TRUMP "NEWS" "CONFERENCE" WITHOUT QUESTIONS - 8.16.24

no longer news. Cut to a test pattern fire everybody start from scratch, which I guess also applies to Trump's running mate. I am beginning to suspect that JD. Vance is actually a Democratic plant. New Kensington, Pennsylvania at VFW Post ninety two. That would be another acronym. Veterans of Foreign Wars VFW Post number is ninety two, and there is still the Sarah Palin rule as it's great to be here, it's great to be part of VF post. VFW post ninety two. I've actually got the card right

here in my pocket. So JV there forgot the number of the post. He forgot the Sarah Palin rule, and he called it the VFA like it was the Toria Football Association or the Verband forschender arzenimittel Hairsteller, which is the trade association of the German pharmaceutical industry, Like you

didn't know that. Oh, and he was reading all of that off the business card of VFW post ninety two, and he still couldn't pull it off because he forgot where he had put the card and he had to go searching his own pockets for it, and he forgot the Sarah Palin rule. And the Sarah Palin rule is, if you are running for vice president and you are an idiot and there's something you really really need to remember, just write it on your goddamn hand. Just write it

on your hand. Sure, it's a little embarrassing, but it's not as embarrassing as that. It's not as embarrassing as forgetting the VFW is called the VFW and not the VFA, and that the number of the one you're in is number ninety two. I mean, it's like this guy has never been outside before. Oh. In a photo turned up

of JV. Vance in the British rag the Daily Mail, JV in high school standing next to three girls who are pretending to use urinals in a boys bathroom, which I believe is the whole anti trans libs of TikTok wants the death penalty for this. Oh how dare Tim Walls put tampons in school toilets? Thing, isn't it? And then we got all the liberal blowback about, oh, we

should make a big deal about this. Kids are kids, and everybody has a dumb high school photo and what would life be like for us if there been social media when we were in high school doing done things like that? And the answer is, I don't know. This happened in two thousand and three. It wasn't on social media, and it wasn't shot with an iPhone. It was in JD. Vance's high school yearbook, senior year and the three girls were the student body president, the secretary, and the treasurer,

plus JD who was vice president. And last time he'll ever be able to say that that was all intentional, So don't tell me about.

a ten point swing nationally. And after all those cook electoral polls swung to Harris Wednesday, they have a new Electoral College score and it is Harris two hundred and ninety seven, Trump two hundred and twenty five. And the Lee the item at Politico yesterday in the wake of all this a story about Trump pivoting, Trump pivoting, Trump resetting. But this this one is different than every other political story about Trump pivoting or Trump resetting because in it

the reset was suggested by vivike Ramaswami. That's a scoop, huh. I mean, never mind the polls almost every last God damned one of them turning around on a dime and going off on a rocket ship in the opposite direction in just the first three and a half weeks since Kamala Harris succeeded Joe Biden as the nominee. This over

here with vivid Ramaswami, this is groundbreaking journal mondalism. Vivike Ramaswami insisting Trump should stick to policy and then he'll win, as if this were possible, as if this were possible, even if Trump was just back from Lord and every laying on of hands mystic in the world, as if this were possible. After that news conference that had no news in it, and was it a conference? The next one he holds, I'm thinking the only thing left he

can remove from the equation is himself. It'll be a Trump news conference, without news, without a conference, and without Trump. Back to the Politico thing. All this was was today's entry to win the Van Jones memorial. Trump's Head is Half full, not Trump's head is half empty competition. Politico wrote twenty eight paragraphs about Viviq Ramaswami saying how they

can win if Trump sticks to the issues. Quoted Ramaswami thirteen different times, including him insisting Trump is quote receptive to his advice on this and that the Republicans can in fact still win a landslide. And you wonder if whoever edits this crap has just moved here from the

planet's skyron and the galaxy of Andromeda. At least Politico did not include in this story and update on which overpriced Washington restaurant Tammy had Ad was just spotted at Ramaswami insists Trump is starting to heed the advice Politico Rights. Turns out it's Rachel Bade who did the interview, So it's Rachel Baide who then writes, We're not so sure

figured that one out for yourself. Huh Rachel Baide after the press conference yesterday without questions or press or conference, ms Baide self identifies, in addition to working for Politico, as an ABC contributing political correspondent, and all I can think of is I wonder if ABC knows about that. Forgive me, but I am now quoting Frank Luntz two days in a row, seriously like he was not this

bizarre mixture of extensive experience and total lack of credibility. Wednesday, Frank Lunz told CNBC, we are nearing the moment at which we will have to start asking how big Kamala Harris's coattails would be. Yesterday, he told MSNBC quote, I'm starting to wonder does Trump want to lose? Because no sane person would campaign the way Donald Trump is campaigning.

