Running The Country From A Prison Cell - President Trump, Pharaoh Jackson's Bitch

Former President Nixon, deeply embroiled in the Watergate scandal in which it was alleged, and later proved, that he was instrumental in obstructing the course of the electoral process, looked straight in the camera, shook his head, and said, 'I am not a crook'. 

Of course he was, and that bald lie will be forever remembered.  'Tricky Dick' had been his nickname ever since he entered politics, a man who would do anything to get and stay elected.  His dirty tricks were part of the Watergate affair, spreading lies and misinformation, breaking into a psychiatrist's office to get personal information on an enemy, the actual break-in to the Watergate Democratic Party offices by 'the plumbers', and much more. 

He finally was outed for the crook that he was by Woodward and Bernstein, investigative reporters for the Washington Post who, relying in part on information from a Nixon insider code-named 'Deep Throat' exposed the entire, smarmy affair. 

When the Watergate Senate hearings were aired live, millions of Americans tuned in. The daily sessions were no different from good soap opera - tales of innuendo, deceit, self-interest, shady dealings, black money, jealousy, and palace intrigue.  We couldn't turn away. 

Nixon threw one intimate advisor under the bus in an attempt to deflect the blame from himself, and one by one Haldeman, Ehrlichman, Mitchell, Dean and others were history.  None of this housecleaning did any good, for it was only a matter of time before the finger was pointed squarely at the President.  He resigned, boarded his helicopter, and went off into the sunset to be pardoned by his successor Gerald Ford and then spent years trying to rehabilitate his image. 

Now we have another Presidential crook in the dock - or at least that is what the prosecutors in the series of trials up and down the East Coast would like us to believe.  The former president covered up hush money paid to a hooker, tampered with the Georgia election, purloined and secreted Top Secret documents, and incited, oversaw, and managed an insurrection against the United States of America. 

Trump, never shy, rails against the prosecution, the judges, and the Democratic cabals which engineered this transparent attempt to discredit him and worse, to hogtie him during the campaign months preceding the Presidential election.  Rather than the sanctimonious, transparent, bald-faced denial of Richard Nixon, Trump is outraged, nonplussed, and absolutely unrepentant. 

'Bullshit...crapola...nonsense...misericordia...scum...clowns..', he shouts from the dock and on the steps of the courthouse, tweets on X and his own social media platform, howls and yells until the black-robes hold their ears. 

Everyone knows that the trials are witch hunts no different than the Salem cock-ups of two hundred years ago, prelims only to the main event, the burning at the stake.  Cotton Mather and his Puritan brothers cared little about due process. When the Devil was involved, there could be no shilly-shallying. He must be cast out, exorcised, and sent back to his demonic reaches before he could possess anyone else.  

As the fires burned and flesh crackled, Mather prayed to the Lord, thanking him for divine guidance and recognition for doing his will.  It was a sorry, lunatic affair, with every bit of sense and reason thrown to the winds - a hysterical, universal madness; a crazy, twitching, twirling St. Vitus' dance. 

 

'Burning at the stake is too good for him', announced the Reverend Blandish Owens from the pulpit of the Westover United Church of Christ in one of his patented secular screeds against the former President spiced with verses from St. Paul.  There was no room in Christianity, the pastor said, for such an apostate, heretic, and traitor to all good people. 

'This man...this man...', Owens began, stuttering from anger at this insolent, godless...thing.  He regained his composure, adjusted his tie and straightened the Bible before him, and went on.  'May justice prevail', he said, 'and may this heathen, this spawn of Satan, this....'.  Again he was flummoxed by his own righteous anger.  He raised his eyes to the roofbeams of the church, and said, 'Let us pray'. 

Now, with all his judicial hoopla, the former President will have to be convicted somewhere.  The Democratic Party will be walloped at the polls in November if after years of badgering accusations of miscreance, criminality, and immoral intent, he gets off Scot-free. 

And then what?  Only jail time will suffice, and not in some minimum security, country-club facility with trimmed hedges and flower pots on the perimeter.  No, only hard time will do for someone who tried to overthrow the government of the United States on January 6th and during the runup to the 2020 election in Georgia. The Top Secret documents he kept at Mar-el-Lago were CIA reports of his collusion with Russia to assure re-election; and the hush money paid to Stormy Daniels, hooker-turned-spy for the Iranian mullahs was no less than icing on the cake. 

The President should be sent to Angola (Louisiana) prison, a maximum security prison for serial murderers, rapists, and child violators, all serving life sentences with no chance of parole.  Angola is everyone's worst nightmare - a place without any vestige of moral rectitude.  Why should there be?  Once convicted of murder and sentenced to life, what did one more killing matter?  The President would on Day One be Pharoah Jackson's bitch. 

 

There were not just a few in Washington who thought Angola a fitting end to the Trump saga. Of course it would be like the days of the Mafia when every big goomba sent to federal prison did easy time, lobster and foie gras time, and ran the rackets, the dope, and the murders from behind bars.

‘He will be treated just like any other prisoner', the warden of Angola announced when rumors reached him of the possible incarceration of the President; but he was just whistlin' Dixie and much, much money would be made once the big man arrived. 

Trump's press conferences would be impressive with bars and billy-clubbed trusties as backdrops.  The sound would echo with the banging of cell doors and the yells of inmates in the background, but with each appearance support for him would increase, and no one would doubt his early release.  And what a release that would be - a scorched earth policy of vengeance and retribution that the country has not seen since Sherman's march through Georgia and South Carolina.  Not one of his accusers would be left standing, all tarred, feathered, tortured, and burned at the stake. 

Of course none of this may ever happen.  An ankle-bracelet, a monitoring implant, and a hefty fine at worst if that; and the Democrats behind their failed coup?  Burning at the stake is too good for them.