Monday, January 21, 2019

Brave editor of The Storm Lake, Iowa, Times takes a strong stand. Well, okay, only sort of a strong stand. Well, honestly, just a stand. Well, actually not so much of a stand. Umm, would you believe TWO stands?



The editor here seems to change identities when he writes
 op-ed pieces for the other Times, the one in New York
I learned while I was still a college student that editing a small town newspaper is like walking a tightrope 50 feet off the ground, while balancing a flaming pinwheel on your nose.

I was educated to this fact of life by osmosis. I edited a college newspaper that was job printed by the local weekly in Yellow Springs, Ohio. Whenever I went downtown to the weekly, to read galleys, or check on layout problems, or deliver copy and engravings, or to pick up copies of the paper on Friday night and haul them back to campus, I watched the two owners of the weekly, Keith Howard and Ken Champney, sweat out their own newspapering problems.

There’s a big problem at small town papers. The people you write about are not only your subscriber base, but often also your advertiser base. Denounce the local asshole who’s running for town council on a platform that he’ll arrest people for using birth control, and there goes one precious subscription and $3,000 a year worth of advertising from the asshole’s seed and animal feed depot. Favor Obamacare and you’ll never display a used car ad from Catastrophe Cal the Car Trader again.

The Internet has only made matters worse. Now in addition to balancing that flaming pinwheel on your nose, you have to ride the tightrope on a unicycle, and the tightrope is getting frayed.

In Yellow Springs, Ohio, it was sometimes even worse than that even well before the Internet. I remember being told that on occasion, in the late 1940s or early 1950s, pacifist publisher Keith, and Ed the local feed mill operator, a right wing zealot, would set out on a collision course from opposite ends of Xenia Avenue, the main drag. 



Swiped from the Yellow Springs News 
The annual knockdown. When they met face-to-face, Ed would knock Keith to the ground. Keith would then pick himself up, brush himself off, head to the police station, and swear out a warrant against Ed. It was an annual ritual for a while, I was told. Sort of like reciting the Pledge of Allegiance in grade school,  or fireworks on the 4th of July.

Keith and Ed have long since passed on, Keith most assuredly to that great small town news room in the sky; Ed, I wouldn't be surprised, to a stinking pit in hell reserved for remorseless right wing Republicans. Ed's son is now Ohio Congressman Mike DeWine. And the Yellow Springs News is still going strong — now the work product of six women, two men, and a  large shaggy dog named Destiny the News Hound. 

So I was heartened when I saw in the New York Times what appeared to be a bit of honest, straight-ahead reporting on racist Republican Congressman Steve King’s prospects for re-election — written by Art Cullen, editor of the Storm Lake (Iowa) Times, paid circulation 3,386, in King’s Congressional district.

I don’t know if Storm Lake has a diner, but since he’s not a visiting fireman from Big City Journalism, Inc.,  Cullen didn’t need one. Like any good small town editor, he knew exactly where to find the local dog groomer, the woman who “proudly plants a huge red ‘KING’ sign every two years in her yard along Lake Avenue, the main drag,” and the local Snapper dealer. (For some mystified city slickers, let me explain that a Snapper dealer would be the guy who likely sold you your new tractor or riding mower.)

Relentlessly, each person Cullen quoted stood by their Steve, evidently mystified that language from King that shrieked “White Supremacy” to the rest of the world had any negative connotation at all. On the contrary, it meant to them that Steve is the kind of guy who “tells it like it is.”

Cullen’s conclusion? While there are some rivals to King in the wings, including a Democrat, “…from the sounds I’m hearing, Mr. King has not exhausted his appeal.”

Okay, fair enough. That one half-sentence at the end makes this an op-ed piece. Other than that, it’s an non-judgmental report on a newsworthy topic, and Cullen is an unbiased reporter in the heart of the heartland. Or so I thought.

