It was the jazz side of midnight. I was working the business end of a bottle of Bunions Bourbon when a dame cast a shadow as curvaceous as a Le Mans track my doorway.

“Are you Mr. Schmildlap?” she interrogated.

“What’s it to you?” I snapped.

She stepped forward and purred, “Kiss me. Now.”

I looked her up and down. She was a tall one, a thick mane of auburn hair framed a face angels would kill for. She had lips as lush as maraschino cherries puckering to kiss the sun, skin like porcelain (and probably easier to clean), and legs that went all the way to the floor capped with petite pups housed in a red stilettos that could double for murder weapons in the right hands.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t play hanky or panky until I know what I’m getting into.”

“Too bad,” she said, striding across the room. “I thought you could handle it.” She reared back her wing to give me a roundhouse open fist when I stopped her midair.

“Play nice, kitten,” I said. “Or I won’t put out a saucer of milk.”

She recoiled and tried her best to strike a gallant pose, then she began shaking like a bowl of Jell-O in an earthquake and put on a water show.

“Oh, Mr. Schmildlap, I need your help desperately,” she warbled. “I’m at my wit’s end.”

“Then you better start yapping, or I’ll call a plumber to shut down your water works. This suit ain’t wash ‘n wear, doll face.”

She sat in the chair as I went behind my desk, popped my Florsheims on the desk, and torched a Pall Mall.

“It’s President Trump,” she blurted. “Do you know him?”

“Trump?” I ran the name through my memory bank, and it came back like a bad penny. “What’s his beef?”

“The presidential election,” she said. “It was stolen from him.”

“Stolen?”

“Yes. That mean socialist Joe Biden cheated President Trump out of his re-election,” she dabbed her baby blues with tissues, sopping tears like a thirsty sponge. “The president wants you to find the missing 11,780 votes for him so he can win the state of Georgia and stay in the White House.”

“Missing votes?” I asked, pushing my fedora back on my brain cage. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Trump says 11,780 of his votes are missing. He needs them. Senators Josh Hawley, Ron Johnson, Ted Cruz, and other congressional GOP patriots also think a crime’s been committed. Oh, Mr. Schmidlap, won’t you help us save democracy from a tyrant like the notorious radical Joe Biden? He wants to destroy America. Only Donald Trump can save it!”

“Lemme get this straight, dish. You say there’s a mystery…”

“Yes.”

“11,780 missing Trump votes…”

“That’s right. They were shredded, or the Dominion voting machines were rigged to make Trump votes say Biden, or dead people voted, or the dog ate the ballots, or aliens from Mars landed and––”

“Okay, okay, I catch the drift.” I snubbed the cigarette out on my face and blew a plume of smoke. “There’s no mystery here, doll,” I said planting my feet on the floor and standing. “There are no missing 11,780 votes.”

“But there are!”

“Nope. And there never were.”

What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you seen the news? There have been three election counts and recounts in Georgia. Everything adds up. It’s all jake. Trump’s toast. The big galoot lost fair and square. Joltin’ Joe took him down.”

“But what about the 11,780 votes?” she gasped. “Where did they go?”

“It’s bullshit. Trump lied. Made up the entire cockamamie story. He’s a complete bullshitter. Avoids the truth like it’s playing tag. Trump’s a pathological liar, babe. Mystery solved. Case closed.”

“But Mr. Schmildlap, he said he was cheated, and the deep state is out to get him, and the liberal elite media hates him, and dry cleaners have a plot against him by not removing his stubborn gravy stains, and…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I comforted the dish as I walked her to the door and gave her the air. “Cry me a river, sister. And tell Trump he better get packing. He’s getting evicted January 20th and then it’s not long until he take up residency in the crossbar motel.”

The dame ran down the stairs angry as a hen that’s been refused a small business loan with an impeccable FICO score. I returned to my Bunion’s bottle and maybe the elusive search to discover what the insides of my eyelids looked like.

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Enjoy PD Scullin’s debut novel “SAWDUST: Love is wilder than a circus,” a humorous romp across America with a circus in the early ’80s. You’re a click away from a helluva fun ride. Buckle up and go.

Sen. Mitch McConnell was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

“I came out of the womb,” he says with a chuckle, “grabbed a pillow and suffocated my mother in the hospital bed. I didn’t want to be dependent on her or anyone, and I’ve lived that way ever since.”

This scrappy bag of bones is one tough hombre and thinks Americans have gotten too soft.

