my jaundiced eye

the absurdities of life

Category: humor

summit or sand trap?

Summit or abyss?-1

Holy mother of pearl… how in less than a day did the conald manage to piss off all of our closest allies, basically telling them to go fork themselves, because we are goddam america and we don’t need you pathetic needy pipsqueaks. Not in the trenches, not in the foxholes, not in the deserts of the middle east and especially not in any trading partnerships. The photo of merkel and macron leaning over the table giving our petulant president a what for really said it all. But honey badger, he don’t give a shit.

The conald ditched out early from the g-7 (or g-6 as it is now being called since he made it plain that poppa’s got a brand new bag o’ of totalitarian bitches to hang with) because he was itching to jet to singapore for an historic tete a tete with kimchee, the infamous two bit dictator who imprisons and kills his own people (and familial competitors) not to mention threatens the world with nuclear annihilation. Totally get it. Our own dear leader, the “dealmaker” in chief, who could in his own words tell within 60 seconds if this “summit” had been worth the time and effort, apparently had his signals jammed by the north koreans or the chinese or both because it took him almost ten minutes to fold like a cheap suitcase and get zippo from kimchee in return…talk about a singapore sling! No more military exercises with the south koreans, sure whatever, relax the sanctions, why not, and most importantly the possibility of a trump golf resort in what is currently a wasteland devoid of vegetation or anything else the starving north koreans could get their hands on, absolutely! Cheap real estate and an even cheaper experienced hard working labor force, straight from the gulags. Let’s make a deal!

After the meeting the conald and kimchee did the secret handshake and stood shoulder to shoulder smiling before an array of flags of both nations. The conald beaming because he thought he’d just nailed that nobel thing and kimchee smiling because he couldn’t believe how easy it was to buffalo this idiot. He had to be thinking, can you believe this guy’s standing next to me smiling like a miss universe contestant when I’ve just picked both his pockets, in front of the entire world? Hilarious! And btw you should have seen how he begged me to tell him the secret to getting all my people to idolize me and paint my face on everything when all he could get was a few lousy gold plated signs (that he had to pay for) in front of a couple of crummy buildings. And damn he was positively horny for my military parades.

Smile on kimchee you have absolutely earned the right to gloat. Our president’s misguided belief in his own invincibility won’t allow him to entertain the notion that he’s been played, that he didn’t win the game. That he is a loser. Wait, what? That’s impossible in trumpworld! Didn’t happen, could never happen. The conald may not have mastered the ability to get all americans to exhibit the blind idolatry of the people of north korea yet but he’s certainly learned one thing: the art of creating propaganda flicks that extol his absolute superiority, despite all evidence to the contrary. All you doubting thomases out there,  how about you get comfy in your barcaloungers and watch  his team’s cringe worthy cinematic celebration of his incredible summit victory and learn the real truth.

Cue the painters!

 

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hamburger heaven

hamburger heaven

Well thanks to yet another tragic disappointment at the hands of big brother technology MJE has missed about 2000 news cycles since last week. So, this post is being updated to reflect the deviation in the earth’s rotation caused by the united states of america’s declaration of independence from the tectonic shift theory in order to become its own continent. Thanks for the memories, mexico and canada…we’re moving on uptown to north korea.

It seems as though the wedding’s back on! Guess we can put that nuclear shotgun back on the rack for the time being. But oh me oh my, the bromance between kimchee and the conald has had more offs and ons than the best little whorehouse in texas. For god’s sake, the conald even sucked up to the dimpled despot, asked him for the name of his stylist, complimented his generals’ yuge medals, and yuge hats, and confided that he thought kimchee’s sister was every bit as smoking hot as his daughter e-vanka. Kimchee however played it cool, after all the conald was doing exactly what he wanted him to do, why mess with success. Their courtship was important to each of them for wildly different reasons. Kimchee wanted worldwide validation of his tyrannical regime, his status elevated to that of the president of the united states, and most importantly a burger joint in pyongyang. The conald wanted a nobel prize, bigly. He wasn’t sure what that is exactly but fox and friends said he deserved one and he heard that obama had one so he should damn well get one too. Sadly michael cohen was unavailable just at at the moment, but man, back in the day he and his home equity line of credit could fix just about anything.

