||Tea Pain @TeaPainUSA – Jul 2
Trump is not some master tactician or even a mad genius. He’s proof Democracy was not designed to be run by an 8 year old.
Tea Pain could never understand why any press outlet would cover Trump like they did with previous respectable United States presidents. Cable TV news “analysts” fabricated elaborate narratives about how Trump was a genius at manipulatin’ the press, creatin’ false narratives to own news cycles and stitchin’ together sophisticated strategies to drive political outcomes. It seems odd to Tea Pain that a man with such an allegedly vast intellect and razor-sharp political acumen can’t post a single tweet without misspelled words, random capitalization and grammar guaranteed to inflict intentional emotional distress on any middle-school English teacher.
The Trump administration reminds Tea Pain a lot of the Kennedy Assassination. Losin’ such an iconic figure like JFK before his time had to be the result of somethin’ more than a lone minimum-wage worker in a school book depository usin’ a mail-order rifle that cost less than twenty dollars. Elaborate conspiracy theories emerged as means to more adequately explain such a tragic loss. With Trump, the press were just like bereavin’ JFK loyalists that couldn’t imagine America had elected a racist and a fool to be the most powerful man in the free world. There must be a more adequate explanation than the fact that America made a colossal, foolish mistake.
Once Trump became president, press outlets felt obliged to bestow the same treatment on him as Presidents Obama, Bush and Clinton before him, even though this man never displayed any behavior worthy of the great office he now occupied. By extendin’ a similar pattern of respect, Trump’s clownish behavior began to be interpreted through the same lens of legitimacy reserved for decent, moral men with noble dreams for America.
In reality, Trump was provin’ for the first time that the Foundin’ Fathers never anticipated an electorate so uninformed or uneducated as to elect a leader with the emotional stability of an eight-year-old. Callin’ an emotional meltdown with the G-7 “negotiations” instead of the more accurate “hissy-fit” made Trump sound no different than a legitimate president. Labelin’ Trump’s 6.3 lies per day as “statements not backed entirely with facts” is a disservice to the office of the president, America’s ideals and the concept of truth in general.
The way Tea Pain sees it is much simpler. Trump ain’t a great negotiator or a political genius or even a savvy businessman. He’s a childish narcissist who desperately needs to create a fantasy world where he always wins.
||Tea Pain @TeaPainUSA – Apr 28
Tonight, Trump accused the press of “making up sources.” John Miller, John Barron or David Dennison could not be reached for comment.
For a feller that’s proud to put his name in ten foot tall letters on shiny buildings all over the world, it seems odd that Trump has no less than three secret aliases. Desperate for controlling the narrative, Trump would slum behind the personas of “John Miller” or “John Barron” to call press outlets and brag “anonymously” about the financial success of Donald Trump or his marvel at Trump’s infamous prowess with the fairer sex. The third moniker, “David Dennison,” recently gained notoriety as the name he chose to go on the paperwork when Michael Cohen drew up non-disclosure agreements for porn stars and playboy bunnies Trump paid to have sex with. When you have to make up multiple fake identities to call upon press outlets to convince folks you’re a financial genius or the world’s greatest lover, chances are good you’re neither.
This is something we need to stop and dwell on for just a minute. Pretend you’re a single woman on a datin’ site, hopin’ to meet a nice feller lookin’ for a long-term relationship. You locate the profile of an attractive, pleasant-soundin’ guy that seems totally normal. You exchange messages, find a mutual spark and decide to meet. But before you meet him, you find out he’s got another profile on the same site created exclusively for meetin’ women seekin’ no-strings-attached adult shenanigans. Alarm bells would go off, and you’d stop that two-faced critter dead in his tracks. What kind of creep would be so stupid and brazen to pull such an obviously foolish stunt? You’d naturally question his modus operandi and steer clear of that scamp.
Oddly, America was faced with the same situation in 2016. The unwashed electorate was initially enamored with Trump, the flashy reality star, along with his “Make America Great Again” slogan and his promise of jobs, national security and personal prosperity. Lady Democracy felt that tingly spark and decided he was worthy of her consideration. But before they could meet in November, she discovered his cadre of dark secrets he didn’t want anyone else to know about. Racism, division, sexual assault and payoffs to porn stars made up his alternate datin’ profile.
