Mueller Investigation Strikes Home

Just in on the HHL … HussHotLine.

After his “I-will-meet-anytime-anyplace showdown” with Bob Mueller, “45’s” positions on meeting have been doing 360’s like Linda Blair’s head in “The Exorcist.”  Sans projectile vomiting.

Lawyers for “45” are apoplectic.

They’re terrified he’ll impulsively slip out of the White House after scarfing down his two Big Mac, two Filet-o-Fish sandwich and chocolate malted dinner … for a clandestine slugfest with the one guy who can bring his kaleidoscopic reign to a screeching halt.

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The President’s lead lawyer, Ty Cobb, while sharpening his spikes and stealing second base, stated, “President Trump is fully prepared to go mano-a-mano with the #1 threat to the Free World … Attorney Robert Mueller.

He’s as hyped as Judge Roy Moore at a “Sweet Sixteen” cupcake party.  He really wants to get it on with Bob!”

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Asked if “45” would prep for the big showdown, Cobb rolled his eyes saying, “Of course.”

We’ve remade Rocky & Bull Winkle into six-minute segments of a Russia-Collusion-Conspiracy-Obstruction of Justice, mini-series.  He loves it … especially Natasha’s Eastern European dialect.”

He’ll be like, totally wired … and we’re not talking Diet Cokes, here.”

When asked to explain the concept of “totally wired,” Cobb just smiled and conspiratorially whispered, “Just you wait ‘Enry ‘Iggins … just you wait.”

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On the first day of their big meet, “45” shakes hands with Mueller and they seat themselves across the table in the Cabinet Room of the West Wing … each with a name plate … “45’s” bigger and lettered in gold.

After the preliminaries of name, date, location … Mueller asks the first question:

“Mr. President, did you or anyone on your campaign team collude with …. ?”

Before Mueller can finish, “45” jumps up kicking his chair from the table … his tiny trembling finger points at Mueller as he prepares to scream.

But all Mueller hears is a bellowed, “Mmmm-ararak-grriiiiilll-oooohmmm-screeeeekmeee-schmickishret.”

Gingerly falling back into his chair, “45” sucks in a deep breath and mumbles, “Mr. Mueller, I ………”

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Seated outside the Cabinet Room, Trump’s crack legal team look at each other with sneaky smiles and whisper … “I think we got just the right amount of zap to control ‘em.

Though, just maybe we should’ve placed the electrodes on his inner thighs instead of his ‘nads.”

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Just sayin’ …

Seriously in need of perspective …

Kaboom!  Kaboom! … fireworks explode …it’s the end of 2017 and the start of the New Year.

Slam that door on 2017… what a relief … a horrendous year!

Oops … we’re only seven days into 2018 and gobsmacked over the “fireworks” encountered.

Where to start?

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For sure The Weather Channel has overtaken the Dark Web as the source for threats to humanity.

As if we didn’t have enough to worry about with whose “nuclear button is bigger,” the riots in Iran, and “45’s” complete disregard for Russian digital attacks, we also started this weather year off with a “bomb cyclone.”

WTF?

Two words you never want to hear, “bomb” and “cyclone” … and when they form a compound word … grab your ass and run for cover!

Meanwhile the good folks at The Weather Channel repeatedly scream that more than 125 million people are threatened by this bomb cyclone … Ouch!

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On to Hollywood where we’ve got guys running around with their dicks in there hands yelling, “Now what am I supposed do with this damned thing?”

At the Golden Globes, the stars decided to dress in black showing solidarity for the “Me Too!” movement.  Good!

Better, would be to change the “red carpet” to black!

But I’m most concerned about the announced remake of “Cleopatra” … that Taylor-Burton classic.

“Dirty, bloody and lots of sex” … the words currently used to launch this extravaganza.  Promo I see … “Antony & Cleo get it on in 3D!”

Glad to see that the moral boost from Me Too! hasn’t raised the bar too high in Make Believe Land.

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I’m not even gonna try to go for “Fire and Fury,” Michael Wolff’s … BTW, great name for a literary hit-man … latest dose of Trump-life.

“Fire and Fury” … hmmm.  Haven’t we heard that phrase before?  Korea?

Is it just me, or do others see a connection here … Trump-Bannon-Wolff … lotsa money … Best Seller … mega publicity … three big time narcissists?

For “45” and 2018, it’s apparently just another day at the Trump Reality Show Circus.

If there is a merciful media god … who BTW has the biggest reality button … the show and the nuclear showdown will be cancelled midseason.