Geez Frank, there's your answer right there. Incidentally, in the right wing alternative universe, which is shrinking rapidly, Trump's social media site is filled with demands that he fire Susie Wiles and Chris las Savida as his campaign runners, and

it is filled with calling them traitors. And he is now bringing in new new leadership, and sure enough, yesterday he brought in Corey Lewandowski and Tim Murtau and Alex Brucewitz and Taylor Butterwitch, all of whom he previously got rid of, but all of whom have the singular advantage of not doing time at the moment. What is missed here by the fascists, and I'm sure it will be missed by Politico today or Monday at the latest, is that Trump is no longer in charge of this election.

I don't mean he's no longer in charge of his campaign. No matter how crazy he gets, no matter how incoherent, no matter how committable, He's still in charge of his campaign. It's just that his campaign, his team is part of the whole, is now utterly the submissive part of the campaign. For this, too, Trump remains in charge. He has long held that he is one of the great judges of people and talent of anybody who's ever lived on Earth,

when the exact opposite is true. He has an almost unbelievable ability to sort through dozens of candidates and select exactly the worst one, or, in the cases of many of them, like Mike Pence or General Kelly, exactly the one most poorly fitted for the job. JV Vance is an example of this. Wait, I've got that business card with me somewhere, the one that tells me where I am. Maybe I put it in my other suit. Hold on, let me just give me another four or five hours.

I'm sure I'll know where I am then. But never mind JV for the moment. There's also this new campaign spokesperson, Caroline Levitt. This is I'm saying this to you like you don't already know. The former center fielder of the Saint Anselm College softball team and former Stephanick Comms director who got smoked as the trumpested eight for the first congressional district in New Hampshire. There's no polite way of

saying this. Caroline Levitt is a moron. On Monday, Caroline Levitt went on the podcast hosted by the fascist Stephen Crowder and insisted, and not for the first time, like Trump and everybody else with his campaign has insisted, and not for the first time, that Trump has nothing to do with this amazingly dystopian roadmap that has resonated through this campaign, Project twenty twenty five. Quoting Caroline Levitt again Monday. Monday of this week, he has unveiled hundreds of policy

proposals on his website Agenda forty seven. Caroline Levitt added, the media likes to talk about Project twenty twenty five, which has nothing to do with our campaign. It is Agenda forty seven. Caroline Levitt worked on Project twenty twenty five. She worked for the creators of Project twenty twenty five. As Media Matters notes, Caroline Levitt is in a Project twenty twenty five training video, a training video called the Art of professionalism and as an aside art is clearly

one fella. Trump is never met. This whole video, more than half an hour, is just Caroline Levitt and some dude. In the Project twenty twenty five training video, that's just Caroline Levitt and some dude. Trump's campaign spokesperson talks about having worked in the Trump White House, offers tips on how to work in the federal government. The Project twenty twenty five logo is visible, still visible at the one

minute thirty eight second mark of this video. Visible at the two minute five second mark of this video is Caroline Levitt. She starts talking about ninety seconds later. Half an hour later the video end and it ends with Caroline Levitt, so best of luck and if you need us as a resource, we are here to help. And scene and over the music you just heard there the

Project twenty twenty five logo. Well, I think Trump and his spokesperson have done a clear and convincing job of delineating this impenetrable wall separating the campaign from Project twenty twenty five. And this will never ever come up again again. What wait this just in? Wait this just in. It is soon to be released new book Heritage Foundation President

Kevin Roberts. The tour of Project twenty twenty five has attacked a Washington, DC dog park, the Swamppoodle Park, says Roberts of Project twenty twenty five, which has nothing to do with the Trump campaign except Roberts keeps saying Trump is lying when he says that he says the park has too much room for dogs to play in, not enough room for kids to play in. And this is because of quote, the anti family culture shaping legislation, regulation

and enforcement throughout our sprawling government. We hell the Swamppoodle dog Park and an organization affiliated with it called Fond Friend of Noma Dogs Noma North of Massachusetts Avenue. They are fighting back. The press release should have asked Trump about this at his not News not conference yesterday, begins. Fond rejects mister roberts mischaracterization of swamp Poodle Dog Park

and the Noma neighborhood. Swamp Poodle was first conceived by a group of local friends who wanted a place for their dogs to play from that has bled awesome to family friendly environment that enriches the lives of the neighborhood and the district. So it's its opening in twenty eighteen, Swampoodle has become a staple for DC dog owners and families of all shapes and sizes. As residents know, Noma and the surrounding neighborhoods are home to many parks and

