?) The Memo didn’t show a plot. It showed the crucial FISA warrant didn’t rest on the infamous Dossier, it rested on what campaign aide George Papa-dope-alous told the Australian about the Russians during a boozy night in London. (Is that too much geography?)
And the warrant probably rested on 50 or 60 other pieces of evidence. You can’t just go down to the box store and buy a FISA warrant off the shelf.
Well, that’s the news from Wiggy, the parallel universe. It’ll be nice to get back to our universe, where things are sane. The stock market sails along like a great ocean liner heading for more and more luxurious ports, the Patriots win Super Bowls, and the clowns stay in the circus.