“Everyone’s pestering me for $2,000 checks,” Mitch tells The Lint Screen as he swills a Waterford crystal glass filled with infant blood. “That’s preposterous. $2,000 for what? So you can buy some food and feed your children? Pay rent and utility bills? Pay for medical care to stay alive? Get real people. Toughen up, Americans. Go out and get a couple more jobs. Or, ask one of your political action committees to slip you some cash under the table. Of course, you can always get a hefty envelope from a lobbyist. It’s not that hard, people. Use your noodles!”

McConnell is a self-made man.

“I married my first wife for love,” the turd confesses, as he chortles. “What a sap. But I made up for that mistake with my second wife. Elaine Chao is loaded.” McConnell plays with his floppy neck flesh. “Elaine’s old man is a big shot New York shipping guy who’s really tight with the Chinese government. I love China, and they know I would do anything to help them. When I married Elaine, bada bing–– my wealth increased tenfold overnight. Can you believe that? Don’t tell me America isn’t the land of opportunity.”

The Senate majority leader is not completely heartless.

“I make sure my Kentucky constituents get their payola,” McConnell says. “In Kentucky, my people get $2.15 in federal money for every dollar of taxes we pay. That’s over a 100% return on investment. Not too shabby. My people are on the dole big time. That’s why I call Kentucky The Great Welfare State. We look out for our own in these parts.”

McConnell thinks the other 49 states are the problem with America.

“We have way too many goddamn many freeloaders,” the elderly grinch says. “It’s high time folks pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, straighten up and fly right, and make something of themselves. You can’t bellyache because we have a pandemic raging. What do you expect? We have a weak, inept leader and soul-crushingly corrupt and hypocritical GOP legislators. Get tough! You can’t expect the government to help you. We’re dedicated to destroying the government.”

McConnell is brought a box of puppies and kittens and smiles.

“I have to excuse myself now,” he says, taking the box of adorable pets. “I’m, uh, going to train these cute little critters,” McConnell says with his sly smile. “And I am not going to eat them. Honest.”

———————————————————————————————-

Enjoy PD Scullin’s debut novel “SAWDUST: Love is wilder than a circus,” a humorous romp across America with a circus in the early ’80s. You’re a click away from a helluva fun ride. Buckle up and go.

It’s no secret obsequious GOP politicians clamor for the attention of President Donald J. Trump, and Missouri Senator Josh Hawley may have jumped to the head of the line.

Hawley announced today he would object when Congress counts the Electoral College votes next week, forcing lawmakers in the House and Senate to vote on whether they accept the results of president-elect Joe Biden’s crushing victory.

“I think the election was rigged,” Hawley told The Lint Screen. “It had to be rigged. That’s the only way President Trump could possible lose. Case closed.”

Hawley gives a proud smile and continues.

“By taking this brave stand, I am showing President Trump my blind loyalty, total obedience, and willingness to kiss his ass like Dracula on a plump neck. I hope this patriotic act will curry favor with him and he’ll adopt me. I would make an excellent Trump child, certainly a lot better than Eric.“

Sen. Ted Cruz is upset at Hawley.

“No one kisses President Trump’s ass better than this cowboy,” the douchebag Cruz crowed. “I let Trump accuse my daddy of being involved with JFK’s death, and call my wife ugly, then, guess what? I still puckered up for smooching his sitting pillows. And brother, did I kiss ’em good! I am a spineless nothing of a man, and Trump likes that.”

Sen. Lindsey Graham dismisses both his fellow senators as braggarts.

“Those boys are johnny come latelies,” Graham says, applying a coat of Charlotte Tilbury Matte Revolution Liberty Love lipstick. “If you examine the big man’s behind, you’ll see ol’ Lindsey has laid claim to that turf. And Trump has the lip prints to prove it. Hell, I disavowed my long friendship with John McCain in a nanosecond so that I could kiss Trump’s fat ass. I’m as soulless and craven as they come.”

Jim Jordan, Matt Gaetz, Mike Pence, and Mark Meadows march down the hall, wanting to dispute their GOP compatriots’ claims. Each cowardly stooge is anxious to be named Trump’s #1 Ass Kisser and confess they say The Pledge Allegiance to Trump hourly.

They will engage in an epic kiss-a-palooza to prove their mettle and worthiness.

Gentlemen, start your lips, America wants to see how low you can go!

