Comey Chameleon

Comey, Comey, Comey Chameleon

Boy George would be proud because if there is anyone who blends into his surroundings it is “Something” Comey. What’s his first name anyway? It doesn’t matter; I’ll just have to ask one of his friends. Wait, he doesn’t have any friends. He sits alone at the tea party in his smart tea party dress (not that there’s anything wrong with that), at least that’s what it says in this memo I wrote about it, so it has to be true. After all, I wrote it in a memo.

That makes it fact.

When does it end? When will the Democrats accept the fact that they lost the 2016 presidential election? It’s too late for Hillary; I know that. She’s like Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard, a million years old but still convinced that she remains the star and the focus of everything. Those aren’t wrinkles; it’s just a bad mirror. The only difference is she’ll never be ready for her close-up.

Watching her blame everyone but herself for her loss kind of makes me pity poor Bill and sheds some light on his serial indiscretions. After all, anyone whose mate was a sociopathic money-grubbing shrew incapable of telling the truth would have a wandering eye.

Moreover, it brings to mind something else that’s been in the news of late.

Ah, L’affaire Comey, (Did you see what I did there; I made myself look educated by using French.)

You know, anyone can be the person they want to be when they write their “recollections” or memos of what took place or what was said (I know that in my Bio I’m Six foot seven with… well, forget about that.)

It would take the audacity of a dope too narcissistically involved in the dreams of a parent to think otherwise.

About Monsieur Comey (see, see, I did it again, and they said I was stupid), I was out of my usual environs this weekend and caught some local news station talking head shaking her talking head, talking about Comey talking about the President being a liar. They had on air an on-air expert who talked on air about Comey’s accusation and how the President might need to testify to prove he is not a liar. This went on for ten to fifteen minutes and nowhere in the discussion did they ever say what our President had actually lied about.

That’s the way it is today, the accusation is the evidence that proves the accusation, and everyone is forbidden to look too closely. Don’t worry, it makes for less paperwork. That is, unless a union member or their family depends on that paperwork for their sinecure, then it’s cut the tree down and write a thousand pages.

First of all, as far as I can tell, Comey is not a Dictaphone (all right, stop laughing, I know… I’m old), his memos are merely his recollection of a conversation he had with the President.

If anyone thinks that there was no editorializing on his part, and let’s face it, the guy thinks pretty highly of himself, audaciously believing that he is the last honest man in Washington, boldly going where no man has… wait, I’ve drifted too far afield.

No matter, that’s the title of his soon-to-be-released autobiography, by the way. Barry’s ghostwriters are working on it as we speak, and have been for some time.

Bill Ayers may be old (stop laughing, your making me feel unsafe, I need some crayons and some Play-Doh), but he can still type (I know, no one types anymore… sheesh, this is a tough crowd).  

In any case, changing his memories to make him seem more right, more just, more in control, more, more, more, is something half the people I know do on a regular basis (not me of course, I am as honest as the day is long, even if it gets late really early around here).

I’m reminded of Inherit the Wind:

“The Gospel according to Comey! God speaks to Comey, and Comey tells the world! Comey, Comey, Comey, Almighty!” 

If there’s one thing you can say about the man (not me, Comey, pay attention), it is that he is more (although my girl says I am more of a moron than I used to be, but I choose not to remember it that way, I have a memo), he is more… for want of a better descriptive, “more.”

Just as an aside, my girlfriend’s son became engaged on Saturday and she asked me to write the two sentences for the card. When I was done, she changed it, so everyone’s an editor. To think Comey remembers it exactly as it happened is naïve.

His memos surely have editorial changes to correct what actually happened into what should have happened. Truthfully, isn’t the truth the most malleable construct for our leftist brethren? If the facts don’t match the truth, change the facts. Who knows anyway? As long as you wrote it down the way you want it to be, people will accept it simply because your paperwork is better than theirs.

Do you know what I would have done if I was Donald Trump? Once I heard Comey had written memos of our meeting, I would have written memos of that same meeting to say exactly what I wanted to say. Apparently, however, he has more integrity than I do.

What can I say; I am nothing more than an ink-stained scribe, which is something when you consider I haven’t used an actual pen in years.

However, I digress.

I have about as much faith in Comey’s recollections of the facts as I do with anything Hillary Clinton says. To paraphrase Mary McCarthy speaking of Lillian Helmond, I suspect, “Every word [he says] is a lie, including ‘and’ and ‘the’.”

And, what’s with “witting or unwitting,” an exact phrase I’ve never heard before, but both Comey and Brennan have since uttered it.

Collusion or coincidence; were they merely witty or witless? You decide.

So here you have Comey, the new media darling, telling the President on three occasions that he is not under investigation, yet someone in the FBI (Guess who?) is leaking hints of collusion with the Russkies, yet refusing to leak that our President is not under investigation.

I mean really, that seems to be the only secret the government has been able to keep lately -- that Trump was never under investigation.

Obstruction? How do you obstruct an investigation where there has been no crime? Collusion? Trump didn’t give six-figure speeches to the Russians and then approve the sale of a majority stake in our uranium production to a Russian consortium. That was the Hildabeast!

My goodness, I think I’m going to sit in my solarium and listen to Boy George’s “Karma Chameleon” on eight-track tape and watch my Betamax Groundhog Day on my 19” Sony Trinitron.

Either that or I will write something else. You decide.  

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