Entries tagged with “The Lint Screen”.


Jules is known for his uncanny ability to communicate without words.

Washington is abuzz with the announcement White House press secretary Sean Spicer will be stepping aside and mime “Jules” will be replacing him.

“Sean did a great job,” White House spokesman, Andy Lomack told The Lint Screen. “He will be sorely missed, but we think he can serve better serve this administration by scrubbing the fleet of Presidential vehicles. With Summer heating up, the number of bugs smashed into the windshields and grills of cars and SUVs is absolutely incredible. But we’re sure Sean’s the man to get the vehicles looking like new. Spicey just needs to apply some good old-fashioned elbow grease and American know-how!”

Lomack had little to say about Jules and his background or qualifications. “The President speaks for himself through Twitter, and the role of press secretary is pretty much for show only. Nonetheless, we’re confident Jules will do a great job!”

Jules then came to the podium and pantomimed a man trying to walk into a severe wind. The amused press corp gave polite applause.

Then, Jules pretended to be trapped in a small box. Was this a metaphor for the mime assuming a no-win position as press secretary, or, was it a sly statement on Jared Kushner’s effort to achieve peace in the Mideast?

Finally, the mime pretended to pull a rope. His arms strained visibly as he tugged and tugged. Was this a comment on the United States striving as it goes it alone in world affairs?

The press corps gave the quiet man a standing ovation and cheered.

One thing is certain, White House press conferences will be more informative and entertaining with Jules.

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An early draft of Comey’s Valentine’s Day dinner with Trump shows the ex-top copper has true writing talent.

In a blockbuster exclusive, The Lint Screen has obtained some notes from the first draft of former FBI Director James Comey’s written testimony. It follows

“It was a dark and stormy night. Dark as ink in a windowless closet, wet as a drunk underwater. The President invited me to dinner. He said he wanted to invite my whole family, but he thought there might not be enough ice cream to go around. ‘Screw them,’ he said. ‘Come solo.’

I walked into the Green Room where a small table was set for our satiating needs. Hunger is like a hunger that eats us from within. Delicious irony, how I love thee!

At the table, there were two seats. The lights had been dimmed and four candles illuminated the room warmly. I recalled it was February 14, Valentine’s Day. The President asked me to sit. He winked and pulled my chair out for me.

I sat. He sat. Curious behavior. Obviously, he was mirroring my actions. Why?!!! Immediately, the appetizer was served. Unfortunately, it was not loaded potato skins–– Lordy, how I love me some loaded potato skins, they’re so yummy!

Alas, no skins, it was soup. Soup in a bowl, a bowl round in shape.

The President did not use his eating utensils. He shoveled soup into his mouth with his hand and asked me to pass the bread. I did. I wondered if the butter had been softened. It had not!

Hard butter, a problem.

He asked me if the FBI was investigating Michael Flynn. I said, yes, we are. He said, ‘Flynn is a good guy. Spectacular man. Tremendous talent.’ Then he cupped his soup hand to his mouth and whispered, ‘I hope you can let the investigation go. Look the other way. Take a dive. Forgettaboutit, capiche?’

I said nothing. He said nothing. It was quiet, no talking–– like a mute parrot. The silence enveloped us like a sheet of soft silk over an anvil. It was soft, yet hard.

‘You know,’ he whispered, as he touched my hand with his wet soup-eating hand, ‘I admire you, Jim. I crave your loyalty and I expect it. I need your loyalty, Jimbo. I need it so bad. I’ll give you an extra scoop of ice cream for your undying loyalty.’

I said, Mr. President, I can give you honesty. He said, ‘Honesty’s nice, but loyalty’s nicer.’

I said you will always have my honesty.

‘Screw honesty,’ he bellowed, as his soup fist slammed the table. ‘I’m the boss, and I demand your loyalty!’

I was quiet–– quiet as a church mouse with laryngitis.

I stared at him. He stared at me. We locked eyes for the next 48-minutes. Neither of us blinked. Four eyeballs in a shoving match in which none would yield.

Optic nerves with nerves of steel.

Finally, Mike Pence entered the room. The Vice President was dressed in cowboy pajamas and announced that Hannity was on TV. The President rose and dismissed me. Skeedaddle, he said.

I left. Hungry.

On my ride home, I wondered if the butter had softened. Lordy, how I hate hard butter.”

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Recent OSU grads enthralled as they listen to an exceptionally enriching commencement address.

(The following is Patrick Scullin’s commencement address given to the recent graduates of Ohio State University. Enjoy!)

Hello. It is an honor being here today. As I stand up here looking out on this enormous crowd of fresh faces, I’m curious how many are assembled here. There are so many people!

To call you a “crowd” seems imprecise, and today’s world demands precision for success.

Let me count each of you. Please stand still. Please. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen–– forgive me, but I think this will take all day.

Such an incredibly huge crowd!

