№ 487.1: etc EXTRA! Obamacare Repeal (Finally?)

WSJ: Federal Judge Rules Affordable Care Act Is Unconstitutional Without Insurance-Coverage Penalty

The ruling injects uncertainty into the health-care coverage of millions 😄

As reported in The Daily Dog on Friday, July 21, 2017: 
CXIV: Health Insurance (the GOP view)

What IS the bother? Why all this FUSS?
The uninsured do not vote for us!
They are not our concern. Why should we cry?
It is so much simpler to just watch them die.

№ 487: Cheery Thought

Say what you will and do what you must,
at the end of the day, your destiny's dust.
High time we recognize come end of game,
meteor hits and we're all the same:
billionaires, paupers, soldiers, civilians;
mammals, birds, flowers, fishes, reptilians;
bacteria, viruses, all plants, all creatures;
ants, beetles, cockroaches. Sunday School teachers.
In the long run no one survives anyhow,
the problem's surviving the here and the now.
Every day is the how and the why
you learn to arrange that other things die.
Your purpose in living, your reason for being?
Generating unending streams of some genes. 

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№ 486: Non, Je ne regrette rien

Guardian: From fixer to inmate: Michael Cohen reckons with his 'blind loyalty' to Trump

The president’s former right-hand man was tearful as he accepted his three-year sentence: ‘I deserve that pain’

To hear Cohen tell it – breaking down in tears – he was a man undone by loyalty to Trump.

I know this may strike people as odd

but I actually thought Donald was God.

He, to us mortals, seems arbitrary

and being near him can be very scary —

all the demanding and pouting and shouting.

What, I now wonder, kept me from doubting

that he could be the Divinity?

Was it the generous salary,

which he (albeit) reluctantly offered

when I burnt offerings humbly proffered?

Or, in other words

№ 485: A (no longer) Private Transaction

I must tell you fock

there's no law I brock.

Was Cohen (“The Flipper”)

that dealt with the stripper,

if something's illegal,

he takes the heat.

Nothing — heh, heh! — 

can get laid at MY feet.

(When I typed “feet”,

bone spurs were awocken.

It hurts real bad,

so I'm gonna sock 'em.)

As you may be aware

in my legal affairs

I'm always Punch*,
to my lawyer's Judy†.

That's just how it is —

the way I do biz.

I needs me my booty.
Just go ask Rudy.

___________
^*Punch. . .the chief figure in the Punch-and-Judy puppet show. Brutal, vindictive, and deceitful, he is usually at odds with authority. — Encyclopædia Britanica
†Judy. . .brutalized wife of the hunchbacked Punch. — Ibid.

№ 484: Hale To The Chief (of staff)

The Chief of Staff is a political appointee of the President who does not require Senate confirmation, and who serves at the pleasure of the President. Although not a legally required role, incoming presidents since Truman have appointed a chief of staff. — Wikipedia, White House Chief of Staff

CHIEF of MY staff?

Don't make me laugh.

It is my firm belief

(“BELIEF”, NOT  “conviction”,

NO COLLUSION, that's fiction)

only I can be CHIEF.

Maybe if we call it First Flunky

and had someone so feeble that I look hunky?

Someone who, faithful and loyal,

would bow down before me like I was a royal

as I wheel and deal making everything foggy.

I don't want a chief! I want a doggy!

And one other thing,

don't call him “King”.

№ 483: A Visit Too Ridiculous

(with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

'Tis two weeks before Christmas and thru' the White House

Donald is “roaring”. He sounds like a mouse,
squeakily tweeting, “This is not fair!”

and blusters bravado: “THEY WOULDN'T DARE!”;

Melania snuggles alone in her bed

while Secret Service wish they could be elsewhere instead;

Little Trump thumbs poised, ready to tap,

Trump “giant” brain conjuring incredible crap,

when on the South Lawn a colossal clatter,

Donald drops his Big Mac to see what is the matter.

He flies to the window, altho' bathrobe clad

and hobbled by bone spurs, which hurt really bad.

What wailing of sirens! What flashing of lights!

Thru' the bullet-proof pane what a horrible sight.

There on the lawn, bullhorn in hand,

stands Robert Mueller. Just. As he planned.