Not-Watch Trump's 'Emergency' Border Crisis Announcement, With Your Wonkette!
Starting too soon, Donald Trump, who is unaccountably president of the United States, is gonna beam straight into your TV set to jaw and whine and SNIFFFFFFF in a speech he "is writing himself" about the "crisis" at the southern border.
By "crisis," Trump does not mean we are killing a non-zero number of Guatemalan children in our custody, whether through negligence or actual malice. There are now refugees whose babies we took from them, and those babies are dead. He means ISIS we guess, or the "crisis" he's really worried about: that if he doesn't get his border wall, he won't win reelection.
Last night we took the boss of you, Donna Rose, to the hospital. We're second-time-around parents; we didn't rush her to the ER with a sniffle. But after five days of a lowgrade fever and feeling pooey, yesterday our daughter never woke up. (I DON'T MEAN SHE DIED. But she didn't wake up and she sure looked like it.) When her fever hit 102.7 on our crap home thermometer (the better one at the hospital read a harrowing 104.5), we took her in, fairly convinced we'd waited too long and killed our babby.
It was really bad you guys.
At the ER in our little town, and then in an extremely comfortable room overnight that quite felt like a hotel, at least five nurses and nurses aides checked on us through morning. The baby got her fluids, and even in her flu-coma had gracious, princessly manners like a three-year-old Sara Crewe.
And I sat in the armchair a nurse brought for me and watched the machines, the ones that said her oxygen had dipped under 90, and her heartrate was above 145. At midnight, I no longer thought she might die; there were too many people on alert for her, and they hadn't stressed her ribby little body in the "hieleras" -- the iceboxes where we hold men, women, children and babies, where babies were taken from breastfeeding mothers and the children aren't allowed to cuddle for warmth. They hadn't put her in a desert tent city to fend for herself like Joe Arpaio's fever dream. She hadn't journeyed a thousand miles in little flip-flops to be taken at the end from her parents and never seen again. She was beautifully cared for, and I couldn't have asked for gentler, more conscientious, more empathetic professionals. I assume there were professionals just like that when we finally let the Guatemalan babies get emergency care. I assume there was nothing more they could have done. But the hospital for at least two children came too late, after too much evil had been done in our names.
At lunchtime today, Donna Rose woke up on her own, and ate French toast, and a few hours later they sent us home to watch all the cartoons that have ever existed. And now we're here with you, and we're not watching that pud.
Comment about anything else, but fuck him and his border, which after two years of his vapid brutality still manages to be a shock to our conscience, we won't have it in this post.
Let's drink to our health instead.
Rebecca Schoenkopf is the owner, publisher, and editrix of Wonkette. She is a nice lady, SHUT UP YUH HUH. She is very tired with this fucking nonsense all of the time, and it would be terrific if you sent money to keep this bitch afloat. She is on maternity leave until 2033.