Tag Archives: Donald Trump

Exercise Cooperation Among Friends

Cooperation among friendsCooperation Among Friends & Enemies

Cooperation – a word often misunderstood in today’s day. So many people think cooperation is where two parties, be they friends or adversaries, find a method to achieve a desired outcome so that both parties don’t feel entirely ripped off. Basically, it’s how to get something without losing too much face.

But that is the incorrect interpretation of the term cooperation. If you look at the word construct, you can see it consists of two parts:

Coop and Ration – the ‘e’ is just in there because the language police liked how it sounded at parties, and it was also a way for the global cabal of  printers to goose their ‘per-letter’ profit margins when they printed all those dictionaries that no one uses anymore. Why do you think the words laugh, thought, philosophy, colleague, wrought and knock have all those extra letters?You’re telling me laf, thawt, filosofee, coleeg, rot and nok wouldn’t suffice?? It’s a scam, I tells ya.

But I digress.

Can’t Fly the Coop

Taking a deeper look at so called cooperation, we can dissect the part of it that involves a coop. A coop is where whickens or rabbits or ducks are kept, fed and treated like machines in man-made structures until we need them for a meal. Human life is not too far off from the life of chickens, what with all our time spent cooped up looking at screens, watching Game of Thrones, or surfing to buy something on Amazon you just have to have, stopping only for a snack or bathroom break. Oh, we are all cooped up all right.

The only major difference is that we mostly feed and bathe ourselves, whereas the chickens are fed. Then again, with Uber Eats, we are becoming more like chickens, just with credit cards. (Good thing we don’t lay eggs. What a mess that would be.)

Furthermore, the more time we spend in our respective coops staring at the proverbial heating lamp known as a screen, the easier it is for whoever owns our data (it’s not you, trust me) to snoop on us and then let us know what we should buy, read, eat, object to, and be visibly offended by.


Now that we are wilfully cooped up, we can look at the rations we have left to survive on.  Let’s call them K-rations, for knowledge rations. First of all, it prints well on a baseball cap or a t-shirt, and secondly, I am not that smart or creative to come up with something better on the spur of the moment. I write these rants extemporaneously, and sadly without the aid of a trusty, gooey, sticky chocolate danish to fuel the fires of creativity and early onset diabetes.

As we all know, knowledge is generally rationed out by a) income and b) education. The more you have of a, the more you can get of b, and then become rich and have a coop somewhere in the Bahamas or Switzerland with servants who don’t have much of either a or b.

So with knowledge being rationed and most of us being cooped up somewhere, then it’s easy to see how cooperation functions. Just stay where you are, eat some feed, and wait to be told what to do by either your phone, spouse, secret government snooping agency, or your stomach/bladder/bowels. My recommendation: listen to your stomach/bladder/bowels before you listen to your phone. Unless the government has your tax returns and asks you to come for a polite chat.

Just cooperate. Unless they try to take away your danish. Then rebellion shall ensue.

Affectedly effective,
Santiago Schopenhauer Druker

What's your favorite type of cooperation?

Harass Or Be Harassed

Stanko & Tibor - Harass

A Climate of Harassment

So, everyone is getting fired on the male side, politicians, actors, journalists – sadly not any American Presidents, oh the irony  –  and the end is not in sight.  Many men, particularly those with hair, are getting called out for obvious and long-term bad behavior. Harassment galore.  Everyone knows it’s here, it’s not a secret. The cat’s out of the bag. The other shoe has dropped. The chickens have come home to roost. The butcher got his finger in the pickle slicer. No, wait. That last one is from a dirty joke my uncle likes to tell. Skip that.  It all kind of reminds me of the inexorable march of global warming.

You see, sexual harassment and global warming are very much linked in ways you can’t begin to imagine. Only I can, really, especially since the sugar high has just kicked in. Global warming, just like sexual harassment, has many causes, many deniers, and many people saying it’s not their fault. So we are left with the question: How do we slow it down? Or stop it? Or if you’re the racist hypocrite Roy Moore or Donald Trump, or you’re in the fossil fuel business, how do you give less of a shit about it?

