Slippery People

As I browsed the morning news, MSM people, aka Project Mockingbird. I want you to know that NOTHING you are hearing from CNN, The New York Times, even good old CBS (that all watching eye….) Let’s think for a minute…WHO OWNS THE MSM?

Who owns the CIA? Think Rothchild. Who do the Rothchilds, Clintons, Obamas and even the Bush family…who do they worship?

If you guessed SATAN you are one step ahead of 92% of the American people.

Donald J. Trump will not be impeached. Nope. It isn’t going to happen. Remember, this man is a genius. He is ten steps ahead of everyone, and yes, he was ordained by God to turn on the heat, up the stakes, and bring this world and our battle with evil to a screeching halt. Here is the latest. There will be earth quaking news soon to come. I am here for any questions you may have, but for the precise details? I’ll leave that to the professionals. ūüôā

I don’t know about you, but I think it’s time President Trump. Declassify the information. The true patriots will be here to clean up the mess. Who took the money? I think you have all the information you need to come to the correct conclusion.

The birds are singing. The rest of them are facing execution for treason. Stop the evil, get on board, and FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT…

Instant Karma


I don’t know about you, but I am sick to death of gloom and doom, evil that cuts you off at your knees, leaves you shaken, breathless.¬† The enemy¬†is losing, in leaps and bounds, but the news, the mainstream?¬† They want you frightened and feeling vulnerable, to be honest, at times I don’t know what to believe, but I¬†do believe in QAnon, and let’s just say the concentration seems to be about the blood lines, the Illuminati and their puppets-satanic symbolism and transference runs RAMPANT in every mode of entertainment to be had, the news is enough to make me cry, and never, ever stop.¬† But I need to stop investigating and start¬†living.¬† I know more than I should, and by that I mean I wish I knew nothing at all-but then I wouldn’t be me, and I have felt spiritually led through the entire process.

I had a good week, socially.¬† Lunch with a friend two days in a row! ¬† I actually made my commitments over the last few days, and it feels so, so good.¬† I also, after 40 years, began eating a small meal at lunch.¬† I had a hard time pulling it off as of late, I was having dizzy spells and acid gut.¬† Please………….I deserve it.

This cracked me up this morning. Enough so that I actually posted on social media! ūüôā

Speaking of deserving……how in the harry do these people sleep at night?¬† Do they hang upside down from trees, waiting for some unsuspecting dope to come along?¬† Do they NOT KNOW where they are going at the end of the day? ¬† Seriously, what is their thought pattern?¬† They are blatantly throwing it up in our faces, but know this: they are running scared.¬† President Trump, with the aid of the United States military, has put a few of their Cabal buddies in GITMO.¬† Do they not see a common thread?¬† What did they THINK would happen when Trump began to wage a war, drain the swamp, look at evil so bleak that a group of NYC policemen vomited and wept when looking at evidence.¬† I hear they are all still receiving therapy.

So, karma is real, man.¬† I wouldn’t want to be a thug/pedophile/Satanist right now, because the tables are turning.¬† I am heartbroken and angry, but life is for the living and I have a heavenly father who wants me to thrive, to be genuinely content and at times, euphoric.¬† I try to have a sense of humor about these happenings, and I find great fun to be had looking into the Q Memes.


The only, yet most important thing we can do right now is pray.¬† Pray like your lives depend upon it, He is listening, this I know.¬† Instant Karma’s gonna get you Bitches, it’s going to knock you right. in. the. face.



I’ll Give You Fish…


A few blogs back, I promised you a story about the day, fifteen years ago, when I caught my husband “cheating” on me.¬† We were taking care of my father, who was extremely ill; we moved him to a house out in the country, where he lived for a year-on his terms-no nursing homes, praise God.¬† I loved my dad more than I have ever loved another soul, or perhaps the love I have for my husband is equal-but completely different types of love.

Dad was my best friend and, quite honestly, the only person besides my husband who really got me.  We were extremely close.  We laughed at the same things, had the same interests, and thought hiking was the greatest thing next to grilled cheese sandwiches.  I take after daddy, in almost every way.  Mom was the writer in the family, and she was very talented.  It is no small wonder that my brother and I are the artsy, fartsy, poetic side of the family.  I think it rather neat that my brother is a musician who writes amazing songs-not unlike myself-who writes about music-daddy was the musician.  I can still hear him singing the Midnight Special, banjo in tow, at three a.m. after an argument with my mother.  Good times.  Good times.

