Donald Trump: America’s Work-craft Carrier

Reading Time: 2 minutes

Donald Trump ran on a promise to bring American jobs back to America. And to make America great again. Even though his presidency is still two months away, he’s already delivering.

Ford is staying. Apple is looking to move iPhone assembly to the USA. And, last night, Carrier announced it will keep 1,000 job in Indianapolis.

America is #WINNING again. 

When Donald Trump railed against Carrier Air Conditioner’s decision to move over 1,000 jobs to Mexico, the fake news media mocked and ridiculed Trump. Here’s what Wall Street Journal’s Barry Wood wrote:

Workers losing Indiana factory jobs deserve to be more than political pawns

And Time Magazine mockingly wrote:

Trump cast all woes as the fault of free-trade agreements. “You’re losing your jobs. You’re losing your income,” he said blaming in turns Mexico, China, India and Vietnam. “I’m bringing the jobs back. I’m bringing the jobs back. I’m bringing them back from China. I’m bringing them back from Mexico,” he repeated time and again with no credible policy beyond his persona.

Maybe “his persona” is all we needed.

Meanwhile, market and consumer euphoria over Trump’s win has lifted all major US stock indexes to all-time record highs for all-time record numbers of days.

It’s like Reagan all over again

Via the Time Vault from December 1, 1980 as the Dow flirted with 1,000 for the first time in its history:

Says Kenneth Rolland, an executive vice president of New York’s Chemical Bank: “People think a Reagan Administration will cut Government spending and institute tax reforms that will stimulate investment and savings. Investors believe that the climate will be very good for financial assets like stocks.” Adds Investment Strategist David Bostian of Bostian Research Associates: “In March you could not convince people that the Dow would ever go above 800. Now you cannot tell them that it will drop below 950.”

While the fake news world of CNN, New York Times, and, especially, the Washington Post continues to spread lies about Trump and his voters–lies intended to incite violence among stupid young people–Donald Trump is checking off his campaign promises. Ahead of schedule and under budget.

For Trump, America is the new Wollman Ice Rink project.

It’s time to realize that the work-craft carrier Donald J. Trump is about to make America great again. 


Civil War: Chapters Nine and Ten

Reading Time: 8 minutes

Chapter Nine

“Elizabeth, I’m going to be out of the building the rest of the day. You have my cell. Vice-principal Johnson is in his office.”

Elizabeth had a mouthful of Goldfish and could only grunt. But she wrote a note herself and nodded furiously at her boss.

Nancy Flanders left the building.

Forty-two minutes later, Flanders was parked and walking into the lobby of modern, glass and stainless steel building. The building had no names on the side. The slate floors of the lobby had no markings. There was no receptionist, only a kiosk with a touchscreen that Flanders manipulated. When she was done, shiny, steel elevator door opened to her right, and Nancy Flanders stepped in.

The elevator took Flanders to the fifth floor and opened into a large, nameless office suite. A vestibule with four doors. Flanders walked directly to the second door from the left, opened the door, and walked in.

“What’s the problem?” said the bald man behind a marble desk.

“An incident at school, Max. And I screwed up.”

“We’ll see. What happened?”

“One of those little racists said he supports Trump in class. Our teacher followed the protocol. The Tiger Team did it’s job, just like we thought.”

“It doesn’t sound like there’s a problem to me,” Max said.

Flanders looked down at her hands. “First, I told the kid’s father things I shouldn’t have. I didn’t follow the plan. It all happened faster than I was prepared for.”

Max raised his left eyebrow. “What else?”

“The teacher isn’t cooperating. At all.”

Max turned his chair to look out the window. “What’s the teacher’s name?” he asked.

“Amanda Mateo,” Flanders answered.




“Single. Twenty-eight or -nine.”

“Children? Family in the area?”

“No children. I believe her family is in LA, but I’m not sure.”

“Send me her file. What’s the kid’s name?”