Those same alarm bells went off in her head, but somehow she couldn’t apply the same common sense to her votin’ life that she normally exercised in her personal reality. She foolishly let his words creep deep into the decision makin’ part of her normally-reasonable psyche. “What do I have to lose?” she asked, repeatin’ his patented come-on line again and again. She decided to forego all the wisdom that history had gifted her, and she reached out and gave him her heart. It took no time at all to find out that the man of her dreams was nothin’ but a two-timin’ tom cat that who was already cheatin’ on her with a younger, more promiscuous country.
||Tea Pain @TeaPainUSA – Feb 8
This morning Trump will attend the National Prayer Breakfast where he will give thanks that Republicans don’t care if he pays off porn stars, defends wife beaters, supports pedophiles or conspires with foreign adversaries.
Trump sho nuff has a lot to be thankful for, particularly that Republicans don’t care how morally repulsive you are, as long as you cut taxes and pollute the environment. When Trump endorsed pedophile and local mall-enthusiast Roy Moore for the Alabama Senate, Republicans started wearin’ their cross-trainers to work so they could sprint from their offices to their waitin’ town cars without havin’ to comment to the Press. Republicans taught us there is an acceptable amount of pedophilia that we must endure to “Make America Great Again,” provided none of their daughters are involved, of course.
||Tea Pain @TeaPainUSA – July 7
“Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road.”
|The Associated Press @AP
BREAKING: North Korea Foreign Ministry says talks with Pompeo ‘regrettable,’ accuses US of unilateral demands for denuclearization.
It’s said that people find love in the least likely places. For Trump, it was North Korea.
The passion began with fleetin’ glances across a darkened ocean. Neither would admit it, but each had something the other secretly desired. Donald Trump could offer Kim Jong Un the legitimacy on the world stage that he craved; Kim was a path to a Nobel Peace Prize for Donald; and yet, there was more. Something deeper.
Donald was smitten with the way Kim ruled a country. He would never admit it publicly, but the way Kim dispatched his enemies, deep down, really turned him on. Starvin’ his own people? Jailin’ the press? Publicly incinerating political enemies with flamethrowers? Executin’ dissidents with anti-aircraft guns? Meow!
In Donald, Kim saw a proud, yet vulnerable man. Kim knew in his heart Donald was a giver, someone not afraid to lay it all on the line if it meant an opportunity to distract from a string of disastrous news cycles. Kim knew that if he played his cards right, Donald would give him all that his heart desired and more. Over the lonely years, Kim would lay in bed at night and dream of the kind of leader that would give him world acceptance, lift cruel sanctions and, most importantly, remove U.S. troops from South Korea. Kim never lost hope that one day his gullible prince would come.
Admittedly, Kim was a bit of a tease, so he thought he’d get Donald’s attention by playfully vowin’ to incinerate Japan, Hawaii and the western coast of the lower 48 states. As you can guess, this caught Donald’s eye and turned his head.
Donald returned the tit-for-tat of their new lovers’ game by threatenin’ to wipe all 25 million North Koreans from the face of the earth. Donald didn’t care if millions of innocent South Koreans and Chinese died in his wake. He was in love!
Donald reached out for a date, and Kim accepted. They decided to pick a neutral spot to meet in case things didn’t work out and one of them felt the need to duck out suddenly. Donald, never one to hold back, poured out his love for Kim, offering one concession after another. The always-aloof Kim made Donald work even harder to win his affections. Kim played it cool and cut the date short, but promised that if his new love proved faithful, he would more than satisfy Donald’s throbbin’ Nobel-lust. Kim playin’ hard-to-get made Donald want him even more.
Back in the U.S., folks was puzzled by this unlikely match. The first order of business was to determine their couple’s name. Would it be Kim Don Trump? Don Jong Un? Or, perhaps just “Dong” for short?