The conald, in a classic art of the deal opening gambit gave kimchee precisely what he craved, except for the burger joint, and he never had to lift one pudgy digit to get it. Seemingly unaware of his bone headed move, the conald crowed about his intention to meet with rocket man and get him that burger franchise suggesting that “my conald’s” might be a branding gold mine, helpfully offering a crapload of capital from some of his vc pals in moscow. He even dangled a kimchee apprentice type show as a sweetener but with more of a survivor theme, and if he gave up his nuclear arsenal well that would be okay too. The conald even picked a date and a venue although MJE thought it seemed a bit premature to order the boutonnieres and book the dj before he’d even been introduced to his intended. No wonder kimchee ‘s ardor waned, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? Plus he’s pretty used to being the only fat bully calling the shots. Nobody puts this baby despot in a corner.

So as his opening parry kimchee did absolutely nothing. He simply had his guys blow off the initial planning meeting. told them to take a chill pill and curl up with some good pyongyang propaganda porn. Ha, ha how do you like that you arrogant orange bossy pants, you want it so bad, you’ll need to put up more than dinner and a movie. Of course, the conald never admits that he has ever been outfoxed so he made like he was the one who cancelled the meeting. Unfortunately kimchee’s snub had already been widely reported. No, no, no!!! fake news, fake news, deep state, uh corrupt lying main stream media! cried the conald. I dropped him before he dropped me, oh nuh unh no you didn’t, I dropped him first, oh yeah well…hey everybody…cat fight in the girl’s bathroom!!!

It was probably not helpful to have the vp and ss brownshirt lookalike spouting off that this deal would be like the one we did in lybia. Despite the fact that north korea is hermetically sealed, kimchee had probably heard that gadaffi agreed to give up his nukes only to get himself dragged out of a sewerage pipe, bayonetted in the bottom then shot to death. So despite the bootlicking it’s unclear where this may end up. The latest move was however a balm for the conald’s frayed ego, when north korea sent their next to worst person in that country to hand deliver a really big envelope puportedly from kimchee himself to get the negotiations back on track. Hmm, look who’s horney now? does make one wonder what they might be up to…so very eager. Maybe a relaxation of their sanctions, that dream of a burger joint empire, skimming money off e-vanka boutiques in pyongyang and a trump tower in the dmz? How about let’s get that deal done and we’ll move on to that boring nuke stuff later.

So the caterer is back on the docket, the flowers and music nailed down and trump tower singapore booked solid as we wait with bated breath for the next volley in this hair raising pying pyong game.

 

 

melanoma’s safe space

Do not enter

No woman that I can think of would ever welcome any sort of kidney infection, no way no how, unless you are melanoma that is. My guess is that she most likely considers her current condition to be nothing short of a gift from god. Ensconced in a luxurious private room in a hospital across town from the white house, presumably guarded like fort knox, she can instruct her medical team that she is not feeling well enough to receive any visitors, except barren of course. Envision the conald’s reaction to being denied entry to melanoma’s room, having reluctantly cut short his “executive time” watching fox and friends to visit his ailing wife as a demonstration of his belated fidelity. Upon arrival, photographer in tow, the implacable secret security detail on duty states that no one is to be admitted to the first lady’s room. At this the conald’s face contorts in fury and turns from its usual mesa sunset hue, to something closer to a vibrant vermilion as he stomps, screams and massages his temples taking care not to dislodge his carefully crafted coif. He bellows in frustration that he owns the goddamned place and thunders that he just might order mass castration, if he doesn’t need the eunuchs in congress to approve.  In response, the chief security officer calmly delivers the coup de grace and informs the president that mrs. trump has in fact issued firm instructions that he specifically be blocked from entering her room. What he did not disclose is that they were directed to discreetly usher in her manicurist, masseur and personal stylist the moment his motorcade is out of sight.

Six months later melanoma’s kidney infection has cleared but she remains hospitalized with an ongoing series of undiagnosable ailments which began to present themselves just hours before her scheduled release from the hospital. Initially it was a dull but extremely painful ache in her right funny bone, then an agonizing throbbing in both of her earlobes, followed by a bout of excruciating itching just to the left of her belly button. The duration of her continued hospitalization obviously required additional space for her staff and for barren’s overnights, eventually taking up an entire wing. Due to the vague but possibly contagious nature of her mysterious maladies, in the interest of national security, the president continued to be barred from her room. Her medical team finally consented to a single one hour visit per week during which he was restricted to standing in the hall and pushing 3″x5″ note cards with messages composed by callous ann conman under the door. However even these communications seemed to aggravate her symptoms and he was eventually informed that he would only be permitted to tweet her every other week. His tweets would of course be screened and any potential triggers redacted.

