According to Press Secretary Sean Spicer, the Australia/US refugee ban has not been cleared with the boss. Bad Igor!
For all the things in Donald Trump’s repertoire, it seems that gymnastics is proving to be one of his strongest. In regards to our refugee deal with the US (you know, the one that was so good, we’re not allowed to criticise the US) Trumples pulled off a backflip, with the possibility of a pike.
According to the wobbling untrustworthy lips of Donald’s Igor, White House press secretary Sean Spicer, the deal is not strictly done. Apparently, it was done, but as the clock struck 9ish, the official word is no official word, with Spicer saying that if the President decides on the deal, it will be because of our longstanding “friends-with-benefits-don’t-call-it-a-relationship” relationship with the United States. “If” being the most important quantifier in politics/life.
Hoorah. On the Australian side of the phone, PM Malcolm was “confident” of the deal being done, stating that a section of the Executive Order allowed pre-existing deals with countries to continue. Which is nice. And also sounds suspiciously like the platitude uttered by those burnt by love, the whole “he’ll call, because he said he would” thing… Naw.
Also on The Big Smoke
- Turnbull a dull lightbulb as world leaders shine
- Donald Trump: Thank you for everything
- Breaking ban: Turnbull’s art of the deal
If the deal is off, does this mean that we politically have the green light to enact the first rule of Politics Club? In that we should always talk about things that look bad for people other than those who are raising said criticism? Hmm?
Time will indeed tell. And we will be told, presumably in a press conference where the collected media are belittled for not respecting the genius of his boss’ genius, and that the creature named Trumplestein is merely the very reason why Alternative Science has been so heavily funded. I have returned, Master!
However. Allow me to momentarily dip my voice to a Dr Phillian timbre and box one’s ears with a homespun, homegrown, down on the prairie batch of “real talk”. Boy howdy. Pre-election, I never really paid Trump much mind. Yes, he was rich, and yes, he squinted while he callously fired people for our entertainment, but I didn’t give him credit for hauling himself onto the top of the business ladder, before putting a tower upon the top rung, climbing that, and roaring above the Manhattan skyline waiving affidavits at critics like some cash-heavy King Kong. But, to quote a great philosophic mind of my generation, Ms Hilary Duff, that was so yesterday. Today’s dose of yeah-nah, the dragging of Trump’s feet through a deal he doesn’t want, with an outcome that does nothing for him, is impressive, and I take back my smug eyebrows, once raised in his direction, carved in the angles of “you right are ya?”.
Allow me to take the sour grapes Trump is grinding into the White House floor with his feet, pour them into a glass bucket and earnestly sup the cheeky merlot that is the 2017 Vintage of Chateau le Don.