Just sayin’ …

The Three Searchers

Early evening.  Stars pop out in the winter skies over Lebanon, Kansas located in Smith County … years ago determined by someone to be the exact middle of the continental US.

It’s getting closer to Xmas and time is running out for the three men wearing raincoats as they enter Pooche’s, the only bar in this town of 309 people – four more women than men according to the latest census.

As the three strangers push open the door, a rusty dented bell jangles announcing their presence.  At the sound of the bell, three old men and a lone woman, the only inhabitants in the bar, turn their heads in unison toward the strangers in town.

Dour looking, dusty and tired, the three swarthy oily black-haired bearded travelers look left then right before silently passing through the small room.  They take seats on worn cracked Naugahyde covered stools at the end of the bar … right in front of a small manger scene.

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The manger appears to have been left in place all year as witnessed by minute dust bunnies hidden in the crevices of the mini-stable.

The men see the tiny Joseph and Mary gazing skyward with complete reverence.  In a tiny cradle lies a tinier swaddled pink-skinned blue-eyed baby Jesus.  The man at the far left snorts when he sees the pink baby Jesus.

Kneeling in the hay beside the manger slightly outside its confines there is a goat, sheep, donkey and a dairy cow.  The traveler on the far right points out the cow and snorts.

Four angels suspended from bent coat hangers float in the air above the manger.  All four are blowing elongated celestial trumpets.  The middle man tweaks the angels with his finger tips.  The angels clack off each other as they “fly in the sky.”  Dust particles sift through the stale bar air dropping to the manger roof like early winter snow flakes.

The middle man orders three bourbons on the rocks with twists and a splash of water. “Distilled,” he says to the bartender, a younger man in his forties.  “Distilled?” the bartender questions.

The man on the left answers, “Yeh, distilled.  Bottled will work.  Definitely not tap.”

The drinks arrive and the bartender asks with a hint of hope in his voice, “Do you guys want to run a tab, tonight?”  All three shake their heads from side-to-side. The man in the middles says, “We’re traveling.  Moving East.”

As the bartender leaves, the man on the right says to the man on the far left, “You got the tab tonight.  I got the tip.”

The man on the right then reaches under his raincoat past his striped tunic into an ancient animal skin pouch and pinches off a bit of a gummy oily resin that is heavily scented.  He places the substance on a napkin at the bar.  An oily stain immediately appears on the paper cocktail napkin.  A soft sweet aroma rises from the substance.

The man on the far left says, “Myrrh?”  The man on the right nods.  They finish their drinks and silently leave.

Outside Pooche’s they look into the sky trying to decide which direction to go when they spot a brightly lit star in the eastern sky.  “There.  That’s the star … let’s go,” says the middle man.

As they walk down the street they hear shuffling behind them and turn, “You cheap bastards.  What?  No tip?”  It’s the bartender from Pooche’s.

The two men look to the man who paid the tab.  He digs into his purse once again and produces a gold coin and presses it into the extended hand of the bartender who now stares speechless at the three men.

He finally stammers, “Can I … can I help you guys?”

“Yeh,” says the guy in the middle.  “You seen a man and a woman – pregnant – on a donkey around here?  We’re supposed to meet them for a birthday party. We got the gifts but we can’t seem to find them.”

The bartender gives them a blank stare and says, “I think you guys have lost your way.”  He pivots and leaves … headed back to Pooche’s muttering under his breath.

“Xmas … always bring out the crazies.”

That “Special Place” in Hell is Very Crowded!

Ivanka Trump started it the other day with her catchphrase that placed Judge Roy Moore in a “special place in Hell.”

There’s a lot of anger in our world today.  And thanks to Ivanka, pundits, Op Ed’ers, reporters, political contributors … just about anybody and everybody writing/talking about politics in the USA has applied Ivanka’s message about Hell to everyone they want to insult, denigrate or disparage.

Like Ivanka, I have my own list of folks who I think have earned a place in that special residence.

I can hear you now … “Oh, Please Richard … please show us your “short list.”

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#1 … The “Christian Soldiers” who fight assiduously to have “Creationism” taught in public schools … as scientific fact.

#2 … That one smartass in the movie theater who sits behind me, thinks he’s a cinema critic, and insists on a running commentary … stage-whispered for the benefit of all.

#3 … The “science nerd” who made it impossible to remove the following “stickers”:  the UPC code, the “Made in China,” the small price tag that comes apart in 4-6 smaller pieces.  And if you can remove them, the glue residue is there forever.

#4 … The four or five guys who kicked my ass all over the parking lot of Murray’s Mau Mau Lounge in Miami (1963).  Angry and hateful!