The doctors are baffled, but her team is united in their opinion that her conditions are chronic in nature and would in all likelihood recur periodically through 2020 and possibly 2024. They have determined that stress is the root cause of her afflictions and prescribed a long term stay in a wellness spa, perhaps in bavaria.

unlocked and unloaded

unlocked and unloaded

MJE just read the announcement that amazon prime members may now have orders delivered directly to their cars!

As I interpret it, you download an app onto your cell phone and when the delivery man is within 2 blocks of your car he opens “the trunk” and drops your stuff right in there. He then relocks your car. You get constant updates of course. What could possibly go wrong?

How about this scenario? My old heap doesn’t technically have a trunk and if you open its notatrunk the whole car unlocks. What if I should have, say left valuables in the area of the car that’s notatrunk and later return to my hoopdy to discover that, YES!!!! my bottle of 50,000 kirkland antacid tabs are there! However, my passport, the passwords to everything (in code of course I’m not that stupid) and the $1000 I keep in a ditch bag (should I need to hastily flee the country) that were hidden in my console are not. Just as I grab my phone to howl at amazon I notice 35 alerts from my bank, investment account, visa, american express, ebay and amazon warning me that it sure looks like I just had my identity stolen. All accounts have been drained dry and every credit card maxed out but they do hope I am enjoying myself in istanbul.

To whom do I address a complaint?  Well obviously to the fine customer support department at amazon, however it must be in the form of a chat session, which takes about an hour to exchange a handful of communications, half of which are introductions and greetings. But I am assured by the ether agent that my complaint will be thoroughly investigated and I will have a resolution within 2-3 business days. Good bye and bon voyage.

Ergo, for the convenience of speedy delivery of a gallon of antacid tablets (all of which I now need) I have gone to rack and ruin, all within a span of 120 minutes.

Could this possibly happen? If MJE is any example, amazon has clearly figured out algorithms that are able to stimulate the human brain and induce you to purchase things you don’t need and then to forget that you already have the things you didn’t need and buy them again. It is engineered to keep your mind in a state of unquenchable desire to possess everything. But the question at hand is has amazon figured out how to deprogram their delivery personnel and ensure that they stick to the trunk the whole trunk and nothing but the trunk.

charm offensive

charm offensive

I know MJE constantly whines about customer service agents, but this time I am giving kudos to not only whoever penned this beauty but also the poor souls who are required to answer incoming calls with this greeting…

Agent: How may I charm you today?

MJE: Huh?

Agent: How may I charm you today?

That briefly stalled my rant and I was actually speechless for a few seconds, which is rare. However I quickly snapped back into bitch mode and railed on about whatever gripe I happened to have that day.

After the call, I started to give that offer some further thought.  How might this young woman charm me today? …perhaps she could:

Clean my dog’s teeth.

Take my colonoscopy for me.

Find my sunglasses.

Explain what kombucha is.

Adopt my daughter albatross.

Crunch my abs.

Donate half of tom cotton’s neck to mitch mcconnell.

Make it 2020.

 

Charmed I’m sure.

lunch meat madness

cold cut karma

What is it with old geezers who seem to think they, and the rest of us, have all the time in the world when they dodder over to the grocery store. And puhleeze, don’t get on your high horses about the dignity of our elders and how MJE should be respectful. First off, have these fossils looked in a mirror lately? The grim reaper doesn’t take a number at the deli counter my friends. We’ve all been at the mercy of geriatrics who stand in the lunch meat line clutching their paper numbers, peering into the case with an intensity usually reserved for members of the bomb disposal squad trying to figure out which wire to clip. Even after reaching the head of the line they remain maddeningly indecisive, weighing the relative merits of olive loaf vs hogs head cheese, liverwurst vs bologna, etc. At long last they cautiously settle on a preference. Then the weary hair netted clerk embarks upon the hunt for the buyer’s selection, rummaging half heartedly among logs of salami, hunks of ham and slabs of pastrami. However, more often than not, the selected item cannot be found and the clerk shuffles off into the meat locker for the remainder of his shift.