In every blossomin’ bromance, there comes a time for the pledge of exclusivity: the mix-tape. Donald had toyed with lovers’ nicknames but had settled on “Rocket Man.” With that in mind, the mix-tape essentially programmed itself. Donald would ask Mike Pompeo, his Secretary of State and personal Cyrano De Bergerac, to present Kim with a signed copy of Elton John’s Greatest Hits. Donald knew this tender expression of intimacy would make Kim eager to spread his gates wide and allow Donald to ravish his hidden city. Donald could almost feel the heft of the golden Nobel coin around his neck already as he practiced accepting it in the mirror each mornin’ durin’ his “executive time.”
Kim listened to the mix-tape over and over. He was so enamored with it, he ended up downloadin’ the entire Elton John catalog as a matter of fact. True enough, “Rocket Man” was an upliftin’ anthem praisin’ Kim’s nuclear prowess, but the other songs sowed seeds of doubts about Donald’s true intentions.
The language barrier was a bit challengin’ at first, and some of the song lyrics weren’t heard exactly as Bernie Taupin wrote them. The music touched a part of Kim he thought he had long closed off as he re-examined the early moments of their courtship in a harsh new light. Kim felt the sting fresh again when Trump first called him a “Madman Across the Water” and promised “Donnie and the Jets” would destroy all his military bases. Kim began to feel used and vowed he’d never be Trump’s “Tiny Dancer.”
On Saturday, July 7th, 2018, Kim publicly spurned Donald’s advances in a press release from the North Korean Foreign Ministry where he called meetings with Mike Pompeo “regrettable” and accused Donald of wantin’ him to drop his nuclear panties without puttin’ a ring on it. Turns out “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting.” “You can’t trap me in your penthouse,” Kim promised himself. “I’m going back to my nuclear enrichment program,” he declared, as he said goodbye to the “Yellow Brick Road” of Donald’s Nobel dreams. In no uncertain terms, Kim told Trump they would never sing “Our Song” together, and their love that once burned brightly for a season was only a “Candle in the Wind.”
||Tea Pain @TeaPainUSA – Jun 29
Michael Cohen needs to pay Kim Jong Un $130,000 and have him sign an NDA after what he did to Trump.
|North Korea has increased nuclear production at secret sites – nbcnews.com
Do you know who the most common victims of shady investment schemes are? Doctors and lawyers. Do you know why? Because of their advanced degrees, they are confident that they are usually the smartest folks in the room, and they genuinely believe no one can get anything over on ‘em. But do you know who’s even easier to con? Con men.
After makin’ a livin’ separatin’ smart, successful folks from their money, they cultivate the kind of ego that makes them the perfect target for other con men. It’s even easier if the other con man happens to be smarter than they are. Such is the saga of Kim Jong Un and Donald Trump.
The first year and a half of Trump’s presidency could kindly be described as a dumpster fire. There were so many scandals that most folks gave up tryin’ to keep track of ‘em all. Every tweet the newly elected president made was a new embarrassment. Each rally grew more and more unhinged. Worst of all, lawman deluxe Robert Mueller was tightenin’ his net around Trump and his corrupt, yet incompetent crime family. Needless to say, Trump was desperate and needin’ a win, any kind of win, and in the worst kind of way. The cherry on top is that Trump was openly envious of Obama’s success, especially Obama snaggin’ a Nobel Peace Prize. Trump wanted one so bad he could taste it. If he had a Nobel, he’d finally be legitimate. Even Mueller would balk at arrestin’ a Nobel prize winner that brought peace to the Korean Peninsula.
The only man more keenly aware of Trump’s desperation was Kim Jong Un. While Trump was busy bankruptin’ casinos, Kim was honin’ his negotiatin’ skills and executin’ an actual plan to change North Korea’s position in the world. All this Pyongyang Bernie Madoff needed was a mark… a world leader so stupid and desperate that he would give him the status of a legitimate leader without preconditions or limitations.
Enter Donald Trump, the biggest sucker to ever come down the international diplomacy pike. He foolishly jumped at the chance to meet with Kim. He didn’t even spend five minutes preppin’ for the delicate game of international chess where apocalyptic nuclear exchange hung in the balance. No pre-conditions, no restrictions…nothin’!