———————————————————————————————-

Enjoy PD Scullin’s debut novel “SAWDUST: Love is wilder than a circus,” a humorous romp across America with a circus in the early ’80s. You’re a click away from a helluva fun ride. Buckle up and go.

Although President Trump denies he lost the election, Joe Biden may soon be evicting him from The White House. But Donald J Trump is going to use his powers in the death rattle of his presidency.

Today, his ravishing daughter Ivanka Trump and her slip of a husband Jared Kushner announced they are opening a new enterprise for the president: a pop-up store called The Trump Pardons Shoppe.

“We are going to correct the grave injustices the unfair legal system has inflicted on good people,” Ivanka told The Lint Screen.

“It’s like a superstore for freedom,” Jared adds. “For a price.”

Ivanka explained the business plan of the latest Trump enterprise.

“President Trump will offer complete pardons to people,” she said. “It’s like a fairy godmother granting your wish. Shazam! Daddy can make it happen! Your rap sheet will go away, and johnny law won’t be able to touch you for those alleged crimes.”

“These include pesky things like murder,” Jared said, taking a deep breath. “And other crimes like antitrust violations, bankruptcy fraud, bribery, computer and internet fraud, counterfeiting, credit card fraud, economic espionage, trade secret theft, and…” Kushner collapses to the ground, hyperventilating.

Ivanka looks on in disgust and continues the list.

“Also embezzlement, environmental law violations, financial institution fraud, government fraud, healthcare fraud, insider trading, insurance fraud, intellectual property theft and piracy, kickbacks, mail fraud, money laundering, securities fraud, tax evasion, phone and telemarketing fraud, and public corruption… just to name a few.”

The president bursts into the room.

“Did you tell him about the grift?” Donald J. Trump asks.

“Not ‘grift’, Daddy,” Ivanka says, blushing. “Personal services offered.”

“Yeah, whatever,” the president says, pacing. “If someone’s in legal trouble, I’m their get out of jail free card. But it ain’t free! Nothing’s free.”

Trump almost trips on his collapsed son-in-law.

“Get this idiot out of here,” the president commands. “He drooled on the damn carpet, for Chrissakes.”

Mark Meadows scurries into the office, flings Kushner’s collapsed body over his shoulder, and scampers for the exit.

Asked what price is commanded for a full presidential pardon, Trump smiles.

“That depends,” he says. “Depends on the person’s loyalty, campaign contributions, obedience, and how much I think the hall pass is worth. If you’ve done a crime, I can disappear the time. Just call Ivanka, and she’ll arrange a meet. Then, we can start negotiations to make a deal.”

“And no matter what the cost,” Ivanka says, “it’s worth it. Only one man can give you freedom no matter what your crime.”

“Who can put a price on freedom?” Trump asks. “This guy can,” he answers, pointing his thumbs at himself.

———————————————————————————————-

Enjoy PD Scullin’s debut novel “SAWDUST: Love is wilder than a circus,” a humorous romp across America with a circus in the early ’80s. You’re a click away from a helluva fun ride. Buckle up and go.

They are perhaps the most misunderstood people in the world, this ragtag confederacy of macho men who call themselves The Proud Boys. But these rugged fellas are not what they seem.

Many people think they are shady ruffians looking for a fight— low intelligence yahoos who would adopt as their daddy figure a despot wannabe like Donald J. Trump.

But that’s only one side of their story.

When one sits down with a Proud Boy over a chilled glass of a crisp Napa Valley Sauvignon Blanc, Stonewall Kitchen Sea Salt Crackers, and artisanal Havarti cheese, you’ll find a tender heart beneath his raging tatted brawn.

We spoke with some Proud Boys recently in The Lint Screen offices. The aroma of our Christmas potpourri filled the air as the gang sunk in their bean bag chairs.

“Lots of people look at us, but they don’t really see us,” says Burt “The Hammerhead” Clousin. “They think we’re only about violence, racism, anarchy, and smashing faces of libs. But we’re so much more.”

“We’re just guys who are kind of shy,” adds Jerry “Lip Splitter” McEnery. “We want to come out of our shells, open our hearts, and have meaningful conversations deep into the night.”

“I like all that corny romantic stuff,” confesses Rex “Locked & Loaded” Thompkins, with a chortle. “I dream of cuddling with a special someone, watching a rom-com, and sharing our feelings afterward.”