“David Thompson. Fifth grader. His parents are together. Roger and Natalie.”

“Send me their stuff, too,” Max said.

“And there’s a cop who seems uncooperative. A Sergeant. Mike Franklin.”

“Is that all?  What about the Tiger Team?”

“Don’t worry about them.”

“I’ll let you know how to proceed. Don’t do anything until you hear from me. Nothing by email. Check Dust every half hour but do not allow the app to post notifications on your phone.”

Flanders stood to leave. “Max, one more thing. We have to do something about these parents. They’re the ones indoctrinating their kids into privilege and racism. That should be our bigger goal. We have to eliminate parents.”

“Thank you, Nancy.”

“Good afternoon, Max.”

An hour later, Nancy told herself “that feels better,” as she pulled into her garage below her condominium. But she knew she was lying to herself.

Chapter Ten

Amanda walked into the Peet’s Coffee at 2:14 p.m. The only cop in the place was easy to spot.

“Sergeant Franklin?” she said.

“Ms. Mateo,” he answered, rising out of his booth.

“Don’t get up, please,” she said.

“Have a seat. What would you like? I’ll get it for you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. And I’m good at getting coffee orders right.”

“Okay. Let me see.” Amanda screwed herself around to look a the coffee board. “How about a triple, venti, half sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato?”

“This is Peet’s,” Franklin said.

“Okay. Same thing, only large instead of venti.”

“What was it again?”

“Triple, large, half sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato,” Amanda said.

Franklin repeated it back. “Triple large half-pint, non-fat . . . coffee.”

Amanda grinned and rolled her eyes, slid out of the booth and walked toward the counter with Mike Franklin following. Another man in another line of work might have missed Amanda’s glance at Mike’s left hand. But Mike’s a trained observer.

“Sorry. By ‘any coffee order,’ I meant black and bitter, blonde and bitter, black and sweet, or blonde and sweet. You know, coffee,” he explained.

Looking back at Mike, still smiling, Amanda said, “Which one am I?”

Mike thought about it. Amanda was definitely a latt´e. Black hair, impossibly perfect brown eyes, a hint of natural blush in her cheeks, perfect teeth that gleamed. Mike wondered why she became a teacher instead of model. He considered his options and said, “I’m on duty, ma’am.”

Amanda turned to the barista. “Triple, large, half sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato.”

“Triple, large, half sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato,” the barista repeated, loudly. “Can I get your name?”


“Amanda,” he yelled. “Six thirty-two,” he said.

Mike Franklin already had his credit card out.

“Thank you,” Amanda said.

“I feel better now, so thank you,” Mike told her.

They returned to their booth where Mike’s blonde and bitter waited.

“Do all the teachers look like you these days?” he asked.

“I thought you were on duty,” Amanda said.

Mike smiled. “I’m just being thorough.”

Amanda Mateo was the kind of teacher boys fantasize about. Maybe not fifth graders–and maybe that’s why she teaches the little kids. Amanda might cause problems walking into a high school classroom.

“Yes. Most of the teachers are around my age if that’s what you mean. And mostly women. And this is California, so a lot of Latinas. And how old are you?”

Boom! That hurt. Mike Franklin turned forty-six two months earlier. He’d been on the police force 24 years and was eligible for retirement after 25. “I’m forty-six,” he answered with the sincere detachment of a trained, professional witness.

“Forty-six,” Amanda repeated. “So . . . you were like a sophomore or a junior when I was born?” she said with a giggle. Her giggle was cute enough to soften the blow to Mike’s ego.

Franklin thought about that age difference and decided it was time to change the subject. Before he could he speak, a barista yelled ‘Amanda, macchiato!’ Mike jumped up to retrieve her drink from the counter.

“Thank you,” she said. “So why did we have to meet at Peet’s? Or did you just want to show off your macchiato ordering skills to a much-younger teacher?”