Let me answer the global warming angle first because it’s way easier. Sources of rising global temperatures are rife. Anything from too many gas emissions from cattle and sheep grazing in fields in order to satisfy our desire for meat, to coal-fired power plants in China, to gas-guzzling SUVs, to ever increasing consumerism driving up the number of shipments delivered by the UPS/DHL/FedEx folks of the world.

Some say the pace of global warming has even been accelerated by children – by far the least innocent people on the planet – with their devotion to devices with screens that need to be powered with electricity from questionable sources AND the raw crude needed to make the plastic to encase and ship these devices. It’s always the children’s fault. However, another source of heat emissions is staring us in the face every day, and yet we ignore it: It’s bald-headed men.

Regardless of culture or religion or geography, or even shoe size, there are bald men everywhere. The scientific reason why they emit so much heat – and the solution thereto – are patently obvious. Let’s look at the background, shall we? I was informed as a kid that we lose 30% of our body heat from our heads. I had to wear a hat in winter on top of my then existing hair to stay warm. I was responsible for keeping in the heat, and I did, thus sparing the planet somewhat. Therein lies a key answer to slow global warming.

Back in the follicle-rich days, when I’d work out, or dance or chase after something shiny or with breasts, I’d sweat into my hair that would then be trapped in the follicle grease, and drip down the back of my neck and sully my collar. The heat was redistributed from head to neck to clothing, never to be released into the atmosphere.

But as age set in, life began to hurl many indignities upon me, such as heartburn, stress, children, and other worries. As a result, my hair thinned, my pate was exposed for anyone taller than 5 feet and 5 inches (165cm  to you metric types) to see. Since then it has been heat escape on a grand scale. (Note: much hot air used to come overwhelmingly from farts. Still does, but now we have to deal with hot air from the head, too.)

The Solution

Fret not because there is a solution: Solar-powered, air-conditioned toupees. With built-in smart phones. Brilliant, no? You’re probably wondering how I got from global warming to toupees. The answer is simple: my mother cooked with lead pots, poor genetics, mixed medications and a strong propensity for foods with made with industrial sugar. Mix them all together and voilà! But I digress.

Toupees are the answer no one saw coming. In addition to trapping the cranial heat once affixed to a person’s head, and thereby  eliminating a source of global warming, with some keen engineering, we could actually make these super toupees absorb the sun’s heat to then power mini-air conditioners to cool overheated male scalps across the globe. Tack on a smartphone or a similar device with a screen and you’d keep men distracted AND comfortable year round. With a screen in front of them, men wouldn’t have time to play with themselves either. Win-win.

Now some of you in jail are naturally discussing among yourselves ‘Why not just wear wooden caps, pith helmets or baseball hats to cover our masculine heat-emitting heads?’ Because you’d look like a dork if you were wearing a baseball hat at formal occasions, such as weddings, funerals and annual prostate exams. Same goes for pith helmets, although they do possess a level of practicality during the aforementioned prostate exams – you can grab on to the edges of the hat for dear life while the doctor uses his index digit to probe your posterior.

All I ask of you dear reader, is to think about for just a bit, and then send me money to investigate the manufacturing, marketing and distribution of these environmental life-savers. You know, like $50 a person would be a good start.

Wishfully waiting for wampum,
Jose Jimenez Druker

Go Into the Weeds! Rid Us of the Ants!

Into the Weeds with Stanko & Tibor

Emerging Insurgents in the Weeds

Having returned home from work, I passed the tiny, patchy patch of grass and other weeds that co-habitate in front of my place of residence like filthy hippies after a bong hit. Laying about, intertwined and generally useless.  And what was circulating among those invasive weeds? Even filthier six-legged insurgents keen on crawling into my house to search for food that I, or more likely, my filth-generating children, undoubtedly left behind in various nooks and crannies. Ants. Big, small, black, dark brown, far too numerous to count and some were so large they even made a squishy noise when I crushed them.