areas for children and families. In addition to the dog park, Swampoodle also has a conveniently located play area for children where you can find kids playing on its unique play structure throughout the day and throughout the year. Just across the street is the recently built Swampoodle Terrace, which provides a safe, enclosed, pet free space for families with infants

and toddlers. A few blocks away are playgrounds at the Hayes Wellness Center and Jo Wilson Elementary School, large open play areas for sports at Ludlow Taylor Elementary and It's Okay is another list of thirty seven other areas in the neighborhood that you can play with your kids. These are just a few of the examples of outdoor, family friendly areas that residents and visitors to the Noma area can enjoy. Fond's Board of directors can testify to this fact.

Our president has two young children and the co located children's play area has become a convenient go to community resource where his entire family, including his dog Luna, can play and be with friends. As a transplant to DC, he and his wife have met friends and other families with children at Swamppoodle that truly demonstrates it takes a village. FOND rejects efforts by Roberts and others to sow division

in our community, the district, and our nation. As members of the NOMA and DC community, FOND prides itself in supporting a family friendly environment where pets and kids can safely play and build lasting friendships with our neighbors. We will continue to support our community and the district in building a safe, inclusive, vibrant, family friendly city. Best Board of Directors, Friends of NOMA, Dogs, Parentheses, FOND Your Turn,

Project twenty twenty five. Kevin Roberts, the Trump campaign, Maybe it's time for you to respond to defend your agenda to institute your anti dog, anti child, anti family, anti families with dogs and children authoritarian regime. Perhaps you could have a suitable spokesperson take up your banner and insist that you Project twenty twenty five trumpists are not weirdos who hate dogs. May I suggest to you for this role the most qualified person in America, Governor Christy Nome.

They're all stoned, aren't they? Isn't that the only possible explanation? Also of interest here, that's right, a Republican candidate for the House is an ex cop who had to settle a case in which she was accused of handcuffing an infant. And if you think that's the worst, here's where we are as a species today. Throwing out the ceremonial first pitch yesterday before a Major League baseball.

in it. Fridays, Thurber coming up first, there are still more new idiots to talk about. The daily roundup of the miss Grants, morons and Dunning Kruger effects specimens who constitute two days worst persons in the World. Sellers does it in a Scottish accent. So today's worst persons in the World, bad Scottish accent Lebrons worse. Alison Esposito you

can already guess. Alison is a Republican and she's running for Congress in New York in the eighteenth and her job used to be cop in Witchborough, Brooklyn in the seventieth precinct twice, it turns out, reportedly she was the subject of lawsuits that the City of New York had to settle once for unlawful arrest cost the city ninety

five thousand dollars. And then there was this. In twenty sixteen, Posito and another officer entered an apartment building on East one hundred and first Street and quote did unlawfully stop, assault, frisk, handcuff, detain, arrest, and imprison unquote an infant named Rebecca Quavas, According to a complaint later filed by Quabas's mother, Chantalbasquez, I'll just read that operative part again quote did unlawfully stop, assault, frisk, handcuff, detain, arrest,

and imprison an infant to continue the story. An attorney for Esposito responded to the complaint by denying the allegations, arguing that plaintiff's culpable conduct caused or contributed in hooleor in part to their injuries or damages. The City of New York still settled the case for twenty five thousand dollars. An infant allegedly frisked and handcuffed an infant. We don't have an exact age for this Rebecca Quaves, other than

she was an infant. The house seat the fascist running Esposito four is currently held by Pat Ryan, who is a human being. But if you want to go and make a joke about how the Republicans are interested in babies until they're born and then afterwards they're going to stop and frisk them, go right ahead. The runner up

worser RFK Junior. Sure he tried to get Trump to give him a cabinet spot in exchange for dropping out and endorsing Trump, and when that didn't work, sure he tried to get in to see Kamala with the same offer. So basically, the RFK campaign is an extortion racket. No. No, but this is not about RFK Junior, per se. This is about Kristin Davis, not the great actress from Sex in the City, but a different Kristin Davis, who was

the former Manhattan Madam. Radar reported last week not O'Reilly the magazine that she was working as an advisor to a Kennedy pack. She went to jail for her Manhattan Madam era stuff. Now David Corn at Mother Jones reports what she has been advising RFK on. No, it's not about keeping your fly unzipped while you pose for a photograph with a dead bear you may or may not

have stabbed. No, it's using artificial intelligence to exploit the data on your phone and my phone and use it to determine if and how RFK should send you political advertising. Just quote Korn's piece to utilize AI technology to create custom messaging and personalized marketing campaigns working off mobile advertiser ID numbers. A mobile advertising ID or made is a

unique identifier that is assigned to each mobile device. As Davis explains it, everything you do on your cell phone is monitored by the provider, what you read, what you listen to, what you purchase. There are companies that take that data and use AI to create profiles of the users. They know You're attitudes, values, and beliefs based on data from your cell phone provider. For instance, what Facebook groups you are part of?

