A Weekly Online Publication of the Anonymous Anything Society —  March 28, 2018


    Perhaps the chaotic frenzy of firings in the White House caused me to remember a childhood nightmare. I don't remember how, with great misgivings and someone's assistance in the dream, I was placed upon a merry-go-round pony with a red mane and tail.

    I had barely grasped the reigns in my hands and placed my feet in the stirrups, as I had seen Tom Mix, Johnny Mac Brown and Hopalong Cassidy do countless times, when the nightmare carousal suddenly jerked into action and immediately began to pick up speed; the drumming calliope music beating faster and faster as I desperately clung to the pole, with the plunging pony ignoring my pleas. 

   The operator of the nightmare carousal was laughing demonically, his enormous teeth inches from my face each time I whirled past him. I tried to dismount, but when I looked about me for assistance, I discovered I was alone on the carousel. Mirrors on the center of the device were flashing in my eyes, blinding me. As frightened as a six year old could possibly be, I still knew that I had to escape.

    I held onto the reigns tightly, leaned to the right, stretched and reached for the whirling platform just inches from my right foot, but when I attempted to throw my left leg over the pony's rump, I slipped sideways in the saddle and was slung off the carousel violently—causing me to cry out.

    I awoke, with my brother Donald with whom I slept, asking me to please be quiet because his morning paper route demanded his immediate attention. I was lying on the floor; he was grimacing down at me past the mattress and springs, his left eye squeezed shut.

    "It was just a dream, Philip." he said. "A bad dream. Go back to sleep, okay?" He punched his pillow in disgust.

    Oh yes, remembering John Bolton and his walrus mustache, must have awakened a terror buried deep in my memory gland. (I'm told it exists in the frontal lobe of our brains.)

     John R. Bolton, once Assistant Attorney General under Bush I, served as Ambassador to the United Nations under Bush II, where he earned the sobriquet of "War Hawk," is now the third National Security Advisor for our President in 14 months. Nothing in my life experience beyond reading about the last few hours in the life of Joseph Stalin (His physicians feared he might survive a heart attack)  could begin to compare with my most terrifying nightmares: The Merry-Go-Round dream and learning that John Bolton has the ear of President Trump became melded in my subconscious.

     I read that Bolton was less of a warrior in his late teens. After drawing draft number 185, John somehow discerned that Johnson and Nixon were more inclined to draft pliable new soldiers for infantry battalions in Viet Nam, rather than utilize members of the national guard or reserve. No dummy, John joined the Maryland National guard in 1970 and concluded his tour of duty as a member of the Army Reserve in the good old U.S. of A. He later confessed to this bit of sagacity in Yale's 25th Reunion Book: "I confess I had no desire to die in a Southwest Asian rice paddy."

    Bolton and Donald Trump could be clones. Apparently, after graduating from the New York Military Academy (ROTC Cadet Captain Trump above), Trump found a doctor who diagnosed his case of ankle bone spur (ABS) to be so great that it prevented the prez from further service in the military. Now, he is Commander in Chief of Everything!

    An irony: Trump might expect Bolton to try and compete with Vice President What's-His-Name when asking "How high" every time the Bull Frog croaks "Jump." John may fool everyone. The word "servile" has never been used to describe his temperament

    A fitting commentator for Fox News, Bolton's full-time job has been the head of a super PAC which directs funds from such super donors as Robert Mercer, who with his daughter Rebekah, are the major supporters of Breitbart News. The MSN home page predicts that Bolton will fire scores of little croaker-leakers claimed to infest the White House, as soon as he is installed.


-Phil Richardson, Observer of the Human Condition and Storyteller. "He goes doddering on into his old age, making a public nuisance of himself."—Joseph Menchen

Our unending thanks to Jim Bromley, who programs our Archive of Prior Commentaries

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