A new meat monger eventually appears on the scene and the entire process begins anew. Finally, we reach the point where a choice has been finalized, and we enter into phase two of the process. The all important taste test. I may be overly suspicious but I’m pretty sure this isn’t the pensioner’s first rodeo in the cold cut corral. And I will further surmise that he or she has a pretty good idea what that slice of compressed meat tastes like. Yet one can’t be too sure, so a tranche is gently laid upon a square of wax paper and offered to the potential buyer like the krupp diamond upon a velvet pillow. It gets a good once over, a sniff and then is masticated slowly and deliberately. Our senior gives the appearance of a master sommelier thoughtfully pinpointing the terroir of a fine vintage, assessing the bouquet and savoring fruit forward notes of cherry or kombucha followed by a clean mineral finish. The buyer hesitates, the throng in line behind him shuffles restlessly, hopeful for a swift and positive judgment; he hesitates, then offers a nod of approval. The crowd goes wild! No it doesn’t because by now all of the other geezers in line have had to dash off in search of the bathroom.

However there is one final hurdle: the intensely subjective preferred proportions of the slice. The deli meister carves a sliver and holds it up for approval. If it should get a thumbs up, then the full order of 1/16 of a pound will slide over the counter, however should it receive a thumbs down, off the scrap goes into the trash bin. And it often takes several attempts before the ideal slice is achieved, with each imperfect pass tossed onto the garbage heap.

For god’s sake america, half of ethiopia could subsist for weeks or even months on one grocery’s single day’s cast off bits of deli meat. But then those poor people would all develop hypertension and high cholesterol and drop dead of stroke or heart attack before they had a chance to starve to death.

family tree

family tree-2

Politics, gun violence, russia and porn stars have worn me out so I will turn to another soul deadening topic, family. MJE tends to roam alone with the OB&C as an occasional traveling companion. Perfection. However, once a year I am burdened with one of the fragments of flotsam floating in my familial gene pool in the form of my half-sister, astrozeneca. Many years ago she abandoned her perky nineteen fifties given name and was reborn a self-proclaimed sufi, purportedly ascetic and mystical. Well if asceticism means that she limits herself to herbal tea infusions, comfy shoes, voluminous stretch pants and injesting only those foodstuffs prepared by others and which require no effort on her part, then I guess she’s ascetic. As far as mystical, that’s a mighty grey area. According to merriam webster, mystical means “inspiring a sense of spiritual mystery, fascination and awe.” Well it’s a mystery to me how we could possibly be related. And in point of fact, she does inspire a profound fascination with the thought of putting my head in an unlit oven. Awesome.

Siblings aside, MJE and the OB&C have two offspring with whom my loyal readers will be familiar, daughter albatross and son knot, neither of whom displays a single intellectual or cultural trait of ours, good or bad. Albatross is easing comfortably into her late forties having conned us into paying her freight since birth by producing two grand children. She supplements our generous contributions by taking full advantage of the largesse of the united states of america, the state of california, the county of alameda, and the city of oakland. We suspect she is also a grifter of some success as exhibited by her elaborate and presumably expensive head to toe tatts. We were able to pry loose her elder child bandoliera early on and she has miraculously grown into a wonderful young woman unscathed by her early childhood brush with her mother’s narcissistic personality disorder. But in a surprise move, albatross issued forth a second child, jesus! one day shy of bandoliera’s 17th birthday. A miracle baby, apparently the result of a virgin birth as any human paternal being has thus far failed to materialize, at least to us. We have every confidence that she’s got her financials covered in that regard, although the notion of birthing a child in order to guarantee an income stream is deeply perverted to say the very least

Then we have son knot and his long-suffering wife, alhambra. Knot is a graduate of the university of georgia, but is of the opinion that college is a complete waste of time. According to him, success in life boils down to having the right contacts. Wish we’d known that before we went into the poor house to put him through four years of wasted education when we might have simply signed him up for the rotary club. In fact he states with some pride that he never learned a damned thing in college. We could not agree more.

Knot and Alhambra have three little moppets in their clutch; apricot, seymour and the ear-splitting caboose decibelle. They are as different from one another as avocados are to armadillos. Apricot is a pile driver, unwise to get in her way. Destined to be the big boss. Seymour is the thoughtful and kind one, also apparently something of a savant, a whiz with numbers, especially sports stats. Destined to be a very successful bookie or a hedge fund manager. Decibelle is the wild card, a vegan from birth she subsists on pasta and strawberries. She is destined for something beyond our current realm of knowledge; discovering the source of dark matter, figuring out what sketchy stuff sarah huckabee sanders has in her past that keeps her from getting security clearance, or perhaps she’ll hop aboard the astral plane with astrozeneca. We’ll be watching from the other side.

be still thy beating heart

be still thy beating heart-1

MJE and the OB&C keep an apartment in the big sleazy for reasons that are 1000% legit.business. First off, the apartment is the registered worldwide headquarters of our small intestinal bug biz. It’s location is entirely unrelated to the fact that louisiana has one of the lowest state income tax rates in the country as well as a well documented laissez faire attitude when it comes to regulating potentially hazardous materials. In summary: an excellent business environment for us.