“I’m a bubble bath addict,” Hank “Silky Smooth Skin” Gurly says, with a hearty chuckle. “I don’t think that makes me any less of a man. I moisturize like anyone else. Anyone who says that does make me less of a man, I’ll shoot ’em in their damn chest and stomp their skull.”

The Proud Boys are upset President Trump was cheated out of his re-election bid.

“We ain’t standing for it,” says Danny “Full Clip” Hooligan. “We’ll fight to the death to keep the big man in office.”

“He makes me feel really safe,” Bobby “The Glock” Sammings says, as he curls into a fetal pose and sucks his thumb. “We’re happy to die for him if we have to.”

“Dunno why politics gotta be so ugly,” The Hammerhead says, shaking his head. “Why can’t Biden just concede and believe Trump. We do. Why would a guy like the president of the freakin’ United States lie? He won all 50 states, fair and square, just like he says.”

The Proud Boys pour themselves more glasses of wine. They nibble from the tray of white seedless grapes and fresh strawberries. They enjoy the hummus. Their table manners are beyond reproach.

“We just want walks on the beach,” says Jerry “Bloody Fists” Mulligoon. “And some intimate conversations. Then, maybe enjoy some chill time with a good Robyn Carr novel. After that, we can grab a bike chain, crowbar, and Louisville Slugger and beat the living hell outta some liberal socialists.”

“We ain’t hard to understand,” Full Clip says. “Not once you get to know us.“

The men finish their wines, fruits, hummus, and cheese. They press their tee-shirts, so they are crisp, spritz cologne, and head out the door.

“We’re late for our Mensa meeting,” Bloody Fists says. “And that’s never smart. Those eggheads will lay a righteous beatin’ on ya, but good.”

———————————————————————————————-

Enjoy PD Scullin’s debut novel “SAWDUST: Love is wilder than a circus,” a humorous romp across America with a circus in the early ’80s. You’re a click away from a helluva fun ride. Buckle up and go.

Stephen Miller slithers into The Lint Screen offices. As his forked tongue pokes the air exploring its environment, the nervous little man springs to his feet and begins a diatribe.

“We face a constitutional crisis,” he blurts. “This farcical election must be overturned. We cannot allow a dangerous wild-eyed socialist like Joe Biden and his army of angry Antifa radicals to ruin America.”

Miller’s beady eyes dart about the room. He gulps air and continues his rapid patter with manic hand gestures.

“The alleged electoral college met and allegedly gave Joe Biden the presidency, but that’s not going to happen. As we speak, a secret alternate electoral college is meeting in dark caves across our nation. These druids of democracy are representing the true will of the people in granting President Donald J. Trump his election victory, thus ensuring he can continue a second term and his holy mission of making America great again. It is God’s will for The Chosen One!“

A mouse scampers across our newsroom floor (we really should get pest control in here someday). Miller springs into action. His tongue darts out wraps itself around the frightened mouse, and snaps it back into his expectant mouth. His jaws mash down as a lump transverses his taut-skinned throat.

“Delicious,” he says. “I love rodents.” He burps and blathers on.

“Biden claims to have received over 81 million votes. They are all fake votes! We know it’s a lie. Hugo Chavez designed Dominion voting machines designed to cheat the will of free people and usher in a socialistic hellhole. Our alternate electors are fighting this travesty of justice. They will deliver our glorious leader back into the White House, where he can continue his excellent job with the pandemic and have true GOP patriots standing by his side. We must prevail over evil RINOs like Brian Kemp trying to destroy our greatest American leader.“

Miller is asked if he considers 300,000 Americans dying from COVID-19 a success.

“There is absolutely no pandemic,” he retorts. “It’s like the president said at the beginning of this charade–– it’s a hoax. The lamestream media made it up in a failed effort to make Trump look bad. They want Americans to wear masks as a sign of solidarity to being sheep. And even if there was a pandemic, the president’s decisive leadership saved tens of millions of lives. Of course, the liberal press won’t report those alternative facts.”

Miller’s tongue snaps out and grabs a spider crawling up the wall. He chews it, savoring the rich spidery flavor.

“Bill Barr is a very bad man,” he says. “Barr should have seen to it the election was overturned. He should have put Biden and Hunter in jail. Trump won, fair and square!”

The little man slumps to the floor and slithers his way to the exit.

———————————————————————————————-

Enjoy PD Scullin’s debut novel “SAWDUST: Love is wilder than a circus,” a humorous romp across America with a circus in the early ’80s. You’re a click away from a helluva fun ride. Buckle up and go.