No matter what I try to keep the garden free of ants, those semi-sentient drones keep coming back and always find ways into our house to eat the scraps of food we have dropped all over the kitchen since we foolishly agreed to host for my many greedy,  usurpatious relatives. That I love, of course.

Dumb But Multitudinous

I cannot understand how, over the eons and millennia of evolution,  that neither the ants nor the weeds have gotten any smarter. You crush them, rip them out, spray them, poison them, curse them while shaking your fist — they don’t learn their lesson. Actually, it’s probably a good thing that the ants haven’t really become any smarter because I think they would have found a way to take their revenge on me for having smooshed so many of their kind over my life. I could well imagine some A-student and Mensa society ants huddling together in a hive, with ant-sized smart boards, notebooks and a PowerPoint presentation having devised a plan to drop a bowling ball on my head. But I digress.

Weeds, conversely, I haven’t killed enough of. You rip them out by the roots, you spray them with illudium phosdex or gasoline, you curse them with a shaman’s fervour, and still, they don’t listen. They come back every week in spring and summer, every year. You’d think one of them would have spread the word to the others by now, but no. Stubborn and relentless.

POTUS Fabric

Neither ants nor weeds are wanted. Anywhere by anyone. They are invaders and despoil beauty. Just like the current POTUS, yet they (and he) still persist, in every garden, every city, every country, continent and country.

Yet accept them we must. We have no choice as they are part of the fabric of life. As we all know the fabric of life isn’t smooth cashmere with a satin liner and Merino wool. It’s more like an itchy, discount wool blend with a polyester weave, surrounded by a lovely layer of wet burlap. Furthermore, this fabric has not been well tailored, there are loose ends, it’s a hideous pastel color, probably mauve and green, and is ill-fitting and creates tremendous lint balls.

But it’s all the fabric we have, so bad parts are there as well as good parts.  Like ants and weeds, we can’t only have the good parts, we have to accept the bad.

Conversely, the ants and weeds that support the current leader of the free world and a bunch of hotels is something everyone has to learn to live with. There is no presidential pest removal service. Well there is, but you have to wait four years to replace him legally or find incriminating photos of him with a Russian prostitute.

Relentless Patience

To remove weeds and ants, one must have patience, perseverance, a large sum of money, a diet high in fibre and chocolate danish, and the ability to take defeat gracefully and with dignity. But stomping and cursing, foaming at the mouth and unspecified acts rage confined to your bathroom only are also helpful in dealing with this intractable problem.

So be sure to accept the situation, do not fly off the handle, unless you know you can win, deal with the unpleasantness as best as you can, and please, for me, destroy some weeds and ants.

Chronically imbalanced and low on sugar,

Facundo Thiago Salvador da Costa Gonclaves Schmidt

Mr. President, Meet Mr. Crazy

Stank & Tibor - Mr. President

Dateline: May on a nice evening. Some place where the warden can't get me.

President Secret Agent

I would make a terrible secret agent, let a lone a president of a country. Let me explain. I spend too much time online and using social media, so I am easily traced, not a good spy quality to have. Furthermore, I hate sea food. It hates me too. If you’ve ever seen a spy thriller, there is often something happening down at the docks where it smells like fish — disgusting. I’d gag and complain. Or it takes place at some sunny seaside resort where the macho protagonist is eating a shrimp cocktail. The excludes me as my gout would explode after a few bites. How many secret agents do you know have to take anti-gout medication? Probably none.

I can’t imagine me doing one of those Mission Impossible slide-down-the-heat-pressure-sensitive-chamber on a wireline. I’d get dizzy and vomit, thus setting off the anti-vomit alarms, the dogs would come running, and I’m scared of them as it is, and I would be shot on site.