Feeling delighted, I searched for the Lake County Times on the Internet, hoping for more unbiased, insightful reporting from the heart of Real America. What I found instead, was a very different take, on the same matter, from the same journalist. Cullen wrote:
With respect, we disagree with our friends at The Des Moines Register and Sioux City Journal who this week called on Rep. Steve King, R-Kiron, to resign over his remarks involving white supremacy, white nationalism and western civilization, as it were. They argue that he is not fully representing the Fourth Congressional District because the House Republicans just stripped him of his agriculture and judiciary committee assignments, and that his statements do not reflect mainstream Iowa values. 
King should not resign. He was just re-elected in November to a ninth term with everyone knowing full well what his views were on race and culture. Nobody should be suddenly shocked. Voters took all this into account before casting their ballot. Perhaps nothing is better known about King than his views on Latino immigrants. 
In fact, the government is shut down because President Trump took up King’s long crusade to build a wall that spans the US-Mexico border and has made a national crisis out of it. This is what the people voted for. 
King losing his committee assignments is inconsequential in a House controlled by Democrats.
And so on, and so forth. The gist is, as I interpret it, “Hey, we voted for more racism, so damnit, we’re entitled to more racism.”

While Cullen (whose publisher, by some coincidence is also named Cullen)…while Cullen presents the face of impartiality to the big city, he presents the face of a King supporter to his local readers. 

The way I count ‘em, that’s two faces.

Or to put a bit more tolerantly, Cullen gets to present us city slickers with his straight-shootin' reporter credentials, and to keep his Snapper dealer's advertising, too.

And I'm still counting. And that's still two faces.


Monday, January 14, 2019

“Nice country ya got heah, youse Democrats. Be a shame if somethin’ happened to it.” — Donald Trump

Donald Trump is in effect holding the entire nation hostage and
blaming it on the Democrats. It's no different than kidnapping
for ransom. Lock him up.

“The Democrats are stopping us and they’re stopping a lot of great people from getting paid,” says Donald Trump.

What?

Trump says it’s the fault of Democrats that parts of the government are slowly grinding to a halt, and government workers aren’t getting their salaries. Which means, he’d have you believe that it’s not because he refuses to sign a budget which would authorize their pay.

He blamed the Democrats after he prevented Mick Mulvaney and the rest of his staff “from negotiating on his behalf to compromise on his demand for $5.7 billion for border wall funding,” that would entice him to sign off on the rest of the budget, reports the New York Times.

“He castigated Mr. Mulvaney for proposing a compromise figure between Mr. Trump’s desired $5.7 billion for a wall and the Democrats offer of $1.3 billion for border security, as a way to end the shutdown,” the Times also says.

And he shot down a proposal made by Senator Lindsey Graham, to re-open government temporarily “in an effort to jump-start talks with Democratic lawmakers on funding a border wall. " 

In other words, when Trump says the Democrats are refusing to negotiate, what he really means is that either they capitulate to precisely what he demands, on his terms, without compromise, or he will bankrupt thousands of innocent government workers, and also endanger millions of other innocent Americans, whose lives, and futures, and health are being destroyed by the Trump Shutdown. If need be, he will destroy the nation to get his wall. 

What it boils down to is, “Do what I tell you or somebody’s gonna get hurt."

They used to arrest, try, and imprison criminals who pulled similar stunts. And then throw away the key.

Somehow, Trump’s behavior also brings to mind the 1973 kidnapping of oil billionaire J. Paul Getty’s sixteen year old grandson. The boy was held hostage for five months, while the kidnappers demanded $17 million.

In a typical “look what you made me do” gesture that characterizes thugs like Donald Trump who hold other people hostage, they chopped off one of the boy’s ears and mailed it to a Rome newspaper when Getty refused to pay. It was all Getty’s fault, the crooks said. He should have coughed up exactly what they asked for.

Now the President of the United States is kidnapping our government workers’ paychecks — and with them our national security and our economy — to satisfy his own egotistical demands. 

Sooner or later, the folks who work for the Coast Guard, the people who inspect our food, the air traffic controllers, the people who track hurricanes and blizzards for us, the people who protect us from epidemics, and many others will quit and go to work elsewhere to hold body and soul together.

When that happens, ordinary citizens will begin to die from eating tainted food like lettuce and shell fish. Small businesses will go bankrupt. People will drown because they didn’t know a storm was coming. Airliners full of people will either crash, or will fail to take off, crippling not only the airlines, but all the forms of commerce that depend on airlines. Drug and arms smugglers will have a field day landing contraband on shorelines no longer guarded by the Coast Guard. We will suffer from epidemics of diseases like Ebola as the Centers for Disease Control goes on hiatus. And that would be just the beginning.

In our country we’ve historically detested hostage-takers. And our own government never pays ransom, because we know that if the hostage-takers succeed just once, they'll do it again and again.

That's why we search them out, wherever they are. If they’re at home, we throw them in prison for life. If they’re abroad, we shoot them, bomb them, or spirit them away to places like Guanatanamo and let them rot there.