comes into play? But our winner is the worst Your New York Mets who finished their series against the Oakland and or Sacramento and or Las Vegas climate change victim athletics with a day game yesterday. Every ball games now seemingly every ball game has a ceremonial first pitch. Somebody trots out to the mound or near it, wearing a shirt with the team's name on it, and throws a pitch.

And sometimes it's funny because they throw it wrong and it winds out on the dugout, and other times it's funny because they throw it wrong and it hits the photographer in the private parts. Yesterday, the Mets had a ceremonial first pitch that was done by a woman they described as a viral sensation named Hailey Welch. Who's Hailey Welch. Hailey Welch is best known by her sort of self assigned, inadvertent,

unplanned nickname of Hawk Tua. If you don't know Hailey Welch or Hawk Tua, I'm not gonna tell you, but you can look it up. While this audio of hawk Tua's first pitch plays in the background, it is customed to have a player or coach catch the ceremonial first pitch, but oddly enough for the Mets yesterday, Hawk to a lady did not throw her first pitch to a player

because all the players are too smart for that. You don't want to catch anything from hawk to A. So her friend, I think her friend from the Hawk to a video caught the pitch, and then they ran up towards each other and chest bumped. And all I can say is just remember Baseball's rules are explicit about this. The pitcher is not allowed to touch their fingers to their mouth while on the mound. But the Mets now know who to turn to if ever they are in

a blowout. And I assume she threw a spitball, New York, get your last les in with the Hawk to a woman, Mets two days, worst persons in the world. Could you get anybody out? We need relief fetching whoa I'll will beat? She must come cheap, she must come cheap to the number one story on the Countdown. And since it is the weekend edition, it's time for some James Thurber. The Catbird Seat combines two of my all time favorite things,

Thurber and baseball broadcasting. As Thurber will reveal in the story, the title comes from a catchphrase used by the Brooklyn Dodgers legendary announcer Red Barber, the man who trained Vin Scully and is my late friend Vin's only true competition for greatest baseball play by playing man of all time. I met Red Barber. Once I interviewed him for CNN. He called me Keith throughout the interview. I was so starstruck.

It's pretty much all I remember from the interview. Anyway, Bert Lancaster bought the movie rights to this story and he got Billy Wilder to commit to direct it. Well, how come you've never heard of this perfect sounding film, The Catbird Seat, directed by Billy Wilder. They sold the rights and in nineteen sixty the film was made, but they relocated it from Manhattan to Scotland, starring Peter Sellers

dressed up as an old man as mister Martin. It's okay unless you've read the story or had it read to you from the Thurber Carnival nineteen forty five, The Catbird Seat by James Thurber. Mister Martin bought the pack of camels on Monday night in the most crowded cigar store on Broadway. It was theater time, and seven or eight men were buying cigarettes. The clerk didn't even glance at mister Martin, who put the pack in his overcoat

pocket and went out. If any of the staff at F and S had seen him buy the cigarettes, they would have been astonished. For it was generally known that mister Martin did not smoke, and never had. No one saw him. It was just a week to the day since mister Martin had decided to rub out missus old Jean Barrows. The term rub out pleased him because it suggested nothing more than the correction of an error, in

this case, an error of mister Fitweiler. Mister Martin had spent each night of the past week working out his plan and examining it as he walked home. Now he went over it again for the hundredth time. He resented the element of imprecision, the margin of guesswork that entered into the business. The project, as he had worked it out, was casual and bold. The risks were considerable. Something might go wrong anywhere along the line, and therein lay the

cunning of his scheme. No one would ever see in the cautious, painstaking hand of Irwin Martin, head of the filing department at F and S, of whom mister Fitweiler had once said, man is fallible, but Martin isn't. No one would see his hand, that is, unless he were caught in the act, sitting in his apartment drinking a glass of milk. Mister Martin reviewed his case against missus Old Jean Barrows, as he had every night for seven nights. He began at the beginning, backing voice and braying laugh.