I would do anything to have those times back.

So, between working evenings as a waitress in a busy diner (one of the biggest tourist spots in Lancaster County) and taking care of my family-well, I guess you could say I was just a tad stressed out.  If you saw me in passing, you would think me a demented Flakka head, on the verge of going off the deep end; at any given moment in time.  You would also be correct.  About the losing my shit, not the Flakka.  When my husband complains about the two cigarettes I smoke each day with my coffee?  I always say:

It could be worse.¬† You’re lucky I’m not on Flakka.¬† Or crack. ¬†

Jiminy Cricket, I was wound so tightly, I actually pitied the fool who got in my way.  Back then?  I was anger personified.  I seethed with an all consuming rage that basically enveloped me-my mother abused me emotionally, and my memories were a big reason I drank to begin with.  I wanted to take care of dad, believe me, but the sad truth?  I was scared senseless.  My alcoholism had progressed, then eased after he died.  Eventually I came to a place of rewriting my story, and forgiving mother.  Years of my life, consumed with bitter ire-and a tragic notion that I needed to be punished, put in place-as mom had made it perfectly clear that I was undeserving.  Forgiveness is incredibly freeing, and you should do it often-not for them, but for you.

Finally, to the point of the story.¬† I was in the aforementioned condition while driving my Jeep Wrangler up Route 501 on a Friday afternoon, headed in the direction of the pharmacy in Myerstown-to get my father’s refills.¬† My hair is fried, not tended to; I can’t remember if I brushed my teeth.¬† I am breaking out-not only in zits but pimples as well-my first outbreak of acne, ever.¬† Stress pimples and blackheads.

I head North and see my husband’s baby blue Chevy pick up headed in my direction.¬† I believe I went into a fugue state the moment I saw the blonde.¬† I was a jealous madwoman back then-it wasn’t my husband I didn’t trust, let’s just say that.

“OMG, who the FAZUCK was in Dwain’s truck?¬† How long has this been going on?¬† I’m taking care of my invalid father and the bastard is cheating on me?¬† What the FUCK?”

I ran into the pharmacy, almost hyperventilating when I see the long line.  This is the most impatient moment of my life.  I fantasize about killing the man behind the counter.  I want to slap the woman who forgot her insurance card, and truth be told?  My thought cloud was rated RRR.  If not ZZZ.

I raced to the jeep and drove like a stunt car driver all the way to Dwain’s work.¬† I see him in the park, akin to his business.¬† I aim for him as I drive, he jumps out of the way.

“Oh my GOD honey, what is wrong with you?”¬† He looks more than mildly alarmed, but he knows on many levels what this is all about.¬† I jump from the vehicle, not thinking to put the jeep in “park.”¬† Dwain jumps into said car and saves it, saves it from going directly into the pond behind us.

I scream and holler.  He tells me he took her to drop off her car, to have it inspected.  I eyeball him from toe to head.  Calmer, yet not quite assured that all is well; I head for my car.  He gives  me a hug, chuckles and says these exact words:

“Honey, why do you have spaghetti sauce all over your face?”




I Confess…

In 1990, I married my fiancée of five years, in a Catholic ceremony. I did it with the full knowledge that I was in love with another man. I take full responsibility for the role I played, however, it still makes for good reading.

The wedding had not gone off without a hitch, no pun intended. I had an ex who had threatened to “crash” my wedding: I took care of this little inconvenience by hiring a security guard, who was given a picture of the man in question. As the limousine containing my mother, my father and myself pulled up to the church? I see said security guard frisking a friend of mine, who happened to have red hair, but looked absolutely nothing like the red head who had planned to embarrass me at my nuptials. As my father and I sat in the back, knocking back the champagne at warp speed, my friend Dan approached the stretch.

“Michele, they won’t let me in.”