Now our entire nation is being held hostage by the thug in the White House.

So let me ask you. What should be done about Donald Trump?

Monday, January 07, 2019

In just a few years, when humanity is done destroying itself and its habitat, the disgusting shall inherit the earth

Bet your money on the future of cockroaches. 
Not that you’ll be around to collect.
Okay, let’s deal with it. When it comes to climate change and the horrors that climate is about to wreck on the human race, humanity's collective response is one enormous, crawling, filthy mass of Donald Trump-like yawns.

Yeah sure, many of us, maybe even most of us talk a good line. But like the Trumpster, our attention span is too short, our adoration of bright shiny toys like zippy automobiles is too great, the threat of extinction seems too remote for our feeble imaginations.

So let me be the six-zillionth person to lay it out for you again. Briefly:
  • Your islands and many of your cities will be underwater. If you try living in them, you’ll drown. Shanghai, Bangladesh, most of the peninsula that is Florida, even big chunks of New York City are goners. What’s that you say? You think you’re safe because you have an apartment on a high floor of a skyscraper? So what! The wires that deliver power to your apartment and to the elevator will be shorted out and corroded away in salt water. You may be able to use your window ledge as a diving board and take a nice refreshing swim, but then you’ll have no way to get back into your apartment, which because of the flood waters will have no electricity, no air conditioning, no heat, no refrigeration.
  • And don’t tell me you can always go fishing. Clobbered by a quadruple threat of warming waters that kill off marine life, overfishing, chemical pollution and garbage pollution, the oceans of the world are becoming to edible protein what the Sahara Desert is to forests. Already, blooms of toxic algae fed by pollution and high water temperatures, are not only killing off fish population, but also making it unsafe to swim.
  • If you think refugee immigration is a problem now, wait until most of Latin America and Africa become uninhabitable.  The deserts will spread from the equator out. As people who once scratched a living in equatorial places discover they can no longer live there, guess where they’ll flee to. "Caravans?" You ain't seen nothing yet.
  • You may die of suffocation. Scientists aren’t talking about this yet, so far as I know, but I suspect that as the “earth’s lungs” — the Amazon jungle and other rain forests — give way, and carbon dioxide levels mount, you’re going to have trouble breathing. Or even staying awake to observe yourself slowly smothering to death, since CO2 also makes you sleepy.
See, no matter how you look at it, humanity is a pest species. We destroy environments. We directly or inadvertently murder other species. We foul the air and the water. We are to the rest of life as cockroaches are to us —  repulsive, filthy, annoying, lethal pests, spreading death and destruction to other species in the short term self-interest of our own. 

And now that our population has expanded to nearly the breaking point, the irony is that the one species likeliest to adapt to, survive, and thrive in the mess of waste and filth we have created is the species that we consider pests — the cockroach family.

Cockroaches have been around for about 140 million years. Moreover, antecedent cockroach-like bugs were  crawling and creeping around 300 million years years ago. That’ s one hell of a lot longer than, say, dinosaurs. The oldest of those lizards dates back a piffling 50 million years.

For a while you may be able to survive by eating cockroaches. Yes, they’re infested with dangerous bacteria. Yes, they also carry fatal viruses. But they’re also full of crunchy protein and minerals, plus a little bit of water, and if you’re hungry enough and they’re the only meal option, trust me, you’ll be holding Thankscockroach Day feasts at Grandma's house. 

But in the end, they’ll eat us. The little buggers keep evolving. There are thousands of species today. Some crawl. Some hiss. Some fly. In the suburbs of Houston they call ‘em “Palmetto Bugs,” perhaps because now and then they have the habit of dropping out of palmetto trees into passing baby carriages. There are said to be thousands of species, in part because they keep evolving to adapt to whatever nature, or human vermin, throws at them. 

Below there’s a palmetto bug porn video. (The palmetto bug is evidently also known as the Florida woods cockroach.) Don’t get too excited. All the photographs are stills. And this isn’t a portrayal of bug sex. It’s just of ugly repulsiveness. Or is it repulsive ugliness? Or is it bugly repulsiveness? Anyway, it’s cockroaches.


Sooner or later, we will become their primary food source. The cockroaches will grow bigger, more intelligent, with bigger brains. Perhaps they will even develop a language that goes beyond hissing, as Madagascar cockroaches already do. But you won’t be around to hear it. You will be dead — either of suffocation, or of starvation, or of drowning, or of poisoning, or of dehydration, or of disease. Meanwhile, the intelligent cockroach of the future, with a head as big as a bowling ball and evolved manual dexterity, will be sharing recipes for your roast eyeballs. Count on it.
Bon apétit Monsieur Cafard!