Had first profaned the halls of fns on March seventh, nineteen forty one. Mister Martin had a head for dates. Old Roberts, the personnel chief, had introduced her as the newly appointed special advisor to the president of the firm, mister Fitweiler. The woman had appalled mister Martin instantly, but he had not shown it. He had given her his dry hand, a look of studious concentration in a faint smile. Well, she said, looking at the papers on his desk, are

you lifting the ox cart out of the ditch. As mister Martin recalled that moment over his milk, he squirmed slightly. He must keep his mind on her crimes as a special advisor, not on her peccadillos as a personality. This he found difficult to do. In spite of entering an objection and sustaining it. The faults of the woman as a woman kept chattering on in his mind like an

unruly witness. She had for almost two years now, baited him in the halls, in the elevator, even in his own office, into which she romped now and then like a circus horse. She was constantly shouting these silly questions at him. Are you lefting the ox cart out of the ditch? Are you tearing up the pea patch? Are you hollering down the rain barrel? Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel? Are you sitting in

the cat married seat. It was Joey Hart, one of mister Martin's two assistants, who had explained what the gibberish meant. She must be a Dodger fan, he had said, Red Bob announces the Dodger games over the radio, and he uses these expressions, picked them up down south. Joey had gone on to explain one or two, tearing up the pea patch meant going on a rampage, Sitting in the catbirds seat meant sitting pretty like a batter with three balls and no strikes on him. Mister Martin dismissed all

this with an effort. It had been annoying, it had driven him near to distraction, but he was too solid a man to be moved to murder by anything so childish. It was unfortunate, he reflected, as he passed on to the important charges against Missus Barrows, that he had stood up under it so well. He had maintained always an outward appearance of polite tolerance. Why I even believe you like the woman Mispaired, his other assistant, had once said to him. He had simply smiled a gavel wrapped in

mister Martin's mind, and the case proper was resumed. Missus Aul Jean Barrows stood charged with wilful, platant and persistent attempts to destroy the efficiency and system of fn S. It was confident material and relevant to review her advent and rise to power. Mister Martin had got the story from Miss Paired, who seemed always able to find things out.

According to her, Missus Barrows had met mister Fitweller at a party where she had rescued him from the embraces of a powerfully built, drunken man who had mistaken the president of F and S for a famous retired middle Western football coach. She had led him to a sofa and somehow worked upon him a monstrous magic. The aging gentleman had jumped to the conclusion there and then that this was a woman of singular attainments, equipped to bring

out the best in him and in the firm. A week later he had introduced her into F and S as his special adviser. On that day, confusion got its foot in the door. After miss Tyson, mister Brundage and mister Bartlett had been fired and mister Munson had taken his hat and stalked out mailing. In his resignation letter, Old Roberts had been emboldened to speak to mister Fitweiler.

He mentioned that mister Munson's department had become a little disrupted, and hadn't they perhaps better resumed the old system there. Mister Fitwiler had said, certainly not. He had the greatest faith in missus Barrow's ideas. They require a little seasoning. Little seasoning is all, he had added. Mister Roberts had given it up. Mister Martin reviewed in detail all the changes wrought by missus Barrows. She'd begun chipping at the cornices of the firm's edifice, and now she was swinging

at the foundation stones with a pickaxe. Mister Martin came now in his summing up to the afternoon of Monday, November two, nineteen forty two, just one week ago. On that day, at three pm, missus Barrow's had bounced into his office. Boo, she had yelled, Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel? Mister Martin had looked at her from under his green eye shade, saying nothing. She had begun to wander about the office, taking it in with her great popping eyes. Do you really need

all these filing cabinets, she had demanded. Suddenly, mister Martin's heart had jumped each of these files, he had said, keeping his voice even plays an indispensable part in the system of f and s. She had brayed at him, well don't tear up the pea patch, and gone to the door. From there she had bawled, but you sure have got a lot of fine scrap in here. Mister Martin could no longer doubt that the finger was on his beloved department. Her pickaxe was on the upswing poison

for the first blow. It had not come yet. He had received no blue memo from the enchanted mister Fitweler, bearing nonsensical instructions deriving from this obscene woman. But there was no doubt in mister Martin's mind that one would be forthcoming. He must act quickly. Already a precious week had gone by. Mister Martin stood up in his living room, still holding his milk glass. Gentleman of the jury, he said to himself, I demand the death penalty for this

horrible person. The next day, mister Martin followed his routine as usual. He polished his glasses more often and once sharpened and already sharp pencil. But not even mispaired noticed. Only once did he catch sight of his victim. She swept past him in the hall with the patronizing Hai. At five point thirty. He walked home as usual and had a glass of milk as usual. He had never drunk anything stronger in his life, unless you could count