Trump stumbled all over himself to praise Kim. He believed if Kim liked him, you know, really liked him, he’d make peace and Trump would get his prize. Needless to say, Kim played his favorite dotard like a Korean fiddle. Trump gave away one concession after another with nothin’ in return. And how did Kim repay the favor?
By not only failin’ to denuclearize, but to step up his nuclear program. Trump was helpless to speak out, lest he admit his poor judgement and that the Singapore Summit was a total win for Kim. Trump believed if he just laid low, the Nobel committee would come to him.
Then Trump got caught separatin’ toddlers from their mamas at the border.
Tea Pain @TeaPainUSA – Jun 20
Keep your chins up, Donald. You will surely win Mueller’s “no-bail” prize.
||The Hill @thehill
Nobel Committee member condemns family separation: Trump is not a “moral leader of his country or the world.”
For a fleetin’ moment after the Singapore Summit, Trump supporters felt they could make supplication to the Nobel committee to award the big gold coin to their anointed one. After all, in just one photo opp, he managed to bring peace to the entire world. But less than eight days later, every media outlet led with the news that little babies were bein’ ripped from their mamas’ arms at our southern border. Funny how things like that don’t set so well with folks at the Nobel home office..
FUN FACT: Over one-third of all American Nobel Prizes in the Sciences have been earned by immigrants to the United States; therefore it is sweet, sweet justice that Trump’s hatred of immigrant minorities robbed him of his one big chance. As soon as the committee heard of these massive human rights violations, their shirt-tails didn’t hit their hineys before they made it clear Trump is not a “moral leader of his country or the world.” Guess Trump’ll have to settle for one of the Singapore Summit challenge coins currently sellin’ at three for a dollar in the White House gift shop.
||Tea Pain @TeaPainUSA – Jun 25
Our jobs ain’t leavin’ the country. They’re just takin’ a permanent overseas vacation. Nice work, #StableGenius!
|The Hill @thehill
#BREAKING” Harley-Davidson to move some production out of US after new Europe tariffs.
Donald Trump would be hard pressed to make change at Burger King, but his unwashed and unholy cult believes he is smarter than the most celebrated Nobel economist. To make matters scarier, Trump believes it too. One day, after a week of bombshell stories about more Trump-Russia naughtiness bein’ uncovered by Mueller, Trump needed something to reclaim a string of damagin’ news cycles. Out of the blue, he thought he’d just haul off and start a trade war, even though every single self-respectin’ economist would advise it was fiscal suicide.
Trump decided to start with our most pressin’ security threat: Canada. Them dang Canadians have been sandbaggin’ us for years, Trump reasoned, with their awesome beer, great healthcare and not one, but two Ryans: Reynolds and Gosling. They even stole our ham and called it bacon just to piss us off. And don’t get Trump started on Justin Trudeau.
||Tea Pain @TeaPainUSA – Jun 25
Justin Trudeau just spanked us a little, but all of the women and half of the men kinda liked it.
|The Hill @thehill
JUST IN: Canada slaps tariffs on 13 billion in US goods in retaliation for Trump tariffs.
Trump thought he’d teach this Aurora Pretty Boy-ealis a lesson by slappin’ a bunch of tariffs on Canadian steel and aluminum. Ol’ Justin wouldn’t know what hit him, and he’d surely roll over immediately and submit his hind-parts for the Alpha Trump’s inspection, followed up with a satisyin’, “We’re sorry.” But the expected capitulation from north of the 49th parallel never came.
As a matter of fact, Justin stood his ground while Americans swooned over how presidential he looked compared to the bumblin’ Trump. In less than a month, American companies that depend on steel and aluminum in their manufacturin’ process started eyein’ the exits and makin’ plans to move their production overseas to escape the arbitrary tariffs.
||Tea Pain @TeaPainUSA – Jun 27
“I’ve raised your cost of doing business in Europe by 30% and this is the thanks I get?”
|Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump
Harley-Davidson should stay 100% in America, with the people that got you your success. I’ve done so much for you, and then this. Other companies are coming back where they belong! We won’t forget, and neither will your customers or your now very HAPPY competitors!