Speaking of crowds, I will tell you this–– there are a lot of people in the world. I mean, a WHOLE LOT! People of all sizes, shapes, nationalities, colors, and political and religious beliefs.

I’d hate to count all the people in the world. What about you?

Anyone here major in census-taking? Probably not.

And yet, if you or I were to count all the people in the world, we would begin the same way–– one, two, three, so on and so forth.

That’s kind of funny, right? All counting starts the same way. And rest assured, counting all the many people inhabiting Earth would take a long, long, long time. Even if we asked all those people to count off by themselves.

So many people, so little time. Isn’t that the truth?

Anyway, thanks for coming today. I’ve enjoyed our talk, and I’m sure you’ll all do swell in your lives. And I imagine some of you may reproduce and create even more people.

MORE PEOPLE?! Whew! Who will count them?

Well, I see the Dean is holding a loaded gun in my direction, so I guess I’ll wrap this up.

Thanks, and please remember, there’s a lot of people in the world.

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Some people speculate the new bill was inspired by Melania Trump’s recent brushing away of President Trump’s hand.

Rep. Emmett Russell III of Alabama has proposed a Congressional bill that would force the First Lady to hold hands with her husband.

H.R. 321, “The Palm-to-Palm Act”, would make it a federal law that America’s First Lady must hold the hand of the President “at his discretion.”

“When a man marries a woman,” Rep. Russell told The Lint Screen, “that is a sacred trust that can never be broken because it’s two people vowing to love one another until death do them part. Which means a woman must do her man’s will when he likes, no matter what, no questions asked. It’s God’s law. And the man, well, he has sacred obligations for his sweetie–– like giving her some nice trinkets, sweet-smelling perfumes, fancy underwear, a Whitman’s Sampler of fine chocolates, or what-have-you on special occasions. That’s what love is, doing good for the goose and good for the gander.”

Rep. Russell said he has been married 39-years “to the same wonderful woman who took my seed and bore my offspring. You can call me an incurable romantic, but I firmly believe a woman needs to stand by her man at all times. And that’s especially true of the First Lady. And with my bill, if she don’t, she’ll be serving time.”

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Arkansas actuary was in a huff over his new Chinos.

Brad Palstettler is not usually prone to anger, but he blew a gasket when he looked in the mirror and saw his backside in his new Chinos.

“I don’t have the most athletic body,” the 34-year-old actuary from Pine Bluff, Arkansas told The Lint Screen in an exclusive interview. “But the Chinos I bought at Sears made my butt look huge! I mean, like the backside of a rhino big. Exclamation point.”

Palstettler is a numbers man, so he conducted man-on-the-street interviews by asking people how his butt looked in the Chinos. “I got a few face slaps from women who thought I was being fresh, but, 92% of the people did think my butt looked kind of big. And the 8% who didn’t, well, they weren’t much to look at themselves. So I was 100% sure they weren’t working for me.”

The upset man decided he’d return the Chinos. “Sears is pretty good about returns,” he said. “Long as you have your receipt, it’s usually not a problem. They asked if there was a reason why I was returning them. I said I didn’t like the color. I didn’t need any jazz from the salesperson.”

Mr. Palstettler said he might try shopping Wal-Mart next. “They might have some Chinos that’ll minimize my butt girth. We’ll see. I always say Summertime is chinos-time!”

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The president enjoys fun new game he invented and played with his Russian guests.

President Trump is a gracious host–– he invented a new parlor game when he hosted Russian bigwigs last week.

White House officials confirmed with The Lint Screen the president asked Russian foreign minister, Sergei Lavrov, and the U.S. Russian ambassador, Sergey Kislyak, to “Guess our nuclear code.” He reportedly looked in his wallet, took out his “nuclear code cheat sheet” and copied the code on a notepad. “I’m pressing the pen extra hard because I don’t want to forget it,” he told his borscht-breathed guests.

He tore the sheet off the notepad, folded it and held it to his head. “Go on, guess our nuclear code!” Lavrov and Kislyak smiled as they guessed random numbers and letters. “Nope, wrong!” said a delighted Trump. “Try again!”

The Russians continued guessing as the president chided them. “You’re cold as a Ukranian winter, fellas. Keep guessing!” The game continued for twenty minutes.

Finally, Trump tired of his game. “Sorry, guys, but your guesses are getting a little too close for comfort. To keep our nuclear code secret–– because it is secret, very very secret–– fantastically secret nuclear code, I am going to toss this piece of paper in the trash.”

With that, Trump crumpled the sheet into a ball and shot it toward his trash can. “Nothing but net,” he said, pleased he’d made the shot. His Russian guests applauded his incredible basketball skills.

There were another two minutes of breezy conversation, mostly about what a great job the president is doing and the enormity of his inauguration crowds and the Russians left the oval office.

The president then commanded his secretary to bring him a new notepad. “And hurry Becky–– I had a pad on my desk a minute ago. I need to make notes. I’m the president, you know.”

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