After my father and I pulled our laughing carcasses off of the floor, I had a quick meet and greet with Mr. Robotto. I had asked that he not come dressed like a cop, which he did. I had asked that he come to me before throwing anyone out, which he completely ignored. Needless to say he was fired, and my nemesis never made it to Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

I had asked my maid of honor to search the church for the man I was truly in love with, as he was my husband’s employee, and had been invited. I knew, with certainty, that one look at that man and I would make The Graduate look like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. A mix of high anxiety and no sleep the evening before, I was a whirling dervish of angst and punchiness. I don’t remember walking down the aisle with my father, but I DO remember this scene:

My girlfriend Gina had been given the assignment of reading scripture. And as she began to quote Corinthians, she stumbled on a word. To the normal person, this would have gone unnoticed; to an exhausted and heartbroken bride to be? The funniest thing I had ever heard. When I laugh, well, it’s with my whole body-and I am not quiet about it, no, not at all. I laughed so hard that the priest began to become unhinged, and as hard as I tried…and then, the icing on the cupcake of the service: hearing my father and best friend laugh with me, I was gone. I collapsed at the altar, thus ensuring the crowd that this would be a day that would live in infamy.

It wasn’t until the ex and I pulled away from the cozy bed and breakfast; our friends and family waving us on, headed towards Martha’s Vineyard, that this song played. And as I sat, numbed and tortured by a forbidden want, hot tears of recognition trickled down to the post card I had been writing:


I mailed it from Nantucket.

To Dwain, with love… (to be continued)

Green Are Your Eyes…………

My brother came up for a visit a few weeks ago, and as we conversed he brought up the wedding that my father spent thousands upon thousands of dollars on.

“They were devastated,” he told me, dead seriously at that.¬† Craig lived in California at the time.¬† My mother was battling ovarian cancer, although she, nor the doctors, knew.¬† I remember one phone call from mom, in which she told me daddy had cried for days-and to this very day I wish I had run away……because I didn’t have the strength to stop the snow ball that kept rolling, gaining momentum, until it was so big it crushed me in its wake.

I did not choose this particular war.  It chose us, Dwain and myself.  I was in such angst that my mother sent my sister to baby sit, rather than sit down and discuss my strong resistance to a wedding that never, ever should have taken place.  In a therapy session, with my parents, the man with all the answers (he thought so anyway) asked my mother why she was so angry.

“The fucking whore just wanted a party.”

The therapist looked at me and then at my father.  When I looked back at him his glasses were askew and he appeared alarmed-distressed, if you will.  I had warned him.  I knew it was coming.   My father, always and forever my best friend and supporter, offered this:

“Honey, he said, looking at my mother as if she’d lost her mind-“Why don’t you let us get you an apartment, just be by yourself for awhile so you can figure things out.”

I couldn’t and didn’t consider that option.¬† I loathe the fact that I hurt my parents in any capacity whatsoever.¬†¬† It breaks me and was a contributing factor in my rush to oblivion, alcohol, pills, cocaine……… heart was a ball of fire, and I wept more than I smiled.

But, green were his eyes…….and their melodic and hypnotizing pull are evident this very day.¬† And for that, oh for that I am incredibly blessed.

Two Turntables and a Microphone…


Life goes in circles, just like the old LPs I used to own; over 300 albums, stolen by a bouncer at Houlihan’s, whom I had stupidly allowed him to borrow them.¬† Man o’ day, it was years ago and it still creams my corn.

Mon fr√®re is worried about my relationships.¬† Yes, that is the new thang-trying to diagnose Michele.¬† I am quite sure that my siblings discuss various methods of “fixing” me, which absolutely astounds me, as they gave me no credit whatsoever for fixing myself.¬† In an effort either to come to grips with the fact that I was very angry and hurt by him; or, much more likely, a way to perpetuate the idea that I am the one who is broken (aren’t we all a little brittle?) and my brother and sister are fine.¬† Just fine, thank you very much.

God grant me the serenity.

“I care,” he writes.¬† If he¬†cares so much, why not call or write and ask how my Lyme disease is going?¬† I find it interesting that both siblings denied my pleas for some respect, as in both arguments, I was suffering with some pretty serious symptoms.¬† Nope.¬† Never.

Never once a pat on the back for addressing and successfully dealing with my recovery from alcohol, opioids, anorexia, self harming or intensive therapy for depression.¬† I have done my homework and God is still working on me, trust me.¬† Yet I remain perplexed at why he would think I have Borderline Personality Disorder.¬† What he saw was a grown ass woman, who is no longer codependent with her family of origin.¬† He got a good look at Michele 2.0, who has a zero tolerance for bullshit of any kind policy.¬† My self esteem is in check, and I will stand up for myself as I know I deserve the same respect that I give others-especially my family. ¬†I’m not the doormat any longer, and after an entire year of growing closer to him, it took two weeks of my sister’s pie hole to convince him that I am not to be believed.

