Buh-Bye, Rudy

You're going to jail. You can bitch, scream, tell us that Donald is your pal, and you can shriek about your innocence, and how you're "America's Mayor." Good luck with all that shit.

You. Are. Going. To. Jail.

No, there's no menu you can choose from in advance.

No, you can't demand a room with a view.

No, you don't get to order a late-morning wake-up call.

You. Are. Going. To. Jail.

Then again, Donald can pardon you. But don't hold your breath. And even if he does, there may be state charges which the king's pardon doesn't cover

Rudy, I don't know if anyone has told you this in so many words, but, "You're fucked." You've worked for it. You've done everything possible to fuck yourself. And you've earned a cell.

Having said all this, don't think I'm heartless. Once you have an address, I'll send you a rat trap to help keep your cell rodent clean. Except, of course, for you.