Worse, if I were merely threatened with torture, I’d spill the beans without hesitation, provide diagrams, videos and the credit card numbers of the other agents. I’d even drive the enemy to their houses if it meant avoiding a car battery to the testicular area.

To top it off, I have allergies galore. If I were a secret agent and I had to put up with one of the Bond villains petting his puffy, hairy cat, I’d either be wheezing and sneezing my head off or worse, I’d be all dopey from the antihistamines I’d have to pump into my blood stream to negate that evil cat. They’d catch me in a second.

So I decided not to pursue that career knowing I don’t have the “right stuff” to become a secret agent.

Not the Right Stuff

Along the same line of thought, I think Donnie Trump really doesn’t have the right stuff to become president. And not because he’s a colossal jerk-bully-ego maniac. I’d argue those qualities are highly useful for being the leader of the 32nd most indebted nation on earth. It takes some ego and bravado and general jerkiness to tell other nations what they are doing wrong while yours steadily increases its purchase of weapons after each mass school shooting where defenceless children are involved.

Also certainly not because he’s a womanizer, because there has barely been a two-term president in the past 100 years who wasn’t. Roosevelt, Kennedy, Clinton (all free-loving Democrats, I might add), and I am sure I am missing some of the older ones. Seems to be a must-have on the curriculum vitae. But I digress.

No, it’s most likely that Donnie the Dingdong Trump doesn’t have all his cookies baked, metaphorically speaking. Either too much hair dye has seeped into his brain or a recessive gene kicked in a while ago.

He is an effective sociopath, heaping blame on others when he screws up (Trump Steaks anyone?). He says whatever comes to his mind. Which is usually is a sign of advanced craziness. (See: North Korean leaders for reference) That “quality” might be fun on a TV reality show or at a dinner party where there is free shrimp and booze, but not so much in delicate political situations.

Chinese Food

Somehow I think if he does become, dare I say, the President of the US of A, I can foresee some bad feces happening. Like at a State dinner with the Chinese prime minister. I’ll bet you he’d lean over to the Prime Minister’s wife and say something like “How come all you Asian women have small breasts?” Or something like “I nailed an Asian broad once – I was not impressed. I thought you guys invited the Kama Sutra.”

No doubt come dessert time, he’d make a crack about fortune cookies and pull the corners of his eyes to make them more “Asian” shall we say. Then we’d have a real shot at World War III. Heaven only knows what he’d say if he were visiting Russia.

Half a Brain

How can a man who clearly lacks mental stability, a social filter, and a has a greater sense of self-worth than his own misrepresented wealth be able to handle the responsibilities of the President of the USA?

It must be because of his mastery of the unispheric brain. Simply, it means one half of your brain is working hard, and the other half is asleep. Ducks do that when they are sleeping so predators don’t kill them when they are nodding off. Donnie The Brain Boy Trump I think only uses half his brain most of the time while the other half is asleep (or dreaming of how he could trademark his ego.)

Whatever the case, he does look a fair bit like a hairy mole.

Stunningly dull and forever yours (unless I owe you money),

Miguel Confucius Druker

Are you a hairy mole?

Trump, Rump, Dump, Chump, Sump Pump – Rhyming Crap

Stank and Tibor - Loving Trump the Drumpf

Trump, Rump, Chump Dump, Sump Pump – Rhyming Crap

It wasn’t long ago that Donald Trump was the butt of many jokes. A rich butt, but a butt all the same. Now, Herr Hair Piece has made life a little scarier with his bid for the Republican presidential nomination and of course his subsequent attack on the — dare I say — The President! None of which is news, of course, as every one and his brother (or sister) has been glued to the TV, radio, mobile device and anything else that reports the so called news these days. You can’t escape it, much as I would like to.