Monday, December 31, 2018

A few random thoughts (probably useless) about Donald Trump’s wall

There used to be a time, back when America was great, when to be American was to hate a wall. It was a hatred powerful enough to shake our chief rival superpower. Remember this ten seconds? 


The United States knew then something then that we seem to have forgotten today. Walls don’t just keep people out. They also shut people in.

Little wonder that the great American poet, Robert Frost, unenthusiastically put up with, and even worked along side of an impossible neighbor, who insists on repairing a wall that serves no purpose while repeating a hollow catchphrase about walls and neighbors. Frost came to the right conclusion.


Nancy Pelosi has suggested, tongue-in-cheek, of course, that Donald Trump will settle for a beaded curtain instead of a wall. But let us not guffaw too quickly.

With Trump continuously backing off his proposal for a solid concrete wall, sometimes describing it as a slatted see-through wall, or a spiked wall, or a fence, Lindsay Graham  now insists “the wall” is really a mere metaphor for some kind of "physical barrier." I take that to mean it could be a row of saw horses, or Nancy Pelosi's beaded curtain. 

I can imagine the signs as people approach the border

"WARNING! TURN BACK! 
DANGEROUS METAPHOR AHEAD!"

No, Lindsay! No metaphors, please. I want to go with that beaded curtain.

Well, I guess the beads are a metaphor, too. But at least they'd be a physical metaphor, if I may coin a concept here. Anyway....

The beads should be brightly colored and very shiny. Perhaps we could even engrave Trump’s name on each bead. That would not only provide satisfaction to our president, who seems to like bright shiny objects with his name on them, but also would distract immigrants until ICE can come after them, rip their children out of their arms, throw the poor kids into cages, and kill some of the little ones by neglecting mysterious, esoteric, and hard-to-detect infections — such as the flu evidently is, in the opinion of Homeland Security experts on pediatrics.

I further propose that the beaded curtain should be rigged to periodically squirt jets of perfume into the adjacent air. It should be something exotic, deeply aromatic and wildly sexy. Personally, I go for Bijan. According to something I read on the web, Bijan perfume “opens in notes of ylang-ylang, narcissus, orange blossom, bergamot, neroli and pimeto.” I think they meant pimento, but you get the idea.

Bonus: A quarter ounce of the real Bijan perfume (not the toilet water or a cheap knockoff) costs so much that 1,954 miles of automated atomizers squirting perfume on the beaded curtain would help get the total budget for a barrier up to Donald Trump’s $5 billion goal. Of course, I make no promises. This could be one of those government projects that has an automatic  perfumed cost overrun.

The wall also should be equipped with loud speakers from which a looped version of Mozart’s Escape from the Seraglio will play 24/7. I mean, it makes sense just because it goes with the beaded curtain and the perfume.


But make no mistake. Thanks to the work of Robert Muller, eventually even many Democrats will demand a wall, too.                                           

They will want it to be at least ten feet high, topped with concertina wire, and watched by armed guards in towers. Here’s an example.


One more thing. We will demand that Donald Trump get incarcerated behind it.




Monday, December 24, 2018

The 12 days of Christmas — an updated carol for the Trump era

On the first day of Trump-mas
The Trumpster gave to me
A tape of him taking a pee.

On the second day of Trump-mas
The Trumpster gave to me
Two Mnuchins munching
And a tape of him taking a pee.

On the third day of  Trump-mas
The Trumpster gave to me
Three stock markets crashing
Two Mnuchins munching
And a tape of him taking a pee.

On the fourth day of  Trump-mas
The Trumpster gave to me
Four Flynns pleading guilty
Three stock markets crashing
Two Mnuchins munching
And a tape of him taking a pee.