#5 … Dickheads who take a cell phone call just as they get to the head of the “whatever-window-in-the-whichever-line” I’ve been standing in for the past 30 minutes.

#6 … Anyone over 18 who still wears a baseball cap backwards.  BTW, it’s a scientific fact that they lose at least 30 IQ points for doing that!

#7 … The person who initiated the procedure of keeping my food under a “heat lamp” and then telling me it’s still fresh … when what he was really doing is refusing to hire more wait staff.

#8 … Anyone who doesn’t appreciate all 31 one of the movies starring Elvis.

#9 … Anyone who sees value in the “collected works” of Gwyneth Paltrow … especially her cook books.

And … now for the drum roll, please:

#10 … Anyone who thinks the “Me Too” movement is a fad rather than the harbinger of lasting socio-cultural change.

Yes … Hell’s getting Moore and Moore crowded.  Who’s on your list?

Just sayin’ …

 

My New Favorite Xmas Carol

Borrowed from the original, “The Christmas Song,’ written in 1945 by Bob Wells and Mel Tormé, it’s more commonly known as “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.”

Feel free to sing this repeatedly … but be warned, it may become and “ear worm” throughout your Happy Holidays … Oops, I mean “Merry Christmas.”

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TRUMP NUTS

Trump nuts roasting on an open fire …

Bob Mueller nipping at his toes

West Wing staffers “sing,” but not in a choir

Wonderin’ who’s wired from foot to nose.

 

We all know he is the biggest Turkey

He helps himself to all that he can steal

Tiny little fingers sending tweets that are snarky

While he dines on his Big Mac MAGA meal.

 

He knows that prison’s on its way

Filled with pred-a-tory sexers out to play

And every woman’s sure to cast her vote

To see if we can dump him from our boat.

 

And to Mueller we offer this simple plea

“Lock ‘em up” until he’s 93.

You know it’s been said many times many ways

He’s a big fat liar with his pants ablaze.

 

And so I’m offering us this simple thought

To all who really, really care

We’ll shout and shout when he’s finally caught …

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas … to us!

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Yeah … I know … if I had a “Day Job,” I shouldn’t quit it.

Merry Christmas to all … and to all a Good Life!

Just sayin’ …

The “War on Christmas” is over!

Ho, ho, ho … “45’s” declared that the “War on Xmas is over!”

My Vision:

“45” appears in front of the National Christmas Tree wearing a flight jacket donning a military cap … arms raised in front of a banner declaring:

“I’ve Put the Baby Jesus Back in Christmas!”

“He-Who-Temporarily-Resides-in-the-White-House” is flanked by representatives from each of the service branches … decked in boughs of holly … and full battle regalia.

There is no Baby Jesus in a manger … no Baby Jesus swaddled in Mary’s virginal arms … no Baby Jesus gifted by Wise Men.

For sure, there’s no Rudolph in the scene.

It’s all about “45.”

My Reality:

Reporters at the Thursday evening National Tree lighting couldn’t help but notice that photos of the crowd size replicated the empty seats of “45’s” inauguration.

Maybe folks were busy with on-line shopping, or filling the malls spending wildly to keep the hot wheels of our economy spinning … eagerly anticipating their “big fat Christmas present” tax cut.

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In lieu of a traditional ginger bread house, FLOTUS Melania opted for a replica of the White House constructed from 300 pounds of dough … featuring her signature wreaths.

Press representatives started a pool on whether the ginger bread White House was “gluten free.”

The Twitter-sphere was swamped with snarky comparisons to past FLOTUS gingerbread White Houses.  I’m glad we have nothing better to do than diss gingerbread houses … the least edible item ever baked.

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At the Friday White House Christmas party for the press corps, “45” took two minutes to address his “friends in the media.”  He then spent another 2-3 minutes shaking hands with the FOX contingency before he left the party.

Noticeably absent were senior cabinet officials … though Kelly, Huckabee-Sanders and Conway did make brief “Merry Christmasy” appearances.

Also noticeably absent was any reference to the birth of the Baby, immaculate conception or concerns about newly dubbed “Turncoat Flynn” … though it was reported that the press practiced saying “Merry Christmas” aloud without fear of repercussions.

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Yes … it’s that time of the year and I’m sure glad that I can run around my neighborhood wishing everyone a Merry Christmas while I …

Search the heavens for North Korean nuclear missiles …

Dodge illegal aliens sneaking into our country because we don’t have a border wall …

Prepare my bank deposit slip for my “big fat tax cut” …

and … BTW “45,” I really am tired of all the winning you promised me … I’m sooo tired of winning!