Trump Rhymes With ‘Rump’

It’s not rocket science as to why small-fingered Trump is so popular – and it isn’t his vouching for cuts of Grade ‘A’ beef, so beloved by men with a subconscious wish for an early coronary and preceded by a fine bout of colon cancer. (I think if If he vouched for a mediocre rump roast, it would have hit a little too close to home for him, but apt it would have been, indeed.)

Trump the Rump is a bully, plain and simple. A charismatic shmuck of a bully, but a bully all the same. That’s why so many people love the guy – they’re afraid of him. Or strangely he’s adored and lauded for “telling like it is”  – which is usually code for “I won’t use logic to assess that statement because my rage-related hormones are boiling  like a thin beef broth over an open flame.”

Bullies and blowhards make all kinds of false statements backed by nothing more than bluster (Wow, I used a lot of ‘B’ words in that last sentence. Amazing I didn’t use ‘ball-busting bastards’ – I must be losing my edge.) This aspiring presidential rump is one of the best at beating up (verbally) on anyone and everyone. How nice.

Trump Rhymes With ‘Chump’

It’s quite shocking that a stylish bully like Donald Fart Face has made it this far, because in essence he is a chump. For those who don’t know the word, a chump is defined as “A stupid or foolish person; a dolt.” Oddly, it’s also defined as “A short, thick, heavy piece of wood.”

Foolish he is not, how else could he get legions of people to do his bidding by punching people who disagree with him? Maybe he really is short, thick, heavy piece of wood, originating from a genetically manipulated cross between dog wood (hence his bark) and pond scum that has been poisoned by toxic sun tan lotion? It would explain his stubby fingers…

Trump Rhymes With ‘Dump’

If he is elected the Republican presidential nominee, despite the party’s best efforts to derail him, and goes on to defeat Hilary Clinton in the general election, I think he stands a good chance of having the White House redecorated to look like a Vegas Casino. I can’t really tell you why I believe that. Maybe it’s the spicy Thai chicken I had that’s clouding my brain and making me pass wind.

Since the Trump style involves a lot of gold, hair product, and no doubt a Trump-endorsed male cologne probably made from gasoline and cheap Amaretto, there will be an industrial smell about his presidency. The kind of smell used to mask a city dump.

 Trump Rhymes With ‘Sump Pump’

How one gets to a sump pump from a Trump isn’t as long a twisted journey as you’d think. This kind of pump is used to remove excess liquid, usually from a flooded basement. Where sewage tends to back up, like after a torrential rainfall of crap. Not unlike that which spews from Donald’s mouth on a regular basis as he spits bile and filth at those who oppose him. Nice. How dictator-like.

And it’s not just me who finds it amazing that this chump of a sump pump clump of orange hair masquerading as a human has inspired so many people to come out and vote. He’s certainly tapped into a vein of anger that the Republican elitist jerks neglected for, oh, 30 years or so. Maybe we shouldn’t be so amazed that Trump is where he is given his skill for oratory and showmanship, and his keen ability to reason and use logic like a 4-year old pissed off at the playground.

Enough ranting for one evening. I have other more important things to do. Such as eat marmalade-filled cookies that contain something akin to heroin, hence my predilection for spending actual hard-earned cash on something I m sure is made from petro-sugar, sawdust and chocolate-flavored styrofoam.

Swimmingly swollen,

Field Marshall Druker of the Azores

PS – Happy 80th Birthday, Dad

Heroic Lies and Other Black & White Untruths

Stanko & Tibor - Heroic Lies

Dateline: Mid-August, it's a heatwave and simultaneously election season. It's too much for a bear to soul.

Heroic Lies

As the thick, dare I say pasty fog of sleep cleared and I managed to roll out of bed, turn on my iPad and read with some amazement the latest Chump von Trump zinger about who’s really a hero (clearly not that sissy pants John McCain III), I started to understand a bit about universal truths and universal lies. You just can’t have one without the other.

I won’t get into the “death & taxes” universal truth argument because you can avoid paying taxes as long as you’re heavily disassociated from reality due to a pill or heroin addiction, have a crafty and crooked accountant who makes you look poor, or you have a printing press. Kind of like Greece pre-Euro crisis/national emasculation.