We are located in the lower half of a duplex building in the uptown area of new orleans. Conveniently situated close to a large park, which provides relaxation and exercise opportunities so critical to the mental and physical health and well being of our employees, including the corporate canine. The proximity to excellent restaurants, venues for our many, many company team building get-togethers, is crucial. Our policy is to offer the finest food and drink to our hard working employees and in particular to our board members to encourage and reward their dedication and hard work.

There is however one major drawback to the building: the tenants occupying the upper space. They are a couple, one is a teacher and aspiring base player, the other some sort of environmental “consultant,” although what exactly she does is about as clear as the water that flows down the mississippi and right out of our taps. One thing we know for sure is that her home “office space” is a mere 12′ above our heads and that she heavily and constantly stomps about in bare feet. Her footfalls are so loud they sound like a forking budweiser clydesdale.  And we are all now doubly blessed as she just issued forth a new baby! Not sure what the colt’s name is but understand it’s a stud. Too much joy for sure!!!

Those of you who have procreated understand that newborns are needy and require a good bit of attention. In the dark ages of MJE’s early motherhood we put our babies to sleep on their stomachs, transported them on the floor of the car so they wouldn’t fall off the seat, toted them in cheap carriers made of lead based chinese plastic, fed them food filled with additives, surrounded them with choking hazards and pushed them around in flimsy cloth strollers that folded into something that could fit in a fly rod case, and yet they survived. Some less well than others (see: albatross) but that’s a story for another post.

Today’s new mothers, including the aforementioned clydesdale, are far more aware of the perils of the world and how difficult it is for a recently hatched being to adapt to the less than comfortable environment outside the womb. In an effort to ease this transition some new parents resort to devices that mimic the mother’s heartbeat in utero. And that my friend is exactly what roused us this morning, after the clydesdale’s 4 am milking. Duh, dum…duh, dum…duh, dum…hum, for almost two hours. As we all know, the OB&C is deaf as a forking post and even HE heard it. At first we thought it was rain dripping from the gutter or a plumbing pipe but then it dawned on me, no man, it was big momma’s virtual heartbeat that woke us up, pissed us off and creeped us out all at once. What it did not do was lull us to sleep nor calm us down, in fact quite the opposite. It took all the restraint I could muster not to climb a ladder and pound on the ceiling screaming foul obscenities at mother and babe alike.

If the clydesdale could do either of the following it would immensely improve my quality of life.

Get a pair of really plush cushiony slippers or a pair of running shoes, and wear them all the time. No exceptions. A few nice thick rugs couldn’t hurt. Send us the bill.

Stop your goddam heart. Are you going to play that thing forever, say until he hits adolescence because that’s a pretty stressful time, or takes the SAT’s or goes off to college, or maybe after he graduates and can’t get a job. Or when he gets married and realizes that it’s not nearly as much fun as bar hopping and frat parties with his old girl friend. Or when he has his first kid and it won’t sleep…

But with my luck I’ll be like the narrator in poe’s tell tale heart, doomed to hear that heartbeat unto eternity regardless.

it’s carnival time, again

mardi gras again-1

Good mardi gras to all. It is particularly welcome this time around as an excuse to stay blind drunk until the stock market settles its stomach and we get a new president. MJE and the OB&C have long since stopped walking the avenue mardi gras morning, although I do miss running into many of the neighborhood marching clubs that meander through the streets. And there is the occasional creative family lot who all dress as crawfish, or hotdogs or I suspect this year one of the conald’s wives, but sadly the tradition of dressing up is, like the louisiana marsh, slowly disappearing from the planet.

This mardi gras, as in years past, family and friends whom you rarely see and care about even less, appear out of nowhere suddenly dying to reconnect. This year the atlanta circus opted out of the annual visitation based on the lousy weather forecast. Just as well, feeling very old every time I look at the 3 ton wooden ladder and child’s parade seat, so glad not to be dragging that behemoth back and forth from parade routes. Not to mention the requirement to provide and keep ice cold (or piping hot), multiple beverage types (no light beer! lots of sauvignon blanc!), food items (no nuts! and no lucky dogs, decibelle is a vegetarian) and the attendant assorted paraphernalia required to feed a crowd on the run. Happy to hop to it when someone decides to pay me a caterer’s wage but this gratis (and generally unappreciated) business is definitely on its way out.