Narcs will be narcs.

What I want him to know is this:  I will always love him, he is my flesh and my blood.  I am  not angry with him, forgiveness is key in moving forward.  And lastly a warning of sorts:

I will not entertain any random diagnoses at whim.¬† I have been completely honest, and aside from a snarky text, have tried my best not to bring him into the mix.¬† Work on your own life, and please don’t try to shrink me: if you get the urge to do so, please redirect your energy in Courtney’s direction.¬† Look her in the eyes and ask for the truth.

I feel like a phoenix, of sorts, who has risen from the ashes of a traumatic history, only to realize that life is so much better-on the other side of the family fence.


Laughter After Tears

Two of my all time favorite artists in one video-you can’t beat that with a stick! And as I was led to this song, I knew exactly what to write about. I have learned, once again, that through intense emotional pain we can grow leaps and bounds in our faith, relationships and overall mental health. I spent the past few days in bed, albeit sick with the flu-but depressed and anxious about the chance that my marriage could fail miserably, and at any moment.


Because I am a grown woman, and have plenty of life experience-I know that I can cling to Jesus during the desert places, praise His name and look forward to a beautiful lesson and blessing that would surely follow.

It always does.

We should not let our fears hold us back from pursuing our hopes.”

As miserable as I was, I immediately felt shame; I thought of the least of these.

I have lived half of my life as one of the least of these.

There are times where life is so good, when I am surrounded by love-my social calendar full, and a peace that surpasses all understanding. Actually, He has answered my prayers-I live a quiet, creative and authentic life, and I owe every single step toward my recovery, every breakthrough and success to God. To Him goes the honor and glory. But what happens when you have become accustomed to this life well-lived, and the bubble bursts, leaving you blindsided? Do you question God? Do you find yourself shell shocked and incredulous? Do you feel hopeless?

Some were fools; they rebelled and suffered for their sins. They couldn’t stand the thought of food, and they were knocking on death’s door.
“Lord help!,” they cried in their trouble, and he saved them from their distress. He sent out his word and healed them, snatching them from the door of death. Let them praise the Lord for his great love and for the wonderful things he has done for them. Let them offer sacrifices of Thanksgiving and sing joyfully about his glorious acts!
-Psalm 80

Dwain and I are fine, and mea culpa-I was being incredibly sensitive. Yet when we argue, I shut down completely-although I am much better than I used to be. I’ve gone from hysterically phoning my therapist, to not crying at all.
Yet I cease to function or care-and that isn’t the place we need to be-yet I know Abba is pruning me-as He does to all of his children. I know in my secret places that something amazing will come out of the melee.

Call out to Jesus.

He wants you to trust Him. You are so very special to God-each and every one of you.

A Preponderance of Joy

I hate to complain. My mother used to complain all of the time, I think it’s an Irish thing-it is also a narcissistic thang, and I try not to fall into the rabbit hole, if you catch my drift…:)

It is Sunday, November 25th-and I have been in bed for two entire days with the flu. These past few days are among the most harrowing of my life; and I have had some batshit crazy times. This was a perfect Trifecta,(premenstrual, full moon and the fact that I knew I was getting sick, which makes me semi-hysterical to begin with) and I had to hand it to Jesus this morning, when I cracked my first joke since the FUBAR that was my Thanksgiving.


All kidding aside, it began soon after we left the Thanksgiving dinner our church holds annually-to feed the homeless and those facing hard times. I was in high spirits, I had made a new friend whilst cutting approximately 2,687 pies-and with a head cold, thank you very much. I was trying to figure out why Dwain and I weren’t in our traditional holiday cat fight, when, to no one’s surprise-it all came crashing down.

I had a blast volunteering at our church’s annual Thanksgiving meal for our community. I was delighted to be assigned pie duty (not so delighted after slicing approximately 2,657 pumpkin pies) with a jovial woman I immediately bonded with. I had that lift in my loafers as we head out the door, bound for my in laws and we were still doing quite well.

The Mother of All Bombs occurred, and right in front of the entire family.

