Days of infamy

Finally flipped the calendar on the wall over to November. Certainly no rush to get to this Friday. The 8th.

Expect there will be third-anniversary toasts in Moscow, Ankara and Riyadh, as well as in boardrooms, trailer parks, Republican cloakrooms, KKK clubhouses and their kin across the USA.

For the rest of us, the past three years have been like watching episodes of The Twilight Zone on acid. 

Not sure we’ll ever recover from November 8, 2016, or survive the madness it unleashed. 

Of course, we’ve been bushwhacked by lunatics before.

 “… December 7th, 1941, a date which will live in infamy …”


Roosevelt was right. Nobody forgot.

I wasn’t born until about five years after the attack on Pearl Harbor, but, even as little kids, we always marked the date.

“What’s today?” Eric Epstein shouted in the schoolyard.

“Dunno,” Stevie Bock shrugged.

“Sneak attack!” Eric screamed – and kicked Stevie in the balls. 

Growing up, I thought a lot about the Second World War. About the Nazis and the Holocaust. About that maniac Tojo and his crazy kamikazes.

I thought about Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Hitler dead in the bunker, the Nuremberg trials. 

About keeping score. 

“Tonight, I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama Bin Laden, the leader of al-Qaeda, and a terrorist who’s responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children.”

– President Obama, May 2011

Payback. Never forget 9/11.

Or the lingering fear – and fear-mongering – that followed.

What was next? Dirty bombs? Nuclear? Chemical? 

Constant chatter about sleeper cells. The enemy within. 

“So, ladies and gentlemen, I am officially running for president of the United States, and we are going to make our country great again.”

– June 16, 2015

One year, four months and 24 days later, the Charlatans of Fifth Avenue took the stage as the next First Family of the United States of America.

His fanatical supporters, rooted in stupidity and ignorance, bound by racism and malice, rejoiced. 

They live in a dream, and we live in a nightmare.

– Philip Roth, The Plot Against America

Trump still had to get through the Electoral College balloting in December.  Maybe enough electors would look themselves in the mirror and say, No way am I giving this wacko the nuclear codes.

But only ten of them didn’t follow the script, one casting  his presidential ballot  for Faith Spotted Eagle of South  Dakota.

 The Electoral College, it turned out, was stacked with dropouts from Trump University.

We were left in limbo until the descent into hell on inauguration day, January 20.

A last hope for sanity was that Chief Justice John Roberts would face Trump on the terrace of the Capitol and proclaim, “There’s no fucking way I’m giving the oath of office to this idiot.”

Instead, the new president spoke of “American carnage.” He failed to mention it was his agenda.

After nearly three years, impeachment is finally in play in the House – because Monica Zelensky was asked to give Trump a blowjob while he held up the Ukrainian’s arms.

Never mind that the American president is Putin’s stooge. That he left the Kurds to die in Syria to please Daddy Vlad.

Or that he is the unchallenged Don of the GOP crime family. Or that he puts babies in cages and inspires racist mass murderers.

I am just a businessman, giving the people what they want.

Al Capone said that. The press ate up his every word. People cheered. 

He left a trail of bodies across Chicago and went to Alcatraz for cheating on his taxes.

No telling what Trump is in for.

“I hope you wind up in Attica, you crypto-Nazi scumsucker – see how you like it taking it up the ass from some crazed three-hundred-pound junkie biker flying on smack.”

I wrote that in my memoir, recalling what I shouted at the TV the night Nixon resigned.

I’ve had more time to consider payback for Trump, compile a wish list.

A good start would be perp-walking his fat ass down Pennsylvania Avenue, the sidewalks lined with people laughing and cheering.

After that?

 How about spending the rest of his life:

  • Pulling a train for Mexican rapists in federal prison.
  • In a cell filled with monitors locked on MSNBC, CNN, North Korean state TV and Stormy Daniels videos. 
  • In a coal mine in West Virginia.
  • Working as a janitor in a morgue in Puerto Rico.
  • As a nurse in an Ebola clinic in Congo.
  • Sharing a small cell with the El Paso shooter.
  • Confined to a one-room apartment in West Baltimore, haunted by holograms of Elijah Cummings, Obama, Maxine Waters, Alexandria Ocasio Cortez, Ilhan Omar, Robert De Niro and a prepubescent Ivanka.

My book,The Expat FilesMy Life in Journalism, is available from and Amazon Canada.