ginger Ale. The late Sam Schlosser, the s of F and S had praised mister Martin at a staff meeting several years before for his temperate habits. One of our most efficient workers. Neither drinks nor smokes, he had said, the results speak for themselves. Mister Fitweller had sat by, nodding approval. Mister Martin was still thinking about that red letter day, as he walked over to the Shafts restaurant on Fifth Avenue near forty sixth Street. He got there

as he always did, at eight o'clock. He finished his dinner and the financial page of the New York Sun quartered at to nine. As he always did, It was his custom after dinner to take a walk. This time he walked down Fifth Avenue at a casual place. His gloved hands felt moist and warm, his forehead cold. He transferred the camels from his overcoat to a jacket pocket. He wondered as he did so, if they did not represent an unnecessary note of strain. Missus Barrows smoked only luckies.

It was his idea to puff a few puffs on a camel after the rubbing out, stub it out in the ashtray, holding her lipstick, saying luckies, and thus drag a small red herring across the trail. Perhaps it was not a good idea. It would take time. He might even choke too loudly. Mister Martin had never seen the house on West twelfth Street where Missus Barrows lived, but he had a clear enough picture of it. Fortunately, she had bragged to everybody about her decky first floor apartment

in the perfectly darling three story red brick. There would be no doorman or other attendants, just the tenants of the second and third floors. As he walked along, mister Martin realized that he would get there before nine to thirty. He had considered walking north on Fifth Avenue from Shrafts to a point from which it would take him until

ten o'clock to reach the house. At that hour people were less likely to be coming in or going out, But the procedure would have made an awkward loop in the straight thread of his casualness, and he had abandoned it. It was impossible to figure when people would be entering or leaving the house anyway, there was a great risk at any hour if he ran into anybody, he would simply have to place the rubbing out of old Jean Barrows in the inactive file forever. The same thing would

hold true if there was someone in her apartment. In that case, he would just say that he had been passing by, recognized her charming house, and thought to drop in. It was eighteen minutes after nine when mister Martin turned into twelfth Straight. A man passed him and a man and a woman talking. There was no one within fifty paces. When he came to the house halfway down the block. He was up the steps and in the small vestibule, and no time pressing the bell under the card that

said Missus ol Jean Arrows. When the clicking in the lock started, he jumped forward against the door. He got inside fast, closing the door behind him. A bulb in a lantern hung from the hall ceiling on a chain seemed to give a monstrously bright light. There was nobody on the stair which went up ahead of him along the left wall. A door opened down the hall on the wall on the right. He went toward it swiftly

on tiptoe. Now, for God's sakes, look who's here? Bawled Missus Barrows, and her braining laugh rang out like the report of a shotgun. He rushed past her like a football attacker, bumping her. Hey, quit shoving, she said, closing the door behind them. They were in her living room, which seemed to mister Martin to be lighted by a hundred lamps. What's after you, she said, Here's jumpy as a goat. He found he was unable to speak. His heart was wheezing in his throat. I yes, he finally

brought out. He was jabbering and laughing as she started to help him off with his coat. No, no, he said, I'll put it here. He took it off and put it on a chair near the door. Your hat and gloves too, She said, you're in a lady's house. He put his hat on top of the coat. Missus Barrows seemed larger than he had thought. He kept his gloves on. I was passing by, he said, I recognized. Is there anyone here? She laughed louder than ever. No, she said,

we're all alone. You're white as a sheet, you funny man, whatever has come over you. I'll mix you a toddy. She started toward a door across the room. Scotch and so to be all right, But say you don't drink, do you? She turned and gave him her amused look. Mister Martin pulled himself together. Scotch and soda will be all right, he heard himself say. He could hear her laughing in the kitchen. Mister Martin looked quickly around the living room for the weapon he had counted on finding one.

