You Never Promised Me a Rose Garden

The White House Rose Garden was established in 1913 by Ellen Louise Axson Wilson the wife of Woodrow Wilson. It was on the site of a previous ‘colonial’ garden established by First Lady Edith Roosevelt, those roses took a lot of tending and a good deal of horse shit. Then a rumour reached me that Melania Trump had pulled up all the historic roses whilst redesigning the plot for the future and her husbands legacy. So vigilant as ever I fact checked the green fingered Melania and her muck spreading and unfortunately it isn’t true.
I so wanted the digging up of history to be true.
I was desperate for Melania’s actions to be wicked.
I was chomping at the bit for Mrs.Trump to be the Alan TITmarsh of Washington DC.
But she ain’t. I was wrong. I am so, so sad that I cannot throw barrows of manure at her, I will, however, not apologise for spreading shit about her, she has an over-inflated sense of herself and it is my duty to draw attention to that.
So I will talk about Melania’s choice of dress that she wore last night at the Republican Convention. She displayed the legs of a model as she sashayed towards the rose garden, the steady-cam capturing every artful footfall. She arrived at the auto-cue looking like a South Korean concubine. A dress, with a belt like a Bandolier, a khaki ensemble that looked like she was about to make a rousing speech or sing a song to the troops. Vera Lynn she ain’t, but as the face of Novo Mesto, her home town, the Slovenian slapper, smiled as her oleagenous husband clapped his small, sweaty hands together whilst the small, sweaty audience applauded and hooted, hollered and whooped, as if this election depended on it. 🙁
Lest we forget Melania Trump is an ex hooker – wait let me fact check this – yup she was a sex worker. I have no issue with women of the night but I do take issue with hypocritical trash mouths who pretend to be something they aren’t. I spent some time living with sex workers in Rotherham. I tried to talk them out of their life style choices, but it became clear that I was a gobby do-gooder and they were independent women who made – not a lot – of money to feed their families.
Mr. and Mrs. Donald Trump are an expression of our times. He’s an obese, wobbly piece of crap and she’s a plastic, gold digging tramp, I have a psychotic reaction to the First Lady selling me holier-than-thou, sanctimonious drivel written by the Jewish fascist –
Stephen Miller, Trumps senior advisor.
Miller’s politics are as far-right as his predecessor the fraudster Bannon. Miller, the audacious speech writer for the presidential couple is penning words that are reeking havoc on a country in the grip of the orange Cock-Womble, the very creature who sees nothing of sending in federal troops to shoot protesters who are demonstrating on behalf of Jacob Blake, George Floyd and fuck knows how many more innocents who have been gunned down, whilst this inept Colonel in Chief deploys yet more federal forces.
I sit late into the night watching the likes of Kimberly Guilfoyle scream at me, harangue me or bully me into keeping America great again as her slash mouth spews our hatred about the left, about socialism. Put aside ‘isms’, put aside party politics, let’s just speak of justice and humanitarian issues. I am terrified that the ignorant son of KKK parents will get a second term. I pray that Biden and Harris have the dream ticket to get most of the country to vote for them.
But it is by no means a done deal. Trump will lie and connive, his team of low lives will do whatever they can to survive. Democracy, deschmockracy, if that team of crooks get back in you can kiss any future we hold dear goodbye.
So I’m doing everything I can to help.
I pray.
I meditate
I visualise
I sign petitions
I remain positive.
I know it’s hard. I have no idea whether there is a God(dess) type energy up there to help us but if there is I’m giving out to him/her to take the fat-fuck down.
Let me make it clear I am not fat shaming I am fat-fuck shaming, an entirely different kettle of blubber.
It’s hard ain’t it? Cos none of us know anything – not even the people who see into the future – even they don’t have a definitive picture of what will play out on November 3rd, and beyond, since Trump is threatening to ignore the outcome, already declaring the election rigged, perhaps he should be accidentally-on-purpose buried underneath all those metal mail boxes he has had removed.
I heard a story of a little girl who, in an art class, was asked by the teacher what she was drawing.
‘God.’ She said.
‘But nobody knows who God looks like.” Said the teacher.
‘They will when I’ve finished this.’ said the little artist.
Hurrah for youthful certainty.

2 thoughts on “You Never Promised Me a Rose Garden”

  1. Thank you sweetheart – have not watched any of the stuff from the GOP convention (using the Rose Garden & a swearing in ceremony at the White House are both unethical in the context of electioneering, but you know, this administration is not exactly a shining example …).
    I am trying to watch the tennis instead – but there is something strangely empty when these gladiators perform without a crowd of spectators. I am not sure why it cannot be made possible …

  2. ……amayzingly powerful Jeni Barnett……..never thought I’d read my hero swear so much…………this must be serious!
    I believe in everything you write……. but how can I, a van driver from Crowborough, help stop this destruction from happening?
    Boy, if she had ripped those ancient roses up…… ah man…….. I’d try and buy a ticket to Washington and spunk my English, minimal wages, on some new roses, family in tow…….. under the cover of night, plant some up, restore some sense of beauty, as the fat fuck slept!
    Like you, thankfully I don’t have to do that, phew……..! Don’t really have the money!
    How do we stop this Mrs Barnett?
    Big love, the Borowski’s

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