On the fifth day of Trump-mas
The Trumpster gave to me
Fox and Friends
Four guilty Flynns 
Three markets crashed 
Two Mnuchins
And a tape of him taking a pee

On the sixth day of  Trump-mas
The Trumpster gave to me
Six Sarahs lying 
Fox and friends
Four guilty Flynns 
Three markets crashed
Two Mnuchins
And a tape of him taking a pee

On the seventh day of Trump-mas
The Trumpster gave to me
Seven Cohens a-ratting
Six Sarahs lying 
Fox and friends
Four guilty Flynns 
Three markets crashed
Two Mnuchins
And a tape of him taking a pee

On the eighth day of Trump-mas
The Trumpster gave to me
Eight Bannons barking
Seven Cohens a-ratting
Six Sarahs lying 
Fox and friends
Four guilty Flynns 
Three markets crashed
Two Mnuchins
And a tape of him taking a pee

On the ninth day of Trump-Mas
The Trumpster gave to me
Nine Reinces retching
Eight Bannons barking
Seven Cohens a-ratting
Six Sarahs lying 
Fox and friends
Four guilty Flynns 
Three markets crashed
Two Mnuchins
And a tape of him taking a pee

On the tenth day of Trump-Mas
The Trumpster gave to me
Ten Sessions snarling
Nine Reinces Retching
Eight Bannons barking
Seven Cohens a-ratting
Six Sarahs lying 
Fox and friends
Four guilty Flynns 
Three markets crashed
Two Mnuchins
And a tape of him taking a pee

On the eleventh day of Trump-Mas
The Trumpster gave to me
Eleven Kellys quitting
Ten Sessions snarling
Nine Reinces Retching
Eight Bannons barking
Seven Cohens a-ratting
Six Sarahs lying 
Fox and friends
Four guilty Flynns 
Three markets crashed
Two Mnuchins
And a tape of him taking a pee

On the twelfth day of Trump-Mas
The Trumpster gave to me
12 Mad Dogs resigning
Eleven Kellys quitting
Ten Sessions snarling
Nine Reinces Retching
Eight Bannons barking
Seven Cohens a-ratting
Six Sarahs lying 
Fox and friends
Four guilty Flynns 
Three markets crashed
Two Mnuchins
And a tape of him taking a pee.


Moral: There aren’t enough days of Christmas — or of the year for that matter — to list all of the disasters that Donald Trump has created. So Merry Christmas. With Trump’s finger on the button — and the vastly increased lack of adult supervision — it could quite possibly be your last.


Thursday, December 20, 2018

Betsy DeVos, outrageous fraud, Trump (of course!) — and the mysterious case of the magenta Jockey shorts

The package depicted white Jockey undershorts. As you
can see, the undershorts that came out of it were anything but.


Let’s deal with the magenta shorts first.

Their story is part of what comes down to an ancient observation: 

There’s a sucker born every minute.

An impulse purchase goes bad

Last August, I was walking past Macy’s here in New York and a thought occurred to me. Rather than wait until my underwear wears out and then have to hustle to replace it, why not stash away a package, for use when I would eventually need it?

So I ambled into Macy’s, found the men’s department, and asked where I could get a package of plain white jockey shorts. A clerk disinterestedly pointed me “that way.” Wandering “that way” I found a display of Jockey brand briefs. I found a package that portrayed white ones, the only kind I wear. I grabbed a pack and took it to a checkout counter.

A few days ago, five months after I made my purchase, it was time to replace some old briefs with some of the new ones. I pulled out the package, ripped it opened and found….the shorts were magenta!

It was a bloody outrage! Or a magenta outrage, if you will. Macy’s and Jockey had showed me white shorts, but surreptitiously sold me magenta shorts. It’s enough to make my head explode.

Does anybody for a moment think I’m going to get undressed in the locker room of my local health club and reveal I’m wearing magenta undershorts? Or go to my doctor wearing magenta undershorts? Or even meet a nice woman at a bar and….well, enough of that. You get the idea.

Evidently, you can’t be
too paranoid these days

How could this have possibly happened? Why had Jockey, or Macy’s, or Jockey and Macy’s decided to betray me? What profit is there in baiting-and-switching an old crank into buying a color he’d rather die than wear when you can just as easily sell him the white shorts he wants?

To be scrupulously, meticulously, rigorously, relentlessly fair to a fair-thee-well, had I examined every single side of the six-sided box of shorts, one side at a time, paying rigidly concentrated attention, turning it over and around, and over and around again with a fixed stare, I might have noticed…that one panel of the box did indeed reveal, through a cellophane window, that something inside was magenta. 

But I trusted the picture on the box. I was more interested in the printed information around the photograph of white Jockey shorts, to make sure I had the right size, the right design, the right brand — all of which was stated or illustrated on one broad  front panel. Who but a paranoid lunatic would start turning the box over and around and from side to side, looking for contradictory evidence? (Clearly, I wasn’t nearly paranoid enough to survive in the deceptive jungle that is modern America.)

