It was one of those truly glorious Palm Beach weekends!
Billionaires and political leaders and billionaire political leaders gathered to plot the course of America’s nationalist revival. Golf courses were freshly trimmed, champagne towers were readied. The illegal Guatemalans who landscape every inch of this paradise clenched their leaf blowers as caravans of Escalades stormed past.
It was a sight that would surely bring a tear to your eyes, my blue collar, red-blooded American readers!
Yet for one infamous lady, a gal who once laid claim to a fortune in foreign plutonium funds, this fantasy of frolicking with the finer folk was beyond her feeble fingers.
Yes, spotted at the marbled entry of Donald J. Trump’s world-famous Mar-a-Lago Club was none other than Hillary Rodham Clinton!
Or, as her fake driver’s license identified her as, “Saulindra Alinsky.”
Ms. “Alinsky” donned a decidedly out-of-fashion pink mink stole, cranked around her neck with all the ambition of someone who is just too tightly wound to be part of the inner circle. A miniature black purse dangled by her side, its silver spikes adding a dash of BDSM to this ridiculous presentation. No, the splatter of rouge didn’t soften those streetwalker’s cheekbones. No, the scuffed Versace sunglasses could not hide those weary eyes. No, the peach pantsuit did not cut a fine figure among the supermodels who, much like Melania, had signed pre-nups with men twice their age so they might live ensconced in Bentleys and Balenciaga. Sex twice a month, it’s in the contract!
My spies tell me that old “Saulindra,” a.k.a. Bill Clinton’s not better half, looked nervous as she shuffled up to the doorman, stinking of plum brandy and outright desperation.
Just beyond that ornate iron gate, crystal chandeliers twinkled above a crowd blessed by good fortune, enormously good fortunes wrung from the sweat of this nation’s working men and women over several generations. Titans in their best Brooks Brothers beside strong-shouldered blondes who could have been plucked from vintage Frauenschaft posters. Industrialists and sports team owners, Wall Street wizards and media moguls. They talked of money and power and using money to get more power and power to get more money. So many self-satisfied white faces!
Steven Mnuchin sat on a Louis XVI chaise expounding on the deliciousness of the Gulfstream G650. Stephen Miller hovered over the shrimp platter, a frisky drool of cocktail sauce dripping down his bony chin. Fresh from the toilet, Sarah Huckabee Sanders strong-armed Sean Hannity for a dance. Don Jr. checked his teeth in the brass nametag of a delicate young waitress whose H2B visa he held deep in his back pocket. Ivanka used Jared’s Hermes kerchief to mop up her bosom sweat. She had been promised a little of the President’s “executive time” after the soiree and she was excited!
And deeper within, the Donald himself sat, hunched over Chef Barberet’s internationally famous chocolate cake. Maybe you could hear the nasally roar of the President’s impatient voice, repeating a story he had just told only minutes before!
The hedge fund managers laughed anyway!
For Hillary… excuse me, I mean “Ms. Saulindra Alinsky,” she was so close to that Garden of Political Delights.
Lord knows she’d do anything to get back in the game, to socialize our medicine and hand our sovereignty over to the globalists. She was so close that November night, too! What did those damned family values voters know anyhow? They cherished patriotism and the military and Jesus and coal mining jobs, just like their beloved hero Donald. J. Trump! No, better not think about all that right now, Hillary!
But she did think! Her mind was certainly somewhere else when the Secret Service man asked her to confirm the absurdly optimistic birthdate of 1972 on her fake ID!
And just as she did in Wisconsin in 2016, Hillary fumbled.
Our interloper was quickly shown to the curb, trashed like a child health care subsidy in a Republican Congress! Forgotten like an opioid crisis in a stock market rally! Lost like an infrastructure plan in a libertarian tax cutting frenzy! Exiled like a veteran with PSTD in today’s at-will job market! Crushed like 40-year old behind on his student loan payments! Cast aside like common sense in an Ambien-fueled 6am Tweetstorm!
In a word, my blue collar, red-blooded American readers, she was defeated!
Later, according to my lowly-placed sources, Hillary was spotted in the parking lot of the Taco Bell on Belvedere Road, stuffing a Beefy Nacho Griller down her craw as pigeons hungrily eyed the damp strings of cheese dripping down her peach blouse.
And back at Mar-a-Lago, the President stiffened as he entered Ivanka’s plush sleeping chamber, muttering to himself, “Not today, Hillary, not today!”
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