Fauntleroy and Flossy - Do Not Attempt to Adjust Your Sets
Spice Girl was sitting in a bar, he leaned toward the young blond that had taken the seat next to him. “Did you hear the joke, ‘A Jew and a Nazi walk into the White House…”
The blond stopped him, ‘Yes, I heard it. Something about the last time you had a bake sale.’
Spice Girl continued, “What about the one about the nuclear option?”
The blond leaned forward, “Buy me a drink, honey.”
Spice Girl signaled to the barkeeper, who quickly delivered a drink.
“Nuclear option, is anything that is dropped into the middle of a scandal.”
“I don’t get it,” she said, downed the drink and walked off.
“You don’t like that? How about, we are going to change, the name of the court from Supremes, to the Temptations. How about that?’ No? Did you hear the name the staff of the Department of Education, are calling behind her back – well it is Ratatouille.”
Spice Girl wanted to talk to someone. He wanted to try out his book title for his big payday. In the running was, ‘Asterisk Administration’ or ‘The Recused.’ The manuscript was running to seven hundred pages and it had only been twelve weeks. Of course, ‘The Exiled President,’ had bestseller written all over it.
He lifted his arm – the barkeeper delivered a drink in front of him in short order.
Back at the Royal Residence, Mini T, and Errdick sat with an Ancestry graph and plotted out the dynasty. They had already penciled out the great grandson’s unchallenged run for office in 2060. There was maniacal laughter as the dreams of empire energized the room of the Last Family of America.
With Fauntleroy busy serving Tibetan food to the Chinese President, Model T was bored. She went and sat in the Mar-lago Situation Room, she was playing a game of Battleship against a Syrian runway. She was having the time of her life. There was popcorn and wine coolers. The Romanovs never had it so good. She picked up a pencil and wrote down, USS Model T. She would whisper to Daddy the idea of having her own Destroyer named after her. She smiled.
Mr. Model T sat with his strategists and hammered out his 2024 run for office. He would have them filling out his paperwork, so that he could start to legally collect money from his SuperPacs legitimized by The Temptations Court.
Con Con Connie walked into a bar. She spotted Spice Girl. She went over, ‘Come on, let’s get you home. Tomorrow is a big day. Us front line liars have to stick together.”
“No, I’m not confused,” he mumbled. “You have the Russians. I don’t have the Russians.” He tried to focus his eyes, and wondered where the blond went. “He is making America First, right after he threatens Korea and wipes out an airport gas station in Syria.” He staggered to his feet. “We are the enemy of the people. No, wait, you are the enemy of the people.”
Con Con Connie hooked her arm under his, and guided him toward the door and the waiting limousine. As she passed the blond at the bar, she hooked her arm and led her to the limousine also. It had been a slow news day, and the diversion would do them good.
Flossy lay in her big brass bed. She flipped the pages of Cosmopolitan Magazine. The whole family seemed busy. She had her real estate agent looking for a small chateau in the south of France. Her money was successfully transferred to a Swiss account. She was ready to leave with Red Baron at a moments notice.
This is a work of fiction. There is no proof that a Battleship, Destroyer - oh Frigate, you get it. One half million, times fifty-nine, is twenty nine and a half million dollars. During Desert Storm a Tomahawk missile was able to pinpoint buildings with precision. In Disgrace Storm, the missiles missed the runway with precision.
Will the next mission be? Distract and Deceive?
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