You may not believe this, but I am the Deep State. That's right, boychik, I pull all the strings. I'm the king maker. The eminence grise par excellence. Until recently. I say this not to brag. But to explain my actions during the past week. When a pesky journalist by the name of Rebecca Ballhaus began writing about me in the Wall Street Journal. Her first article merely insinuated that although I was outwardly an elderly slob who couldn't button his sweater right, I had suspicious links to the Andrea Doria affair and was the prime mover behind the horrible outcome of the Giant Rat of Sumatra League. My lawyers said she had not crossed the line into libel or slander, so there was little I could do except have my boys throw limburger cheese at her car as she drove by my secretive lair outside of Bumpass, Virginia. Then she hit me where it hurts by writing about my connections with A. Robins (AKA 'The Banana Man.') Although the Board warned me to take no direct action I felt compelled to show her who was boss. So I took a water balloon down to her newspaper office -- but they said she worked at home. So I threw the water balloon at the nearest pigeon and ordered my chauffeur to drive me to her home. It is a palatial estate on the banks of Cockle Creek. Once there I hid in the bushes to spy on her. But the gardener caught me. He locked me in the tool shed until I promised to go straight home and to bed without my supper. But I was not defeated. Not by a long shot. The next day I wrote a letter to the editor. Nothing came of it. So I decided to resign as the Deep State controller and begin painting water color clowns. If Ballhaus wants to write about me anymore she's gonna have to explain what a variegated wash is and not accuse me of taking down the Silicon Valley Bank . . .
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