But we weren’t entirely solo, OB&C’s niece mike and her wife loosy along with their immaculately conceived toddler whom they call cheeto (truly) showed up with two other gals, the married margies plus another woman whose leanings remain obscure. The OB&C and I were definitely, and in his case literally, odd men out. Let me be perfectly clear, the sexual practices of my fellow human beings holds no interest whatsoever for me, in fact the less I can think about it the better. Turtles and giraffes okay but people, no.

So on we march toward tuesday’s bacchanalia of the fatted calf and even fatter population after the ceaseless eating and drinking involved. God I hate that. And apparently so does she because the hammer’s coming down hard on wednesday. Ashes, ashes, they all fall down, which is pretty much what most of the populace will be doing. The good news, and this is not fake I swear, there is a now a drive through option to get your forehead smeared with holy ashes to show off your piety. But if you never leave the car or hang up your cell phone are you truly redeemed?

Hmmmmm……….

like, genius in chief

Genius in chief

The conald, during his “executive time” watching fox and friends had someone read him exerpts of the scathing new book about the dysfunctional trump white house and the low regard with which his staff and cabinet members regard his intellect. He countered that he is a genius or in his words, “like, really smart,” furthermore in his own assessment “a very stable genius.” He had previously thrown down the intellectual gauntlet to his secretary of state, rex tillerson who had referred to him as a forking moron, by daring him to take an iq test to see who is in fact the smarter cookie.

I am sure his staff shifted into super overdrive figuring out how they could create an intelligence test that could possibly display the conald’s superior intellect. Their solution was to have have both men sit for a stanford-binet test of intelligence. The test for mr tillerson would contain actual sample questions from the real test whereas the conald’s test would contain a somewhat different series of questions. For added insurance, the president’s test would consist of ten questions and mr tillerson’s 135 questions. But in the interest of fairness, both men would be given equal time to complete their tests.

MJE has obtained copies of the tests and is happy to share a sampling of them with her loyal readers…

The real questions are listed first with multiple choice answers, followed by the conald’s “alternative” questions and answers:

  1. Four individuals form a business and create a contract to divide the profits equally among the four. Gary invests $11,000, Neil invests $4,000, Jill invests $5,000, and Steve invests $8,000. The profits at the end of the year are $5,600. How much less does Gary receive than if the profits were divided in relation to the amount invested by each owner?

Answer: $1000, $1400, $800 or $2200.

Alternative trump question:

Four individuals form a business and create a contract to divide the profits equally. How much of the profits does each investor receive?

Answer: one tenth, one fiftieth, one fourth, zero. Contracts are for losers. I would get 100%. Winners don’t share.

  1. The number, “three thousand, eight hundred, sixty-eight,” when written backward, is read, “eight thousand, six hundred, eighty-three.”

Answer: true or false

Alternative question:

Spit written backward spells tips.

Answer: true or false

  1. Tony gets married next month. One year ago from the date he will get married, Tony was away in Spain for New Year’s Eve. What month is it?

Answer: October, November, January, February, December

Alternative question: Where is Spain?

Answer: Paris, Equador, the failing European Union or Manitoba

  1. Do the words credit and acclaim have opposite meanings, similar meanings or no relation?

Answer: opposite, similar or no relation

Alternative question: What is credit?

Answer: A way to buy things with money you don’t have, a piece of plastic that gets you free stuff, how you build a business with other people’s money and never have to pay them back, or all of the above

  1. Three painters can paint three walls in three minutes. How many painters are needed to paint 27 walls in nine minutes?

Answer: 3,6,9,12,15

Alternative question: Where is our really fantastic amazing president going to build a great big beautiful wall and who’s going to pay for it?

Answer: Between Dallas and San Bernadino-paid for by St. Louis, between Brooklyn and Reno paid for by Minneapolis, between us and them-paid by them, obviously, or between Florida and Nebraska-paid for by Spain.

Both tests are extremely difficult, but from comparative percentage of correct answers provided by mr tillerson and mr trump it is clear that mr trump’s intellect and reasoning power are superior. His ability to reduce complex problems to the least mentally taxing analysis is unprecedented and when it comes to “thinking outside the box” he literally has no equal.