There there were and irons and a poker and something in a corner that looked like an Indian club. None of them would do it, couldn't be that way. He began to pace around. He came to a desk. On it lay a metal paper knife with an ornate handle. Would it be sharp enough? He reached for it and knocked over a small brass jar. Stamps spilled out of it and fell onto the floor with a clatter. Hey, missus Barrows, yelled from the kitchen. Are you tearing up

the pea patch? Mister Martin gave a strange laugh. Picking up the knife, he tried its point against his left wrist. It was blunt. It wouldn't do. When Missus Barrows reappeared carrying two high balls, mister Martin, standing there with his gloves on, became acutely conscious of the fantasy. He had wrought cigarettes in his pocket, a drink prepared for him. It was all too grossly improbable. It was more than that, it was impossible. Somewhere in the back of his mind

a vague idea stirred sprouted. For Heaven's sake, take off those gloves, said Missus Barrows. I always wear them in the house, said mister Martin. The idea began to bloom strange and wonderful. She put the glasses on a coffee table in front of a sofa and sat on the sofa. Come over here, you odd little man, she said. Mister Martin went over and sat beside her. It was difficult getting a cigarette out of the pack of camels, but he managed it. She held a match for him. Laughing well,

she said, handing him his drink. This is perfectly marvelous, you with a drink and a cigarette. Mister Martin puffed, not too awkwardly, and took a gulp of the highball. I drink and smoke all the time, he said. He clinked his glass against hers. Here's nuts to that old wind bag fit whiler, he said, and gulped again. The stuff tasted awful, but he made no grimace. Really, mister Martin, she said, her voice and posture changing. You are insulting

our employer. Missus Barrows was now all special advisor to the President. I am preparing a bomb, said mister Martin, which will blow the old goat higher than hell. He had only had a little of the drink, which was not strong. It couldn't be that. Do you take dope or something, missus Barrows asked coldly. Heroine said, mister Martin, I'll be coked to the gills when I bumped that old buzzard off. Mister Martin, she shouted, getting to her feet, that will be all of that. You must go at once.

Mister Martin took another swallow of the drink. He tapped his cigarette out in the ash tray and put the pack of camels on the coffee table. Then he got up. She stood glaring at him. He walked over and put on his hat and coat. Not a word about this, he said, and laid an index finger against his lips. All missus Barrows could bring out was a really Mister Martin put his hand on the doorknob. I'm sitting in the catbird's seat, he said. He stuck his tongue out

at her, and left. Nobody saw him go Mister Martin got to his apartment walking well before eleven. No one saw him go in. He had two glasses of milk after brushing his teeth, and he felt elated. It wasn't tipsy, in is because he hadn't been tipsy anyway. The walk had worn off all off of the whiskey. He got in bed and read a magazine for a while. He was asleep before midnight. Mister Martin got to the office

at eight point thirty the next morning as usual. At a quarter to nine, Old Jean Barrows, who had never before arrived at work before ten, swept into his office. I'm reparting to mister Fitwailer now, she shouted. If he turns you over to the police, it's no more than you deserve. Mister Martin gave her a look of shocked surprise. I beg your pardon, he said. Missus Barrow snorted and bounced out of the room, leaving Miss Paird and Joey Hart staring after her. What's the matter with that old

devil now, asked Miss Paired. I have no idea, said mister Martin, resuming his work. The other two looked at him, and then at each other. Miss Paired got up and went out. She walked slowly past the closed door of mister Fitwiler's office. Missus Barrows was yelling inside, but she was not brain. Miss Paired could not hear what the woman was saying. She went back to her desk. Forty five minutes later, Missus Barrows left the President's office and

went into her own, shutting the door. It wasn't until half an hour later that mister Fitweiler sent for mister Martin, the head of the filing department. Neat quiet, attentive, stood in front of the old man's desk. Mister Fitweiler was pale and nervous. He took his glasses off and twiddled them. He made a small ruffing sound in his throat. Martin, he said, you have been with us more than twenty years. Twenty two, sir, said mister Martin. In that time pursued

the President. Your work and your manner have been exemplary. I trust so, sir, said mister Martin. I have understood, Martin, said mister Fitwaller, that you have never taken a drink or smoked. That is correct, sir, said mister Martin. H Yeah, yes, mister Fitwiler polished his glasses. You may describe what you did after leaving the office yesterday, Martin, he said, certainly, sir, he said. I walked home. Then I went to Shrafts

for dinner. Afterward, I walked home again. I went to bed early, sir, and read a magazine for a while I was asleep before eleven. Ah. Yes, said mister Fitwiler. Again. He was silent for a moment, searching for the proper words to say to the head of the filing department, Missus Barrows. He said finally, Missus Barrows has worked hard, Martin, very hard. It brings me to report, but she has suffered a severe breakdown. It has taken the form of

a persecution complex accompanied by distressing hallucinations. I'm very sorry, sir, said mister Martin. Missus Barrows is under the delusion, continued mister Fitwiler, that you visited her last evening and behaved yourself in an unseemly manner. He raised his hand to silence mister Martin's little, pained outcry. It is the nature of these psychological diseases, mister Fitwiler said, to fix upon the least likely and most innocent party as the source

