Reflecting (Cleaning the Cement Pond)

UPON REFLECTION, if I were, heaven forbid, president, and I wished to distract the public's attention away from a trifling matter such as a proclivity on my part for raping children, I would either start a war with a foreign country of choice while proclaimng myself a champion of American virtues and values, announce that the national cement pond badly needs a good scrubbing which has been delayed far too long, or both. If the rape rap lingered annoyingly long, I might even try to extend my war of distraction well beyond the mere few days needed to bomb the fabricated enemy of convenience into oblivious submission. I might sound the alarm that the black serpentine Viet Nam War Memorial monument has been gathering dust, and needs a good wipe down. The old hidden ball trick. Chat up the baserunner, how's the wife and kids, ask him to step off the base for just a second, (or minute as we like to say), so you can kick the dust off of it, and tag him out. Hope that he doesn't cold cock you on his embarrassed way back to the dugout. All perfectly legal, if a tad less than honorable. There is no crying in baseball... I'm so confused I can't even remember or figure out where we currently stand in the matter of the infamous, notorious Epstein Files. Either Trump is metaphorically trying to lure the hand of justice off first base, or justice is trying to lure Trump's famously small hands off base. Either metaphor suffices nicely. Another "No Kings" national holiday protest celebration is imminent,if memory serves, though I forget the exact date. (I'll find out in time to attend.) In the shower, where I and everyone else sings great, between renditions of "Sweet Caroline" and "Hey Jude" (I love Paul's scat singing), I ponder profoundly which is the better group chant: "Epstein!", "Epstein files!", or "Release 'em NOW!". A friend of mine gave birth, fathered a scion, about thirty five years ago. The kid grew up, made it big. When he reached an age of responsibility, whatever that happens to be in any given fammily unit,'long 'bout fourth grade or so (in my case it happened when I was about twenty five, in graduate school), he was rewarded with a cute puppy for good grades, good conduct, penmanship, keyboard skills, the whole ball of wax. Daddy properly delegated the responsibility for naming the little cutie to his demonstrably highly responsible kid. The kid narrowed down the choices to two: "Spot", and "Black Spot". Decisions, decisions. In the ensuing convoluted much overwrought narrative, the nme which came out of nowhere and made the final cut was "Maya", as in Angilou, or native Guatemalans. From this I learned a valuable lesson; a rose by any name. Whether we the people, wearing our "Morons Are Governing America" bright red ball caps and ANTIFA T shirts, carry homemade neatly printed signs which read "Epstein" or "Epstein Files", or "Release 'em Now!", in the fullness of time, all will come out in the reflecting pool scrub boarded wash. Good citizens are even now dumping metric tons of hydrogen peroxide into the big rectangular cement pood which, if memory serves, is about..what..two feet deep? (I walked around it, long ao.) We, or whomever, might have to dig or swim a bit deeper to finally get to the bottom of Trump's pedophilia, a nose dive into a sordid cess pool of muck and sludge, which no Republican dares do. Somebody, however, always seems to show up to shine a light to scatter the cockroaches. Voltaire was right. "All comes out even when the day is done, and more even still when all the days are done".