(I just alienated half the country)
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Okay, I’ll admit it – I can’t ignore the story any longer. As a humorist, I can’t not comment on America’s third-ever impeachment.

So some of you might want to leave now.

For the next few minutes, if you’re one of the nine people in the northern hemisphere who don’t passionately hate President Donald J. Trump, you might laugh. You might have fun, or at least not throw stuff at the TV. In that case, you’re welcome, and thanks for reading.

(No, I did not pay nine people to say that, as far as you know. Besides, because I’m over sixty, and I’m single, and I live alone, and my job involves computers and telemarketing, I don’t know nine people.)

However, if you do passionately hate Trump, like many people, most mammals, and all of Hollywood, it begins to get a bit tricky. If you choose to keep reading anyway, you still might laugh, but I wouldn’t bet my lunch money on it … assuming the network TV hate-kinder haven’t gone all Jeremiah over Trump allegedly implementing another sinister plan, like, oh, say, outlawing lunch money for minorities and non-legal non-citizens.

But at least you’ll have a little more justification about why you hate Trump.

Either way you care to proceed, I can absolutely guarantee you one thing: this week’s column will be funnier than Al Gore.

It all began when a Queens businessman named Donald John Trump was charged with the High Crime of not losing an election. “But wait!” you might be saying, if you’re one of those people who can read and talk at the same time. “Somebody always doesn’t lose in elections, except in parts of Florida. Where’s the high crime?”

Don’t be silly. Of course Trump was guilty of several hundred crimes, because a thyroid-deficient Congressdude named Adam Schiff kept claiming he had a garage full of proof that he couldn’t show us. (Mr. Schiff is, well, hard to look at. When the man gets overexcited, he does this weird, intense trick with his eyeballs that makes Marty Feldman look like a TV spokesman for Lens Crafters. The guy looks like a ferret with a suit, and tenure.)

So it was on. The House of Representatives stopped everything they weren’t doing and voted to impeach the President of the occasionally United States for, among other things, saying “read the transcript” too many times.

For his part, upon hearing that he was now just the third Oval Officer to be impeached, President Trump remained nonplussed, which he misspelled. He slathered himself in lawyers, summoned the White House press corps, said “Yeah, whatever. Next?” and went back to his foul, evil deeds, like cutting taxes, reducing unemployment, and sleeping with interns. (Oh, wait – that was a different impeached President.)

Shortly after the vote, the Speaker of the House rushed the procedure forward, if you define “rushed” as “about four weeks later including a paid vacation.” Speaker Nancy Pelosi, who’d bought a spanking new Wilma Flintstone necklace for the occasion, held a live-on-TV event showing her signing the paperwork, during which she used at least eleven taxpayer-funded pens to spell her own name.

Standing behind Wilma during the signing were the House “managers,” the select group who would be “managing” the Senate Trial part of the impeachment process, if you define “managing” as “Moe, Larry, and Curly discover Kabuki theatre.” Adam Schiff was there, simultaneously staring at eight different things. Also present was Congressional trencherman Jerry Nadler, a man with a surprisingly voracious appetite for a guy who’s shorter than Danny DeVito’s proctologist.

(Speaking of Bill Clinton, not only was he charged with a High Crime or so … he was also suspected of sleeping with an intern named Miss Demeanor.)

Finally, four weeks after the House impeached Donald Trump and his hair, Speaker Pelosi privately ended her joyous high-fiving party, publicly concluded her thoughtful prayer vigil, and gathered her special pens and her House Managers. Then, for the first time in history, Congressman Jerold “Buffet” Nadler walked all the way from the House of Representatives to the Senate without stopping to eat.

After a brief incident involving Nadler and a nearby taco kiosk, the Manager posse arrived at the Senate, only to discover that the locks had been changed by Senate leader Mitch McConnell, who smiled once in 1962. Congressman Schiff glared at the door until the locks surrendered, and four dozen Central American illegals applied for asylum, driver’s licenses, and free college tuition in his left eyeball.

As of this writing, the Senate is busy listening to itself before the actual impeachment trial begins. I can’t make any comments about that yet, because it’s been about as dull as Al Gore reading a phonebook from some backwater burg in Idaho.

In other words, the impeachment trial’s just not funny.

Yet.

Give it time.