I was so bored watching football with the guys, but no women had formed any coffee klatches, so I wandered over to my sister in law and her sister in law. As a follower of independent and conservative news, I know how important it is to try and warn folk about what is coming. The good and great news is that we are winning, the white hats, that is…evil is being stomped out of America, and I feel a responsibility to warn others. It’s some heavy stuff, so I went with the lighter news.

“Guys, there is going to be a ton of shit hitting the fan in the near future, and I’ll start this with telling you that JFK, Jr. is still alive.”

I went on to give facts, which were met with “FAKE NEWS!!!!” and a few attacks on my credibility. I simply stood up, placed the pillow back where it belonged, and went to sit with my husband. Because of the “trifecta,” I was a walking nerve end. I had just told my husband that I had an uncomfortable encounter with his sister, and he yelled at the football game, like-right in my ear. Which led me to shriek, because it frightened the life force out of me.

I shut down, completely: grabbed my coat and head up the hill to our home, which held my beloved fireplace, dog and pc. I took a shower and got good and cozy. I sat there for a few hours when I realized that I felt like a dog crapping bones, and I knew deep within that had I lingered on that couch? I would remain there, petrified to the leather, Kombucha in hand.


I went up to my sleigh bed, the sun shining clearly, a beam of light hitting my braided rugs. Just as I had make myself comfortable, my husband walks into the bedroom.

“What’s going on?,” he says, softly at first.

What’s going on is, I have the flu and I was just publicly humiliated by a stranger, at my own Thanksgiving, my hormones are screaming kill her, murder her and it’s full moon.

Perfectly. Good. Explanation.

And then, as if in a slow motion nightmare, my husband says this:

“I defended you down there all day!!!!”

Guys, if you are reading this, never-and I mean NEVER tell your hysterical wife that you defended her for any reason, whatsoever.

I wanted to know why he “defended” me, but he isn’t giving. He storms out of the bedroom, and down to the settee. I am absolutely stricken with rage. Alas, I am too weak to do much about this; but the next day I feel well enough to look for apartments. My husband tells me he is “headed for a nervous breakdown.” I take lots of nighttime cold medicine, and sweat through the pain.

I cry out to Jesus. I give my weary heart over to Him. Take this, Jesus, I can’t deal another second. I end up having restless leg syndrome, and my husband and I break out laughing hysterically-even though it’s 3 a.m. and neither of us has slept a wink.

And now? Merely 24 hours later?

I have managed to make the bed and don fresh underwear.

Hey, it’s a start.

Mean Old Mrs. Jones

If I had known you could play the license plate, well, shit howdy I would have signed up for it!!! I adore these two, and it was with wild relief that I came upon this song. The song going through my head?The Beautiful People, unfortunately, I loathe Marilyn Manson, and will never, ever use him in a blog. Weirdo.

Oh my, not sounding like the Christian I am supposed to be today, eh? No, quite the contrary: I could punch a stink bug. Not proud of my blog yesterday-when I lost my integrity and called out my family. Here’s the thing-the magnanimous thing to do would be to not write of them; however, this is my personal property, as much as they hate the fact that I have something to call my very own. If people don’t like you writing about them, well, maybe they shouldn’t have behaved so poorly in the first place. For reasons I only half know? I love them still. Yet they are toxicity itself when it comes to my sanity, but that doesn’t mean I hate them. Sadly, I almost wish I could.


I forced myself to go to Bands today. Down and isolating, I haven’t been out of the house except to go to church, in the past two weeks. I promised my friend I’d send out a care package, she’s having a hard time of it lately-my tiny town’s post office is open but two hours a day, and I hit it wrong each and every time. It bothers me, and I mean BOTHERS me, when I don’t follow through on my promises. Lately, it’s almost as if there is a silent force, keeping me back, holding me from moving forward. I don’t force anything, because at this stage in recovery, I am way too fragile.
I remain my worst enemy, and can’t catch a break with myself.
My issues begin when I know I must follow through-I literally make myself sick with dread.


This isn’t what the blog was supposed to be today. I wanted to write about recovery from narcissistic abuse-and the changes you go through while in recovery. We need to do the hard work necessary to change our hearts, motivations and boundaries. Most of us with CPTSD never had boundaries to begin with; and another commonality is that we trusted, with our very lives, people who tore us to shreds, took us for granted or simply weren’t in to the friendship/relationship as seriously as we were.

The changes our personalities go through are shocking to those around us.
They expect you to assume the position, take whatever they’re dishing out, look the other way when they break promise after promise after promise. No. No. NO!