Harley-Davidson, an American icon and one of Trump’s early adopted corporate step-children, was hit hard by the ill-advised tariffs. Harley announced the tariffs would cost them over 100 million dollars, and the average cost of a motorcycle exported to Europe would be increased by $2,200.
As soon as Trump found out that Harley’s American operations would be devastated and thousands of jobs would be lost, he did the right thing, apologizin’ for his hasty decision and immediately suspendin’ the tariffs.
Trump had just done the same thing to Harley that he had done to Stormy Daniels, and it’s safe to safe Harley was just as satisfied as Stormy was. A reasonable person would stop and evaluate the situation, lookin’ inward for answers. But no one ever accused Trump of bein’ reasonable. Like a jilted lover, Trump lashed out at Harley as the bad actor in this one act tragedy. Trump then revealed it wasn’t Harley who was the true victim, it was HIM! “I’ve done so much for you, and then this?” Trump cried.
Trump is the abuser who beats his wife, then blames her for bleedin’ on the carpet.
||Tea Pain @TeaPainUSA – Jun 27
Tell us again, @realDonaldTrump, how “jobs are coming back to America.”
The Hill @thehill
Another US motorcycle company considering moving abroad over tariffs.
Trump continued to announce tariffs on an almost daily basis in June 2018, and the “winning” never stopped. Reports poured in of mid-sized manufacturin’ plants across America layin’ off workers and raisin’ prices just to stay afloat.
Turns out Harley wasn’t the only motorcycle manufacturer feelin’ the pinch. Polaris, maker of the Victory and Indian motorcycle lines, announced it was considerin’ movin’ its production abroad to escape the heavy burdens of Trump’s Morononomics.
Mid-Continent Nail company of Poplar Bluff, Missouri, the largest nail manufacturer in the country, was forced to lay off over 25% of its workforce to offset the sudden spike in steel. These risin’ costs were in turn passed on to the construction industry, raisin’ costs of building all over the country. Trump never stopped to think that while he was abusin’ the power of his office to punish our most loyal trade partners, in the end it was the American people that was gettin’ nailed.
||Tea Pain @TeaPainUSA – Jun 10
Reporter: Mr. Trump, in light of the fact that Russia invaded Crimea, shot down commercial airliners and hacked our election, who do you consider to be our biggest national security threat?Trump: Canada
Gizzard Ridge is a mighty nice place to live. It’s fulla some of the most Christian folks that would do just about anything to help a soul in trouble. One of the best things about livin’ here is there’s always a fish fry goin’ on somewhere. Tea’s favorite is catfish filets. He can eat literally a million of ‘em. The only thing is, if you eat enough filets, eventually you’ll find a bone in one that gets stuck in your throat and nearly kills ya. With that picture in mind, if Gizzard Ridge was a fish fry, that one bone would be Marty Fewkes.
Marty is a middle-aged fella with about three sprigs of hair left on the top of his head that he’s trained to bend around his forehead to resemble his original hairline. Tea Pain swears that Marty modeled the exact angle of the curvature after turn three at the Talladega Speedway. Marty also suffers from “Dunlap’s Disease,” meanin’ he drank so much Miller High Life that his belly done lapped over his drawers long ago.
But Marty’s looks ain’t the problem – they’re nothin’ that can’t be overcome by alcohol and poor judgement. The problem is that Marty is what behavioral scientists call a “total a-hole.” He never has a kind word to say except about himself. He’s always got a story of romantic conquest that absolutely nobody wants to hear about. When he ain’t crowin’ about women that none of us ever seem to have met, he’s always runnin’ his mouth about how stupid some feller is or how much they wronged him.
Last year, Marty would come into the Skid Mark just about every day around 5:30 to hit on Trish Thompson, who was usually there with her girlfriends unwindin’ from her shift as a 911 operator. Like clockwork, Trish would gently rebuff Marty’s advances, but this one particular day Marty was dead set on not takin’ “no” for an answer, and he kept at it. Finally, Trish said, “Marty, I’m sorry but I’m not interested in you like that, but thanks for askin’.”