Mike made a mental note flirting and said, “I wanted to hear your side of the story in a less intimidating environment. Police stations tend to make people forget important things and remember things that didn’t happen.”

“Okay,” said Amanda. “My story. Okay. First, I am not political. At all. And I don’t think eleven-year-olds should be worrying about presidential elections. But the school district sent out a policy directive that we had to hold this mock election yesterday. It was all very scripted. They wanted to identify kids who support Donald Trump for some reason.”

“Did the policy say that?”

“Not exactly, but that was the whole point. We held the election, open ballot, then had to ask every student why they voted the way they did.”

“And Mr. Thompson voted for Trump?” Franklin asked.


“And you asked him why?”

“Yes. He say something like ‘I don’t think Trump’s so bad.’”

“Not exactly fighting words,” Mike said.

“I know. But the curriculum required me to read a statement verbatim to students who said they supported Trump. I did. And I sent him to the principal’s office.”

“You sent him to the principal’s office because he voted for Trump in a mock election.”

“Yes. That was part of the curriculum. It’s cruel, really. I had to tell him that supporting Trump is a hate crime or something, and hate crimes are punishable by suspension or expulsion. Then I had to remove him from the room according to our building’s policy. Our policy is that kids removed from a classroom for conduct go directly to the principal’s office.”

“Did the Thompson kid put up a fight or something?”

“No. He looked scared, but he didn’t say anything. He just got up and left the room.”

“Okay. Then what happened.”

“It was almost the end of the period when this happened. About five minutes later, the bell rang. When the kids opened the door, I could hear a commotion, so I stepped out into the hall. I could see a scuffle by Ms. Flanders’ office, so I ran down there.”

Amanda was suddenly on verge of tears. “I’m sorry,” she said as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Mike grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket. “Here. This is perfectly clean,” as he handed it to Amanda.

She chuckled through her tears. “Really? A handkerchief. You sure you’re only forty-six? Ha ha. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“So, when I got down there, David was on the floor trying to cover up. Eight boys were kicking and punching and calling him racist and white privilege. Half of them were white, too. And Nancy Flanders, the principal, was just standing there with this sick grin watching all this.”

“Flanders didn’t try to break it up?”


“And the Thompson kid wasn’t fighting back?”

“No. He was beat up. Holding his head. Curled up trying to get under a chair. It was horrible.”

“What did you do?”

“I screamed, ‘knock it off,’ and started pulling the boys away. They would just go back at it. There were too many for me.”

“When did it end?”

“I don’t know, honestly. I think Nancy said something. The boys all marched into her office, and I helped David up to the chair. The police showed up pretty quickly.”

“Did you give a statement to the officers yesterday?”


“Why not?”

“As soon as they showed up, Nancy told me to go home.”

“And you did?”

“Yeah. I know, I shouldn’t have. But I was a wreck. That poor baby.” Tears started again, only softer this time.

“And no one contacted you about a statement today or last night?”

“No. Well, not exactly. Nancy wanted me to sign this statement today.” She pulled the wrinkled, folded statement from her purse and handed it to Franklin. He read it like he was trying to decipher an ancient love potion written in Cyrillic alphabet.

“This isn’t anything like what you just described.”

“I know. That’s why I wouldn’t sign it. I grabbed it off Nancy’s desk and got out of there. I wanted to give my statement directly to the police.”

“Okay. Sorry. I should have met you at the station. I didn’t realize how different your story is from the others.”

“The others?”

“Yes. Flanders, the office staff, some of the students. They told a very different story to the officers who arrived at school yesterday.”

“Like, how?”

“Like, they said you provoked David and encouraged him to assault the other students.”

Amanda felt a fire erupt in her cheeks.

“How am I supposed to believe you?” Mike Franklin asked.

“I don’t know,” Amanda said. “But I love kids. I would never, ever tell a student to hurt another student. Everybody who knows me knows that.”

