And now it is revealed that, in a classic dangle, Donald Trump, Jr., his brother in-law, Jared Kushner, and former Trump campaign manager Paul Manafort accepted a meeting with Russian operatives last year for the expressed purpose of receiving stolen information damaging to Hillary Clinton’s presidential aspirations.
This has been defended as opposition research–which would approach making sense if the information were coming from a source internal to the United States.
Coming from a hostile foreign power, taking such information amounts to both gullibility and treason. Even Bullwinkle–famously an alum of Whatsamatta U–knew better than to trust the likes of Boris and Natasha.
But it’s not their stupidity that bothers me. It’s their betrayal.
We might not be in a shooting war with Russia, but if you betray your country in their favor I call it treason.
It’s treason any time you put anything before your country. That’s not a partisan perspective.
And if the three are not traitors, they are Russian operatives. If that is a bridge too far, they remain, more accurately, perhaps, deeply selfish operatives.
I don’t hear, “Un pour tous, tous pour un,” sometimes switched to “All for one, and one for all,” the three musketeers’ motto in Alexandre Dumas’ 1844 novel of the same name.
It sounds more like, “All for us, and us for us.”
It’s this kind of hubris that has landed them–and The Orange Horror’s very Presidency–under such a delegitimizing light.
What would they say about the notion that they’ve conspired with a hostile foreign power?
“Fusket.”
How about the idea of quid pro quo–such as the Horror Administration’s deep-sixing the Magnitsky Act, say, or conveniently forgetting all about Ukraine?
“Fusket.”
Let’s strip it all back and ask these three about their relationship with the Truth.
“Fusket.”
We’re talking about three people here who share the same level of patriotism for our country as might be harbored in the bosom of the average man on the street in Moscow.
The Three Fusketeers.
Last month I had to inflate a pool floatie–an enormous swan roughly the size of a Duesenberg V-16–for the Kid’s eighteenth birthday party. It was a sweltering day, positively blindingly bright and hot, and the little electric pump–plugged into the car cigarette lighter port–overheated and conked out. So I had to blow the accursed swan up under my own lung power.
It turns out that even I’m not so full of hot air as these three. As everyone else in the Horror Administration.
Our story –whatever it is–isn’t elastic as to the Truth’s catching up with us. We here at the Voice only ever write the facts as we uncover them. And then if a correction or clarification is required so be it.
I’ll admit that, with age, my patience is running thin. Or maybe it’s more true that I’m unwilling to tolerate things that in my youth I let slide. Maybe I’m just encrankifying.
Whatever the case, I am upset that two bicycles were stolen from our garage recently. It feels as if we’ve been hacked. Maybe the Russians hijacked them.
In my youth, though, if something was stolen from me, my attitude was always that the thief needed whatever it was more than I did.
My attitude now?
Fusk ‘em.
Joseph Oldenbourg