The News from Gridleyville

Though I don’t think of myself as prone to conspiracy theories, I’ve half-believed one for a number of years. In the wake of the midterm GOP smackdown, it’s time to confess my own weirdness.

My conspiracy theory resembles the They-Must-Have-Something-on-Him idea, though it’s more positive, and it takes account of the Big Rump’s ongoing bromance with his Russian idol, Bad Emir Poo-tin.

It’s clear that Rumpy breaks out in cold sweats (and multiple early-a.m. posts) when he contemplates his likely jail term after departing the White House. Here’s my extrapolation:

If he can’t finagle a way to camp in the Oval Office forever, he has a backup plan. The master dealmaker has schemed with Poo for asylum in Russia. He has always, after all, pined to embrace his beloved Poo in a more personal way. Maybe he’ll zip to Moscow on the same private plane that brought Flavio Bolsonaro to the U.S.

What’s the quid pro quo? In return for the promise of sanctuary, Rumpy has done all he can, within U.S. political constraints, to tilt his madministration toward Russia. Poo, who understands U.S. politics better than any American pundit, tolerates the erratic nature of Rumpy’s efforts as the most he can hope for without actually waking up the American public. So far, so good, from Poo’s point of view. Russian oil flows, at least in spurts, and Ukrainians continue to get splattered in the streets.

Of course, we all know, or should know, that Poo is no more reliable than Rumpy himself, so my scenario plays out this way: When Rumpy avails himself of the planned escape, he’ll be displayed briefly at the Moscow airport for extravagant media coverage, then stripped of whatever secret documents he has stuffed in his underwear and whisked off to a tiny dacha in a Siberian exurb, where he’ll be kept under house arrest and media blackout, no golf course in sight, no chance to build a casino on the Black Sea. Poo certainly wouldn’t leave such a loose, loud and foul mouth free to express itself.

Yet, despite this imprisonment disguised as refuge, the Big Rump’s final years may be pleasant enough. The Russian equivalent of GrubHub will deliver the Novosibirsk version of Big Macs. Poo’s technocrats will set up a fake social media platform where Rumpy will post to his heart’s delight, reaching only North Korean bots that praise him. He’ll think he’s still popular! Best of all, Rumpy will be gifted a gigantic bag of stick-on gold stars, the kind teachers use for splendid students. With these bright little ornaments he’ll create a triumphal arch around the huge picture of Poo on the bedroom wall.

PS: A new story of mine is up at The Bookends Review. It has dogs in it, and you can interpret it, if you choose, to suggest conspiracies.