The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Our Fearless Leader showed the lying press the big fat letter Kim Jong Un sent to him and mentioned how it was a very interesting letter. What, the lying press asked, did the North Korean dictator have to say? The Prez was in a jovial mood so he taunted them with it. I bet you would, he said, and maybe, just maybe, if they said pretty please with sugar on it, he might tell them. Later.

This pesky press! Always digging. Always prying. Always lying. Why not keep it from them, this missive from the Koreans over the summit coming in less than two weeks to determine the fate of the peninsula? Ha ha, I bet you’d like to know, you curious cats. But I’m the President of the Once Free World and I’ll let you in on this little secret in my own good time. So there.

Course, the lying press wouldn’t leave it alone. No, they kept asking, kept bugging him, kept repeating the question, what’s in the letter, what’s in the envelope? So finally, to shut them up, geez, how much pestering can a man take!, he told them he hadn’t opened it yet. And needless to say, the lying press howled, the lying press hollered, the lying press said what an idiot!

He’ll read it later. He’ll let them know in his own good time what it says. But meantime, oh yeah, the lying press are having fun with this. No wonder the Prez hates a free press. They turn everything around, twist it this way and that, make him look like a fool. He said it was an interesting letter. A very interesting letter. Well, he didn’t say he’d read the damn thing, now did he? Just that it was a very interesting letter. Later on, someone will read it. Probably not him, not something that fat and obviously more than a tweet’s worth of words, he doesn’t have time for excess verbosity, whaddaya think?

Meanwhile the Summit is on. The agenda is no doubt being set right now. Great things will be resolved, he says. Might take more time than one meeting, we’ll just have to wait and see. Me, I just hope Kim Jong Un didn’t write to cancel it. Be a shame to open that letter and get the bad news the day before….

I want to clear the air of some serious misconceptions about my plea for donations to buy a jet that can reach my followers in the extreme corners of the earth spreading the Word of Skeeter, doing Good Works. Some of the yammering critics, no doubt liberal elitists driving around in fancy Teslas and Lexuses, have spread the faux news that I have three jets already. Believe me as ye believe IN me, I haven’t got three jets. I have a pickup truck about 8 years old with two bullet holes in the passenger door panel that aren’t actually bullet holes, they just look like bullet holes. You spread the Holy Word of the Church of the Profane, trust me, heathens will come out of the woods to attack old Rev. Skeeter. The truth would set them free, but some folks, not you folks of course, some folks just don’t want to be free.

Just another reason to help me purchase that luxury jetliner. You’d need a surface to air missile to attack the Reverend then! And if that ever happens, I’ll just step it up another notch and see about one of those Space X reusable rockets Elon Musk is building. Closer to Heaven! Closer to Heaven!

So no, I do not have 3 jets. Sorry to disappoint my detractors. I don’t even have 3 trucks. And if you help me with this turbo prop jet, I promise I’ll donate my truck to a worthy cause, how’s that? The Lord helps those who help themselves, we prosperity pastors like to say. We like to say it a whole lot. Almost a mantra if we were Buddhists or something goofy like that. But of course we’re not. We’re simple preachers, trying to spread the News in this era of Faux News, and hoping to show, by example, how the Lord showers his blessings on the Deserving. And you need to know, the donations you give will return to you a hundred fold. I know, it sounds counter-intuitive, but Faith will guide you and keep you. Blessings, my flock!

Televangelist Jesse Duplantis is asking his followers for some donations to help him buy his fourth jet. $54 million, to be exact. The old jets, well, they can’t reach the far corners of the globe without refueling and that takes time and time means Lost Souls. He’s doing the Lord’s work and the Lord wants him to have that jet.

As a newly ordained minister, I’m driving down to Oakland to marry my friends who needed a man of the cloth to officiate. Probably have to drive my old pickup, who knows if I’ll make it without a breakdown. You readers out there will certainly understand if I call out to you for some tithing to old Revered Skeeter, a few pesos to help him purchase a small turbo prop to get me to the church on time. Nothing extravagant. Oakland’s not that far. When the demand for gay marriage officiating gets hot and the need to reach Fiji or Hawaii or the Bahamas or the Canaries means I’ll need something non-stop to tend to the flock, I’ll come back with further requests.