Just sayin’ …

Crap … it’s Thanksgiving … again!

You would think that I’d finally get a handle on celebrating Thanksgiving.  Afterall, I’ve eaten turkey at the big table for almost ¾ century.

And another one’s right around the calendarial corner.

Maybe I’m overly cynical … but don’t cast your vote until after you’ve read my Thanksgiving “reality exposé.”

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For many folks it’s all about the happiness of “over the river and through the woods to ___________’s (fill in the relative) house we go.”

But for a lot of us, the thought of spending a long weekend with family relations results in colossal hives.

Hey … what’s wrong with a high-tech Turkey Day visit via Skype?  You can see each other and either party can hang-up to enjoy the rest of the evening.

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If you can’t wait to see your relatives and join in that great big familial hug fest, that’s great.

But even better would be if they lived within a 15 minute drive of your home … AND, you’re not hosting or housing the event.

And because you can’t cook worth a damn you thought the pumpkin pie from the local supper market would be just fine … until your snarky sister-in-law unveiled three pies made from the pumpkins she harvested from her own organic garden.

This is the same sister-in-law who last year announced at the dinner table that she was a Vegan and “couldn’t possibly touch anything that smelled of the sea, sported feathers, or stood on four legs.”

The look on your mom’s face … that was worth the trip!

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I haven’t even mentioned that your father now hates the NFL because the players kneel during the national anthem … and as a protest he’s declared Thanksgiving to be “Football Free!”

That should put your Fantasy Football Fanatic hubby in a great mood.

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Did you tell your son, who’s headed to the local community college after he graduates from high school, that his cousin’s been accepted at Harvard next year?

I know … silently you hope the little turd’s prepubescent balls freeze off in his first Cambridge winter.

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Aaah … Thanksgiving … we really do have so much to be thankful for … I’m just not sure it’s best celebrated with all the family.

Unless you can dash into the den and pour another 100 proof Wild Turkey … that’s a big bird you can love!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Just sayin’ …

I don’t care … It’s still an effing squash!

My attitude about pumpkins is less than positive.

I don’t care how you dress it up a pumpkin is still nothing more than an overgrown squash.  And true to the sound of its name … a squash is a squash … and a pumpkin is a squash.

How can you create inviting food items based on … squash?

Especially when it’s a big, orange, bumpy, wrinkly, totally bland, goiter-looking squash.

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According to Trader Joe’s, and every other food outlet in the US, you make a “pumpkin spice” concoction.

Then you foist it onto consumers as if there’s no end to how they can combine it with anything edible.

Pumpkin muffins with nuts and dried fruit … if served warm and slathered with butter … that’s pumpkin pie without the crust … that’s a big “Okay.”

Cereals?  An entire aisle full … all with a pumpkin spice line.  If Big Cereal can extrude it, they’ll bake it, sugar it, and sell it.

Trader Joe’s Pumpkin O’s, Kelloggs’ Mini-Wheats & Special K, Quaker’s Life.

If you’re a health-nut holdout, just open a pouch of Quaker Pumpkin Spice Instant Oatmeal and lock your bowels with a spoonful of that s**t!

No wonder the old Quaker on the box has a twinkle in his eyes!

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Cocktails?  Surely the Pumpkin Spice Lords won’t invade the Sacred Land of Spirits … our Fall Happy Hour libations.

Aaargh … that’s for the yucch brown Pumpkin Spice Martini … a drink that resembles overflow from my sewer line after a major hurricane.

And for the garnish?  I’m not thinkin’ olives here!

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Push that pumpkin spiced food to the side of the road.

How about a big shout-out for pumpkin spice soap-on-a-rope?  The perfect gift for that guy headed to prison this fall who fears dropping his soap in the shower!

Candles?  Yep … your entire effing house can smell like the pumpkin pie you charcoaled in the oven yesterday!

Driving to grandma’s house? Get one of those cute little hangy-down-car-deodorizer-thingies … and enjoy pumpkin spice wafting from your rear view mirror!

“Hey honey … come check my pits!  I just got my Pumpkin Spice Latte deodorant!”  Scrump-dili-cious!

And finally … in spite of SNL and Kate Mckinnon’s best efforts, there really isn’t an Autumn’s Eve Pumpkin Spice Douche … but, there probably will be for the 2018 fall season.

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Oh, boy … I can’t wait for Thanksgiving … turkey, cranberries and forced-family-get-togethers … all the things I love!