Mike looked at her beautiful brown eyes and tried not let her looks influence his judgment. But he was fighting a losing battle.

“I believe you,” he said. And he felt absolutely no shame in saying it.

Amanda let her head drop into her open hands. She gave Mike a muffled “thank you.”

“Besides, the Thompson kid’s story is pretty close to yours. That’s between us. But now I’m going to need you to swear an official statement of what you witnessed. Do you have time?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Okay. Have you been in contact with the boy’s family?”

“No. I tried to call last night, but they didn’t answer,” she said.

“Okay. I’ll get you in touch with them. You two need to talk. And you might need to talk to their lawyer.”

Amanda didn’t like dealing with lawyers, but she said she understands. “I want to help them.”

On the way out of the Peet’s, Amanda grabbed Mike’s arm. “One more thing. About the boys who beat him up. I worry about them, too. Something caused them to behave that way, and I don’t think it was anything David said or did. They’re just babies, too.”

“I understand. We’ll look into that.”

“Are all cops like you?” Amanda asked.

“Ruggedly handsome and witty? No. Just me.”

“I meant humble,” she said.

to be continued

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Bastardizing Trump

Reading Time: 2 minutes

Jill Stein has raised nearly $7 million in an effort to overturn election results in Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania. She has no chance of winning any of those states, and Hillary Clinton has joined Team Stein.

So what’s the point?

Apparently, Stein and Clinton want the recounts to miss their December 19 deadline. December 19 is the Constitutionally mandated Electoral College vote. If the recounts are incomplete on the 19th, voters in Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania will be disenfranchised, no candidate will have 270 electoral votes, and the election will be thrown to the US House of Representatives. Once the 19th passes, the recounts will stop in all states. Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania will go down as a draw. As if no one voted in those states. Via ZeroHedge:

As Edward Foley, an expert in election law at Moritz College of Law at Ohio State University, pointed out to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinelelectors from around the country have to meet by December 19th to cast their electoral college votes.  To the extent recounts in WI, MI and PA have not been completed by that time, which experts assign a high probability that they will not, there is a chance that the electoral votes from those three states wouldn’t be counted leaving neither candidate with the required electoral votes to win the presidency (electoral count would be Trump 260 versus Hillary 232).

Because Republicans control the House, there’s a better than 99% chance they would elect Trump. So why all the recount effort?

Because: optics.

The left wants to de-legitimize Trump. They hope to combine the popular vote with the fact that a Republican House elected Trump to make the whole thing look like a scam. The same way Thomas Jefferson and John Quincy Adams became President. But the Soros-controlled media (Washington Post, New York Times, CNN, MSNBC, CBS, ABC, NBC, etc) will beat Americans over the head with illegitimacy. They want to make Trump’s presidency a bastard.

If the people of Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania want their votes to count, they better make sure the recounts complete by December 19.

Civil War: Chapter Eight

Reading Time: 3 minutes

Nancy Flanders sat perfectly still. Amanda Mateo fidgeted and rocked. Between lay a false statement and a pen.

Amanda spoke. “I won’t sign that. I’ll write my own report. I should have spoken to the police yesterday. I’ll write my statement and give it you right now. But I’m not signing that,” pointing toward the statement on the desk.

“That won’t be necessary. I’m afraid I’ll have to place you on suspension until the board reviews your case.”

“What? What case?”

“My statement makes it perfectly clear. You encouraged your student, David Thompson, to use hate speech towards students of color. You stood by while he physically attacked Hispanic and African-American students in your classroom.”

Amanda’s brows squeezed down until they nearly hit her cheeks.

“You are crazy!” she said. “There were thirty witnesses. No one’s going to believe that.”

Flanders wore a grin that said, “silly girl.” The grin infuriated Amanda.

“Go ahead. Submit it. And I’m submitting mine. We’ll see.”