Today is my eleventh anniversary-I have been sober (with the exception of a few slips)for this many years. Yes, sobriety changed my character, faith and friendships. Yes, there were adjustments to make, along with changing my behavior I found I simply could not inhabit the places I had, prior to quitting drugging and drinking. “Friends” stopped calling-the change in our lifestyle was drastic, daunting and downright depressing; but you will find your attitude about that changes too. The past is where it should be, some good and some putrid memories were made. I have stories (oh, believe me I’ll tell them one day)upon stories of drunken faux pas. The one that immediately comes to mind is this:

I had gone out with the girls on a Saturday afternoon. We were to go on a scavenger hunt and each clue was offered at bars around the area. By the fourth clue, my friends had dropped me off at home because I was sloppy drunk-I suppose I passed out directly. When I awoke, I was disoriented and wild-where the Harry was my husband? It was 8 o’clock in the morning!!!! (NO, it wasn’t. It was 8 p.m. and I had lost an entire day. Convinced he had been out all night cheating on me, I went into a rage. I did not remember this, but trust me, Dwain surely did. The story goes like this: my in-laws were entertaining folks from their church, in the quaint little gazebo they erected across the street from our home. We had lived in this house, directly across the road from Dwain’s parents, for ten years. Although things are better, I did not get along well with them. They disliked me from the very beginning. I must have been dwelling on these thoughts when I stripped down to my flesh, went out on our roof, and screamed this:



For years I carried the shame of my addiction. I allowed people to walk all over me, so codependent that almost every one of my friends took it for granted that no matter what, I would forgive and forget. I figure it this way-bullies don’t like it when the underdog comes alive, sticks up for herself and demands to be treated with dignity and respect.

My family didn’t like it, my former friends were not pleased, hell, my dog even noticed-what had happened to the doormat who allowed herself to be treated so poorly?

She doesn’t exist. There’s a new kid in town. She’s kicking ass and taking names, so don’t get in her way.

Expand Your THINKING…

In 1999, we lost an American treasure. Or so we thought. He went down in a plane, his wife and her sister aboard. An innocence deep within my soul was shattered that day. I bought a morning paper and wept, unabashedly at work.

“THIS CAN’T BE REAL,” I sobbed. He wouldn’t fly in bad weather, he wouldn’t fly with a bad foot, he always took a flight instructor with him and had been flying his own aircraft for 17 years! And then they blamed it on Carolyne Bissett’s medication, and I knew. I knew right then and there-set up. I couldn’t prove a thing, and at that time? Who could?

A friend and coworker tried to make sense of what I was so upset about. I tried to make sense of it, but alas, she couldn’t comfort me. Everything seemed so pointless and tragic. I slid further into my addictions, giving up hope of ever finding the truth-I drank my life away. I had shut down. I had given up onme.

Flash forward 19 years…I am sober, I am healing from my PTSD, I am a functioning human being. Of course, as you know, holidays are HELL for me and this past Thanksgiving was no exception. I had given up on red pilling another soul-it was as if these people I thought I knew were brainwashed into not believing word one about the Great Awakening. The whole mess came crashing down in a FUBAR of a holiday, in which I was verbally attacked by my sister in law and her sister in law.

I attempted the impossible. I sat down with the girls (my SIL is a pain in my ass, but I love her) and gently began my story. What followed was a preposterous attack on my credibility, and FAKE NEWS screamed in my face. Of course, as you know, I am a thug-my Irish temper knows no bounds-I left the house and went home, to spend the duration in bed with my dog.

I am going to get an electric cattle prod and prepare it for the next time someone is so incredibly rude to me. I mean, I HAVE HAD IT.

The citizen journalists of this world are preparing for war. That’s correct: we are in a war with the Mainstream (Mockingbird)Media, who hasn’t told the truth in over fifty years. We want to get the word out! The Cabal is crashing around these Pedophiles and Pedovores. And as it turns out? John F. Kennedy, Jr. was told that Hillary Clinton had a million dollar hit out on him-she wanted the NY Senate seat, so she blew up his plane.

But now is where it gets good. JFK, Jr. faked his death in order to provide justice to those who took his father’s life. He is alive and well, and he intends to BRING THE PAIN, as only he and our beloved Donald J. Trump know how to do.

Enjoy the Show!!!!!!