Just sayin’ …

“Lookin’ for loofah’s in all the wrong places …”

 

Don’t know about you, but I thought I’d heard just about everything there was to hear about those wild and crazy Florida transplants living in The Villages, the largest 55+ community in the US.

Now I gotta admit I’m gobsmacked by the latest info leakin’ from this quasi-Disney-esque enchanted world for seniors.

We’re talking sex-athons in The Villages … that are initiated by loofahs hanging from the aerials of a lot of tricked-out golf carts … the primary means of Villagers’ transportation.

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Loofah’s have replaced the pile of hotel room keys or car keys used for hookups … so “Yesterday!”

Your “loofahed” golf cart is your personal and very public signature that you’re ready, willing and able to have sex … apparently just about any time, any place, with anybody.

What could be more public than racing through The Villages’ streets with your loofah making like that old “fox tail” riding the wind in your 1957 fire engine red Ford T-Bird?

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Living up to it’s reputation as one of the highest, if not THE highest rate of STD’s in the country – that’s right, country not county – The Village People seem to be amped up trying to makeup for a lost youth spent working, raising kids, mowing lawns, and in general having absolutely no fun.

That is until now!

Reports of golf cart sex … most don’t even have a back seat … bring to mind body positions that’re possible only if your creaky bones have been loosened and your muscles honed by months of Yoga, Pilates, Jazzercize and Zumba … all of which are conveniently offered right there in The Villages … along with a not-so-hidden-underground black market for Viagra.

There are a lotta Boomers in The Villages … and they’re determined to carry that Boomer Banner of carrying sexual records to their graves.

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Fueled by daily 11AM-to-Closing Happy Hours, everyday at The Villages replicates the halcyon days of Florida-Georgia football craziness in the old Jacksonville Gator Bowl.

But that was just one weekend each year.  In The Villages, it’s the weekend all day every day!

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So if you’re “tired of lookin’ for love in all the wrong places” and simply want to look for a hot, sexy loofah in the right places … why not give it a shot?

More than 150,000 people live in The Villages … and they can’t all be wrong … can they?

Just sayin’ …

Grudge Match: God vs Bill O’Reilly

Bill O’Reilly, Fox Broadcasting’s arbiter of moral values and women’s private parts, has had it with God.

“You know, am I mad at God?  Yeah, I’m mad at him,” O’Reilly said in a recent podcast after being outted for his 32 million dollar sexual harassment settlement.

Meanwhile from on high, Heavenly Leakers spread the word … O’Reilly may be mad … but God’s eternally pissed.

After Mr. O’Reilly’s grandstand play … God’s on a mission to teach O’Reilly a lesson for all-time … up close and personal!

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It’s clear O’Reilly’s missed the whole Adam-Eve-Eden-scandal of original sin … man’s falling from grace.

God’s decided that it’s gonna take a good ‘ole fashioned ass whuppin’ to convince the wrinkled-prune-of-a-dried-up-wannabe-sex-symbol, that if your arms aren’t long enough to box with God … you shouldn’t!

Here’s the message delivered to the masses though his Son and manager …  “God’s Ready to Rumble!”

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“In this digital age, we’re not sending Moses to lay down a few simple rules of the road to a wandering ragtag Lost Tribe,” says Jesus.

No clay tablets here … look for a mass worldwide broadcast in 3D on HTV … that’s Heavenly TV to you Heathens, Pagans and non-believers.

“There’s only one way to settle this … and that’s to climb in the ring with the Supreme Gladiator … God the Father.

“Watch God ‘Open a can of Whup Ass’ on O’Reilly for only $6.66 … which includes two pair of 3D glasses.

“Dad just wants to get O’Reilly into the ring with Him.  We’re way beyond a Sunday School lesson with this guy.

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At the prefight weigh in, which was a formality since God has no measureable physical form, the Gladiator Supreme and the One-Who-Denigrates-Women faced off.

God suggested that Mr. O’Reilly, clearly the underdog, review the Old Testament and come to the fight Samson-like … armed with the jawbone of an ass … or emulate David with a few smooth flat river rocks and a sling.

O’Reilly implored God to take this opportunity to show His magnanimity and forgiveness to “Man-Kind” starting with him … Bill O’Reilly.

That produced a laugh from the Almighty One that rocked the heavens and sent O’Reilly scurrying rat-like back to his locker room hidey-hole … for more “locker room talk.”

The last words heard from O’Reilly were … “Tell Him I’ll donate 32 million to any church he wants … I promise.  I swear.  Oh, please God … it’ll be a ‘Deal made in Heaven!’”

Just sayin’ …