Amanda grabbed the false statement from Flanders’ desk as she exploded out of the tiny chair and out the door. She ran down the hall to the main doors, groping in her purse for he car keys. She flung open her door, started the car, and drove out of the parking lot as fast as she considered safe.

When she rolled to stop at a red light almost a mile away she first noticed the tears that had dripped on her shirt and the snot that clogged her nose.

“Oh. My. God!” she yelled. “Oh my God!”

Amanda drove fast but she wasn’t heading home. She’d passed the turnoff that she took every night. She was just driving. She just wanted to get away.

She’d been driving aimlessly for thirty minutes when a thought occurred. She pulled into a convenience store parking lot and dragged her phone from her purse.

“Hey, Siri,” she said. After the beep,”Santo Domingo Police phone number.”

“Is this an emergency?”


“Let me see. I found the non-emergency number for Santo Domingo, California police. Would you like me to dial it for you?”



Amanda waited for the process to complete.

“Santo Domingo Police. Sergeant Baker. How may I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Amanda Mateo. I’m a teacher at Briarhaven Elementary School. One of my students was involved in a fight yesterday. I was a witness to the incident, but my principal sent me home before the police took my statement. I’d like to make a statement.”

“Can you come down to our headquarters? I can give you directions.”


The desk sergeant gave Amanda the address, and she punched the address into the Waze app on her phone.

“Thank you. I’ll be there in about a half hour. Who should I ask for?”

“Ask for Sergeant Mike Franklin. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Anything else I can help you with?”

“No, thank you. Bye bye.”

“Good bye.”

Amanda put her phone in the cup holder of her car and followed the directions from Waze. But she didn’t get far before her phone rang. She pulled over to answer it, though she didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hello. Amanda Mateo?” asked a man’s voice.

“Speaking,” she answered.

“Hi, Ms. Mateo. I’m Sergeant Mike Franklin with the Santo Domingo Police Department. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No problem. Thanks for calling.”

“Listen, Ms. Mateo, I know you’re coming in to give a statement about the incident at school yesterday. Would you mind if we meet somewhere else? I can come to you. I texted you earlier, but I guess you didn’t see it.”

Amanda pulled the phone away from her so she could scan her messages. There is was.

This is Sgt. Franklin, SDPD. I’d like to talk to you about an important police matter. Pls call me at this number. Thx

“You don’t want me to come to the station? What’s going on?” Amanda asked.

Franklin let out a long breath. “It’s complicated. I can explain when we meet. There’s a Peet’s Coffee on El Camino Real. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Would you mind meeting there? I’ll be in uniform.”

“Sure. Okay. When?”

“How soon can you get here?” he asked.

“About twenty minutes?”

“That’s fine. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Okay. On my way.”

Amanda hung up, entered the new destination in Waze, and took off wondering why the cop wanted to meet outside police headquarters.

“This is getting too weird,” she whispered. “Too fucking weird.”

to be continued

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Castro Is Dead

Reading Time: 1

We can close the books on the 20th century. 

Castro was greeted in hell by his peers Josef Stalin, Mao Zedong, Pol Pot, Mussolini, and Hitler. 

Castro was last seen paddling away from the Caribbean hellhole on a raft bound for hell. 

Castro leaves behind a nation trapped in the 1950s.

Repeating our top story tonight: Cuban dictator Fidel Castro is still valiantly holding on in his fight to remain dead. 

Civil War: Chapters Six and Seven

Reading Time: 3 minutes

Chapter Six

“Evan, this is Roger.”

“How’s it going? Where are you?”

“I’m at home. Listen, I’m going to have to use a sick day today.”

“Everything okay?”

“Not really. It’s a long story. David got beat up pretty bad yesterday at school. In school,” Roger said.

“Well, hell. Sorry to hear that. Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got you covered.”

“Thanks, Evan. Sorry about this.”

“No worries. It’s the slow season anyway. You take care of your family. Take time next week if you need to. It’s a short week, anyway, with Thanksgiving.” For a second-generation business owner, Evan was liberal with time off.