Stuck and miserable in
a magenta nightmare

So now I’m stuck with bought-and-paid-for magentas. And no, I can’t take them back to Macy’s. Who but that paranoid lunatic I was talking about would horde receipts from a box of underpants in case he were to discover, five months later, that the wrong color had been foisted off on him? 

Moreover, I’ve ripped open the box. What am I going to do — stride into Macy’s waving magenta shorts and a torn box, with no receipt, and demand a refund for a five-months-old and now-undocumented purchase? 

They might think this is some kind of elaborate shop lifting scam. They might call security and the cops. I might end up in a cell phone video on the evening news, handcuffed and getting clubbed and tased by overzealous cops. I keep thinking about that poor woman who got beaten and her baby ripped from her arms for sitting on the floor while waiting her turn in a welfare office where there weren't enough chairs.

So I’m stuck forever with magenta. I’ve shoved the shorts into the back of my underwear drawer. No doubt when I die, somebody will go through my stuff, find the magenta shorts and say to him or herself, “I didn’t know that about him!”

Well, come to think of it, that’s not the way I want to be remembered. So after I finish writing this, I’m going to wad up all the shorts into a ball, (there were three pairs in different magenta hues) cram them into a paper bag, and then surreptitiously dump the bag into a city trash basket.

More than 30 bucks worth of underwear in the trash! All because of bait-and-switch. Or casual deception. Or a screw-the-public attitude. Which brings me around, at last, to Betsy DeVos and Donald Trump. 

When the nation’s educational system
is treated like mislabeled underpants

One of the few cabinet appointments Donald Trump made that hasn't self-destructed yet was of Betsy DeVos as Secretary of Education. He appointed her at a time of high outrage at for-profit colleges — a great many of which proved to be nothing more than theft mills targeting the vulnerable poor.

Many for-profit colleges deceived the most vulnerable people they could find, promising them a degree and a bright future, when in fact all that the poor suckers got was a worthless piece of paper, if anything, and a lifetime of debt. One for-profit college listed their ideal recruitment targets. And guess who they were:

•Welfare moms w/Kids
•Pregnant Ladies
•Recent Divorce
•Low Self-Esteem
•Vocational Rehabilitation
•Experienced a Recent Death
•Physically/Mentally Abused
•Drug Rehabilitation
ªFired/Lay Off

DeVos had skin in the game of
financially skinning suckers alive

When Betsy DeVos’s name was first bantered about for the job of education secretary, American Progress magazine reported that 
Overall, DeVos’ paperwork showcases an extensive web of investments, several of which raise eyebrows. She has investments in companies that hound students to pay their federal loan debts, as well as in psychiatric hospitals under federal investigation for Medicare fraud. She also has more than $1 million in an undisclosed venture related to education. And although her filings do not show any direct ownership stake in a private for-profit college, she has chosen to put some of her money into firms that are invested in that industry.
Among the article’s conclusions:
•”DeVos profited from student loan misery” 
•"DeVos has a connection to a major for-profit college” 
•"DeVos has investments at firms that also own for-profit colleges”
So naturally, Donald Trump thought she’d be perfect as Secretary of Education.

Phony forgiveness of
student loans

This month, the DeVos’s U.S. Department of Education announced that it will cancel $150 million worth of student loans. But before you jump up and down with joy, and declare that Betsy has seen the light, understand what a piddling drop in the bucket this gesture is.
• In order to qualify, you can only have attended a college that a) closed and that b) went out of business between November 1, 2013 and December 4, 2015. All other victims are disqualified. 
• Not only that, but you had to be enrolled at the time the school closed, or have withdrawn no more than 120 days before the school closed.
• And furthermore, you can only qualify if you did not enroll at another of these Title IV-eligible schools within three years of the date the prior school closed.
Got all that? Then there’s more than a piddling chance that even if you were ripped off by a for-profit college, you get nothing, nothing, nothing. That includes the ripped off former students of so-called Trump “University,” which closed in 2010.

And here’s the bottom line

What really happens is, DeVos and her pals, including Donald Trump, are inoculated against serious clawbacks by some future administration from the cost of those loans. The taxpayers eat the unreimbursed costs. The victims of for-profit education remain victims. And life goes on, except for those ripped off students who are so screwed that they commit suicide.

Hey, this is America, where, when you get right down to it, everything is magenta undershorts.