Marty was mighty upset. Rather than searchin’ for answers within, he decided to tell all the boys at his next poker game that Trish had a socially transmitted disease. Tea prefers not to talk about such things, but suffice it to say it rhymes with “Slurpees.” It don’t take long for a wildfire rumor like that to spread around this little community, and it was only days till Trish found out.
Now speakin’ of poker, Marty used to frequent a backroom game at the Skid Mark on Thursday nights. It weren’t strictly legal, but Bob Echols, the volunteer fire chief, never missed it, so that gave the game an air of de facto legitimacy.
One night, the fellers tipped a few back, and the pots started gettin’ pretty large – close to seventy dollars, which in Gizzard Ridge makes you a gangster. Marty had three fives, and it was his time to take down the pot. Marty would raise big, but ol Bob Echols matched him every time. Marty, who genuinely believed he was always the smartest feller in the room, knew ol’ Bob was bluffin’. When the pot hit a hundred dollars, Marty called, plopped down his fives and proceeded to rake in the pot.
“Not so fast” said Bob in his oily drawl. Bob calmly laid down a full-house, kings over nines. The room erupted as Marty got what everybody knew was a long-awaited comeuppance.
The top of Marty’s head got beet-red, which was easy to see with the sparse vegetation growin’ up there. With the back of his arm, he scattered the chips onto the floor, accused ol’ Bob of cheatin’ and started to storm out.
Steve Phillips, a State Farm agent from over at Jasper, happened to be there at the table. Steve is easily six foot seven and 280 pounds. He grabbed Marty like a little rag doll and said he wasn’t goin’ anywhere till he made good on his debt and apologized to Bob.
Marty instantly backed down and wrote Bob a check on the spot. In all the excitement, Bob didn’t notice that the check was written on a bank up in Harrison that went out of business two years ago. Needless to say that was the last Thursday night game Marty attended. To make matters even worse, Marty started a rumor that Bob and Steve secretly liked fellers and spent way too much time alone at Bob’s huntin’ cabin.
Everything came to a head last Thanksgiving. Marty decided to deep-fry a turkey in his trailer. He was usin’ an old fryer Tea Pain gave him that was long overdue for the scrap heap. About twenty minutes in, a spark burst through the three layers of duct tape that held the cord socket into its base and caused some stray grease drippin’ down the side to combust into a fireball that was warmly greeted by the walnut veneer panelin’ in Marty’s kitchen.
Marty ran outside and instinctively called 911 on his flip-phone. Wouldn’t you know it? Ol’ Trish Thompson was workin’ the phones that day.
“911. Can you hold please?” Trish said calmly as she put Marty on hold. Time does funny things durin’ an emergency, and it seemed like a good ten minutes before Trish came back on the line to tell Marty that help was on its way. Truth is, it was closer to fifteen.
Bob Echols was watchin’ football when his phone rang. It was Trish from 911, lettin’ him know that Marty Fewke’s trailer was a blazin’ inferno.
“I’m might sorry to hear that,” Bob replied. “Me and the boys will get right over there… just as soon as the game’s over.”
Approximately 2 hours and 12 minutes after Marty called 911, the Gizzard Ridge volunteer fire department rolled up to the smolderin’ remains of Casa de Marty. “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Bob with a sheepish grin. “You shoulda called us sooner.”
The next day the insurance adjuster pulled up in Marty’s gravel driveway. Out of the passenger side stepped Steve Phillips. Turns out Marty was ensured by State Farm, and Steve accompanied the adjuster to make sure Marty got the one-on-one experience State Farm has come to be known for.
Like a hound dog bein’ led to the scent, Steve led the adjuster straight to what used to be Marty’s kitchen, where they quickly discovered the charred duct tape that was the cause of the blaze.
“Oops,” said Steve, holdin’ up the incriminatin’ evidence that Tea Pain may or may not have instructed Steve to look for. “Looks like we have a clear case of owner negligence here. I’m afraid we can’t cover your loss, Marty.”
The old sayin’ is true, folks. What goes around, comes around. If you decide to be mean to your neighbors over and over, it generally comes back to bite you. Marty Fewkes treated the brothers and sisters of his community wrong for years, and when his time of need came, the good folks of Gizzard Ridge told Marty to go “Fewkes” himself.