“Thanks. I might have to. There’ll probably be lawyers involved.”

“Oh, that sucks. What happened?” asked Evan.

“Like I said, it’s a long story. Apparently, some political class got out of hand. A bunch of kids jumped David, and the principal stood by and let them beat on him. Put him in the hospital with a concussion and a bunch of cuts and bruises.”

“That’s crazy. Wow. Yeah, get lawyered up. What did the police say?”

“That’s strange, too. I have to call the sergeant in a minute. They seem to be afraid to cross the teachers’ union,” Roger said.

“God almighty. Those unions stick together, don’t they? We need a union for businesses,” Evan said. Roger thought Isn’t the chamber of commerce your union? but he didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “Yeah. The whole day was weird. I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. By the time they discharged David, it was late.”

“Hey, don’t mention it. You did the right thing,” said Evan. “Tell Natalie I’m sorry. David, too. You take care of that family, Roger. Work will be here when you get back.”

“Thanks, Evan. I’ll let you go now.”

“Yep. Take care, buddy.”

“Bye bye.”

Roger looked at his phone. Nine-thirty. He looked at the list he’d scribbled down last night:

  • [x] Call Evan
  • [ ] Call Sgt. Franklin
  • [ ] Call Jack Murphy
  • [ ] Call school?

Natalie was taking care of calls to the doctors. She also called the school to tell them David would not be in. Roger was afraid he’d lose it if he heard “that bitch’s” voice. He couldn’t remember Nancy Flanders’ name, only “that bitch.”

Something was bothering Roger, but he couldn’t exactly describe the irritation. Something gnawing at his mind just out of consciousness. He figured it was the incomplete checklist, so I dialed Franklin’s number.

“Sergeant Mike Franklin.”

“Sergeant, Roger Thompson.”

“Good morning, Mr. Thompson. How can I help you?”

“I’m wondering if you’ve filed charges against any of the kids or the principal.”

Franklin paused. “The case is still under investigation, Mr. Thompson. I have no further updates. I expect it will be turned over to a detective today.”

“Really? It seems pretty obvious to me. A principal stood by while seven or eight kids beat up my son. And my son says a teacher triggered the whole incident by calling him a racist in class. She accused him of hate crimes.”

Franklin paused again. Six months, he thought to himself. “Listen, Mr. Thompson, you should probably get a lawyer.”

“I did,” Roger interrupted. “He should be calling you today.”

“I’ll wait for the call,” said Franklin.

Chapter Seven

“Sergeant Franklin.”

“Sergeant, this is Jack Murphy. I’m an attorney representing the Thompson family regarding an incident that took place at Briarhaven Elementary School yesterday. Mr. Roger Thompson gave me your card.”

“Yes. How can I help you?”

“I’d like to see the police reports from the incident.

“There’s juveniles involved. A judge will have to grant you permission to see the records.”

“Okay. So maybe I can get your take. You don’t have to mention any names. Just the facts as you know them.”

Franklin looked around. Everyone in the room was busy with something else. “What did Mr. Thompson tell you?”

“He said a group of boys beat up his son, David, at school. The principal witnessed the beating and did nothing to intervene.”

Sergeant Franklin considered his response. “Can I get your number? I’ll call you if I have any information I can disclose.”

“Sure,” said Jack. He gave the sergeant his number.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

Mike Franklin sat back in his chair and looked out the window. “Six months to retirement,” he said under his breath. “Six fucking months.”

Franklin pulled out a notepad and his personal cell phone. He tapped out a text message, sent it, and put the phone and notepad back in his pockets. Next, he stood up and walked to a table containing stacks of manila folders. He pulled the top folder off one of the stacks and opened it. He removed a few sheets of paper, walked to a copier, and set the pages in the feeder. He pressed a button and the copier sprang to life.

to be continued

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.