Don speaks, albeit not well, the King’s English. Literacy; reading, writing and spelling, confound him. Still, he wasted no time insulting London‘s Mayor Khan

and Harry’s Duchess ere he landed, in Britain. Don respects, no man. Much less any lesser, woman.

Baby Blimp Don is a star and he knows it. He can do whatever he wants with impunity. Thank God that at last night’s banquet, he pulled Britain’s Queen

Elizabeth, towards him, not. Seven bad habits, hath the Don; making him … nasty, even to … the Queen.

Tens of thousands of anti-Trumpers are flooding London, England’s, streets. In a call for change in the political, climate. White men

and white women, marching with non-white, men and women President Donald; he’s nasty, to Americans and … non, Americans.

Climate change could end human civilization by 2050 think, think tank, experts. However expertise, thinks Don, actually resides in him. Don thinks

climate change is the difference in two days’, weather. Hot. Cold. Cloudy. Sunny. So, Don simply … thinks.

Art’s been meeting with Vlad’s Cabal. Nightly, on Luna. In soirée, writing with them, an algorithm. To save a rash man, unwise, from himself. MAYDAYS

they’ve been writing. Aptly titled. MAYDAYS is a clarion call, of distress. A word, for the wise; MAYDAYS.

A heaven-sent distress call from Penemue the Watcher is MAYDAYS. At his behest the Cabal’s prodigal brother Arthur was, from Urantia’s near future,

sent for. To eat, drink and watch videos, of futures, alternative; and pen a panacea, for Urantia’s, future.