And what of death? Is it a universal truth? Or a universal lie? Is it all darkness? The big sleep? Or is it just a phase before we boogie on down to Hades for some eternal, unpleasant sun-bathing with only half a tube of Bain De Soleil SPF 4? To be honest, I am not too keen to find out personally, given my genetically built-in fear of it, and the fact that I am a bigger sissy than John McCain or that delicately prune-like Herr Hair von Trump.

Infallibly Fallible

Having coincidentally thought long and hard (maybe 15 seconds or so) about the lying as a coping mechanism and the infallibly fallible politicians we have to choose from in democracies when election time rolls around, I have decided to use my web-based bully pulpit to give this installment of the comic that now is down to a readership of three — one of whom is heavily medicated to prevent unintended and unscheduled naked jaunts through the park again, and the other two, conjoined twins battling fiercely over gets to wear the sole part of pants they own before head off for a job interview as a WalMart greeter — a message!

It is universally true that politicians will lie any chance they can get. They can’t help it. If they didn’t, you wouldn’t vote for them. No one really wants to hear the truth anyway. So deal with it. We get lied to all the time by people in power. It’s the basis for a functioning political system and the accompanying bribery machine that makes it all work so smoothly.

Let’s be honest about lying for a moment. We non-politicians aren’t a whole lot better. We lie every minute of every day. We lie to our lovers (‘Of course I’ll leave my wife for you’), our spouses (just ask the members of Ashley Madison), our bosses (‘Oh it wasn’t me. Frank in Accounting must have screwed up the TPS reports. I heard he’s off the wagon again’), our children (‘Of course you’re as smart and pretty as your sister’), our religious mentors (‘I have no idea who peed in the holy water, Father Mike’), and especially to cruel dentists when they ask if we floss regularly. Of course, I do.

Donald The Don

Well, maybe not everyone lies. Maybe that walking piece of chum Trump is telling it like it is. Maybe all Mexicans are drug lords and/or criminals, John McCain isn’t really a hero and all of the women on The Apprentice flirted with him – consciously or unconsciously. That’s to be expected. Could it be that Donald, future ruler of the world, has stripped away the veil of lies to tell it like it is?

More likely his hair dye has pickled his brain.

Lovingly exhausted,

Ombudsman Druker of the 3rd Precinct

Truth In Trump

Dear slaves to this comic,

What a month it has been since I last posted a tour de force in comic format. The last one seemed to have struck a chord with those of you following current events or with a fondness for Burt Reynolds, circa ’78. You know who you are.

Well, this particular commentary wasn’t really planned. But with Osama getting a unintended dose of rapid-fire hot lead from SEALs that aren’t all that interested in fish really made the news. And of course, every nutbar and his conspiracy theory brother came out of the word work, and some never left. Like Mr. Trump, for example. Although many wish he would, but sadly he has supporters and a lot of money. Where is a benevolent god of any kind to smite someone who really deserves to be ‘smoten’, I ask you?

But this skillfully crafted and drawn oracle containing all things commentary-worthy will return to its regularly scheduled mania, mayhem, moronic madness and other words that start with ‘m’ – once I find a better letter for alliterations. Until such time, I may take a bike ride to try and trim the 10 pounds of belly fat I have accumulated over the past 4 weeks or so, through a deft combination of no exercise, high-fat foods, foods with sugar in formats that could only  have been created by Monsanto in a secret lab in the desert, and hot dogs. I feel shame.

By the way, for those of you don’t know and who probably don’t care, I am now writing for the main car blog site, known as The Car Connection. So go there, look for my wry blogs on all things advertising in the car world. Impress your friends.

Better yet, read this comic and forward it to your friends, enemies and make it one your favorites. Or just lie to me and tell me you did. Same thing.

OK, time to blog and eat cookies. I meant celery.