Prosperity preaching, the quaint notion that God rewards the successful. The more you got, the more God must love you. A $54 million dollar Falcon 7X luxury jet with a global range, well, God might just be thinking of making you a disciple of his Son ever comes back to lay waste to the earth. If you’re poor and haven’t got a pot to piss in, well, maybe you need to try a little harder, eh? A good start would be a small (or large) donation to my turbo prop. Might even be able to buy one of Jesse’s old jets before my Oakland gig. Later we can trade it in for an upgrade.

But wait! If you act now, Skeeter Ministries will send you an autographed Jesus bobble head that velcros right to your dashboard, a constant affirmation of the Lord’s approval while you drive your used car, the one that with a few more donations should shortly become your New car. Act now, Heaven is yours for the asking.

Patriotism Redefined

Call me a commie and paint Lenin’s goatee on me now that none other than the President himself has called those of us who didn’t applaud his sedated State of the Union speech unpatriotic. He said this week those football players in the NFL who won’t stand up for the national anthem ought to be fired or leave the country. I guess, like those protestors, I’m guilty as charged. I even think it’s okay for them to stay in the country.

It used to be a free country and I, for one, miss it. When I was a school teacher and my high school played the Star Spangled Banner over the loudspeaker, I didn’t put my hand over my heart. I didn’t stand up. My rural schoolkids asked why. I said because it’s a free country. Course, I didn’t teach there long. They were free to hire someone else and they certainly did, probably a teacher who took a pledge.

I’m not really much of a commie. Or even a two bit radical. I just don’t like people telling me what to do or what to believe. Seems sort of un-American to me. I came of age in the ‘60’s, not the Eishenhower 50’s. The President wants to make America great again, code for turning the clock back to white male Protestant ethic. He wants the #MeToo movement off his back. He hates the Black Lives Matter folks. He’s talking lately about God, this from a man who has no church, whose God is his mirror, who lies incessantly, who is a crook and a molester, who got elected President but still sees himself as a star in his own reality TV show.

I guess I don’t know what patriotism is in this strange Lewis Carroll world of Trump. But I know what it isn’t and the President doesn’t know either.

So close … and yet, so far. The Nobel Peace Prize was Donald’s for the asking. He had already declared victory for the world and, of course, himself, the Master Wheeler Dealer of the Century, the man who showers accolades on himself deserved or not. He had wrung concessions from Little Rocket Man by threatening nuclear holocaust on the Korean Peninsula and now all he had to do was show up in Stockholm and accept the prize.

Easy as pie for the Donald. Nothing to it. Those other yahoos, those previous presidents, they’d taken the long route, sent over diplomats, set the table, delved into those pesky details, laid the groundwork … only to have it blow up at the end. The Trumpeter was not going to be pulled into that vortex of complexity, not for a minute, no fool he. Throw the Hail Mary and before the ball had even begun to descend toward the goal line, declare Victory and grab the Prize. Be home to Mir-a-Lago in time to catch Fox and Friends and take the congratulatory call from Hannity. Fantastic work, Mr. President!

Oh sure, they said the Koreans might worry about John Bolton mouthing off after writing that article proving beyond the shadow of a doubt we had the right, if not the moral imperative, to attack North Korea pre-emptively. And when he mentioned they should follow the Libyan model for disarmament, maybe they worried Fearless Leader would end up in the same ditch as Ghaddafi. But that’s the kind of tough talk that works far better than subtle diplomacy. So what if a week ago the deal with Iran was torn up. A deal’s not a deal unless Donald says it’s a deal. After all, he is the master of the Art of, well, you already know, the Deal. And he was offering Little Rocket Man a deal. You disarm those nukes, we’ll make you rich and happy.

Well, if you can’t trust Trump to honor a deal, who can you trust? He gave you a chance and you turned your back. Now you’ve pissed him off. You’ve cost him that Nobel, no easy thing for him to digest. He’d already had one made and if you think he’s sending it back, you don’t know jack about negotiating. Surrender now!