of persecution. These matters are not for the lay mind to grasp. Martin. I've just had my psychiatrist, doctor Fitch, on the phone. He would not, of course commit himself, but he made enough generalizations to substantiate my suspicions. I suggested to missus Barrows when she had completed her story to me this morning, that she visited doctor Fitch for I suspected a condition. Whats that she flew, I regret to say, into a rage and demanded requested that I

call you on the carpet. You may not know, Martin, but Missus Barrows had planned a reorganization of your department, subject to my approval. Of course, subject to my approval. This brought you, rather than anyone else to her mind. But again that is a phenomenon for doctor Fitch and not for us. So Martin, I'm afraid Missus Barrow's usefulness here is at an end. I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, said mister Martin. It was at this point that the door to the office blew open with the suddenness of a

gas main explosion, and Missus Barrow's catapulted through. It is the little rad denying it, she screamed. He can't get away with that. Mister Martin got up and moved discreetly to a point beside mister Fitwiler's chair. You drank and smoked at my apartment, she bawled at mister Martin, and you know it. You called mister Fitwailer an old wind bag and said you were gonna blow him up when you got coked to your gills on your head Heroin. She stopped yelling to catch her breath, and a new

glint came into her popping eyes. If you weren't set to drab, ordinary, little man, she said, I'd think you'd planned it all, sticking your tongue out, saying you were sitting in the cat buried seat because you thought no one would believe me when I told it. My god, it's really too perfect. She brayed loudly and hysterically, and the fury was on her again. She glared at mister Fitwiler. Can't you see how he has checked us, you old fool.

Can't you see his little game? But mister Fitwiler had been surreptitiously pressing all the buttons under the top of his desk, and employees of fn S began pouring into the room. Stockton said, Missus Fitchwiler, you and Fishbine will take missus Barrows to her home. Missus Powell, you will go with them. Stockton, who had played a little football in high school, blocked Missus Barrows as she made for

mister Martin. It took him and fish Mine together to force her out of the door into the hall crowded with stenographers and office boys. She was still screaming imprecations at mister Martin, tangled and contradictory imprecations. The hubbub finally died out down the corridor. I regret that this has happened, said mister Fitweiler. I shall ask you to dismiss it from your mind. Martin, Yes, sir, said mister Martin, anticipating his chiefs, that will be all. By moving to the door,

I will dismiss it. He went out and shut the door, and his step was light and quick in the hall. When he entered his department, he had slowed down to his customary gate, and he walked quietly across the room to the double twenty file, wearing a look of studious centration. The Catbird Seat by James Thurber. I've done all the damn and Jack can do here. Thank you for listening. Please share this podcast with somebody who does not listen

to it. The ratings are on the rise, and as an exhibitionist, I need the largest audience I can get. By the way I have a correction to Thursday's podcast when Fox fired me in two thousand and one and the guy from Sports Illustrated wrote the article about how my career was over twenty three and a half years ago and he's retired since, and I'm still doing this. Fox tried to get me to blow myself up publicly by attacking them so they didn't have to pay off

the rest of my contract. And for some reason, in retelling this yesterday, I said they had to pay me one hundred thousand dollars year went In fact, they had to pay me one hundred thousand dollars a month, most of which I still have. Thank you, So I'm sorry God for the money for the error anyway. Brian Ray and John Phillip Shanelle, the musical directors have Countdown, have arranged, produced and performed most of our music today. Mister Chanale

handled orchestration and keyboards. Mister Ray was on the guitars, bass and drums. It was produced by Tko Brothers. Our satirical and pithy musical comments are by the best baseball stadium organist ever, Nancy Faust. Sports music is the Olberman theme from ESPN two, written by Mitch Warren, Davis Curtesy of ESPN, Inc. Other music arranged and performed by the group No Horns Allowed. My announcer today is my friend John Dean, and everything else was pretty much my fault.

So that's countdown for this the eighty second day until the twenty twenty four presidential election, the one three hundred and seventeenth day since convicted felon dementia J Trump's first attempted who against the democratically elected government of the United States. Use the September eighteenth sentencing hearing. Use the mental health system. You have this available to you now, President Biden, use

presidential immunity to stop him from doing it again. While we still hawk to a can and anti Semitic, anti immigration, gun nut Republicans, please stop shooting at Trump. The next scheduled countdown is Tuesday. Bulletins as the news requires until the next one. I'm Keith Olrumman. Good morning, good afternoon, goodnight, and good luck. Countdown with Keith Olderman is a production

of iHeartRadio. For more podcasts from iHeartRadio, visit the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.