Trump Aid Heinously Accused Of Eating Dry Glue As A Child By His 3rd-Grade Teacher

LA Times- A teacher who recounted how a senior aide to President Trump ate glue as a third-grader has been pulled from her classroom.

Miller, 33, has grown up to be a senior advisor to Trump. But his prospects did not appear so promising to Fiske when Miller was a student in her classroom at Franklin Elementary School.

“He would pour the glue on his arm, let it dry, peel it off and then eat it,” she said. “He was a strange dude.”

Suspended? Nope. Gotta fire her. Throw her out immediately. What a bunch of horseshit. 3rd-grade teachers should be forced to take an oath of secrecy when they sign their contract. The stuff you do as a 3rd-grader should NEVER come to light when you’re grown. Unless you’re still doing that shit 30 years later. In which case, prosecutors could point to it and say, “well, he established a pattern early on. So, makes sense. That’s just what he likes to do.”

For example, let’s say that you grow up to become a gas station attendant. Your name is Franklin and you operate the full-service pump off a busy intersection in Milwaukee. One day, your ex-wife pulls up in her gleaming, luxurious new Chrysler PT Cruiser (this imagining occurs before 2010, when Chrysler ceased  manufacturing the PT Cruiser because it looked like a cartoon) that she bought with your money from the settlement. In the passenger seat is her new boyfriend, the dashing, muscular Eduardo. Eduardo was a major league prospect at one point who turned scouts’ heads in the Dominican farm leagues with his ability to hit with equal power from both sides of the plate. But as he climbed his way up through the minor leagues, a random drug test revealing trace amounts of mule meat–a banned substance known for its ability to improve eyesight–punctured his dreams and sent him packing. In truth, Eduardo hadn’t known that the steak he was eating was mule. But that’s what happens when you can’t read an English menu.

In the ensuing months, Eduardo hopped from hotel to hotel until he met Sherri, Franklin’s wife, at a young entrepreneur’s seminar in a Days Inn near the airport. Eduardo had been sleeping behind a radiator in the conference room when the seminar started. He sat up, rubbed his bloodshot eyes which were dry from the blasting heat of the radiator, and joined the group. Something about his sun-cracked lips and sinewy donkey quads sent Sherri’s heart fluttering in a way that Franklin never had. That afternoon, she was pregnant.

It would have been impossible to convince Franklin that the baby was his. Sherri and Franklin made love often, but he insisted on finishing in mason jars which he kept in the wine cellar downstairs. Franklin had an irrational fear of death and wanted to ensure the continuity of his bloodline in the event that either he or Sherri were killed. The arrangement made no sense in the short term, but Franklin assured Sherri that they were “preparing for the worst.”

So she told him. She told the whole story: how she’d dreamed of starting a business to supplement Franklin’s paltry income, most of which went towards the astronomical electrical bills that stemmed from cooling their 400-square foot wine/cum cellar; how she’d guided Eduardo to the fitness center in the basement, where they’d utilized the stairmaster in ways that actually made things much more difficult. And as she handed him the manila envelope that contained their divorce papers, she kept her eyes level, even as he doubled-over, knelt to the floor, in tears. She was strong–she had to be strong–for the child that would soon arrive.

Franklin never recovered. He lost his job at bank when he showed up wearing the same suit, shirt, and tie four months in a row. The smell, like an uncovered mass grave, was driving customers away. That seemed like rock-bottom but Franklin would soon find himself drilling a silver-dollar sized hole in the metal partition of the men’s bathroom at the Shell station downtown. The hole was waist-height. Sometimes his customers slid a $5 bill under the partition first, sometimes they didn’t. It’s not like he had the strength to chase them down, for he’d been surviving on pilfered bugles and cheddar-filled pretzel pillows for weeks. The aisle that contained those snacks was the only blindspot in the gas station store.

The manager knew what he was up to, but saw no reason to stop it. The station had seen a massive influx of customers since word had spread among truck drivers of the “bottomless throat” at the Shell station bathroom. These satisfied customers would walk out of the bathroom, their spines tingling, and buy an energy drink for the road. The relationship was symbiotic. Everyone benefitted from Franklin’s complete lack of dignity.

But one day, an unsuspecting father took his child into the bathroom. When his young son curiously stuck his index finger through the hole, Franklin mistook it for a narrow customer and latched on like a guppy. The boy shrieked, his father kicked down the divider, and Franklin scrambled away at the last second. The operation was over.

Still, the manager took pity on him. Franklin had brought so much business to the station. So he did what so many NFL owners wouldn’t do: he took this talented man off his knees, handed him a clean shirt, and gave him a job. In short order, Franklin was receiving the biggest tips of any of the attendants. He was charming and many of his former customers paid him generously, a delayed thanks for the satisfaction he’d provided them, even though they preferred not to see the face upon which that magical mouth was set.

But one fateful Tuesday morning, when Franklin’s world finally seemed to be back on track, Sherri pulled up in her PT Cruiser. She didn’t even recognize Franklin, his appearance had changed so much. “Fill it up with premium,” she purred, caressing Eduardo’s bulging thigh over the arm rest. Franklin controlled his breathing, with difficulty. He unhooked the gas pump, swiped her credit card, and listened until the steady stream of fuel was ended by a click of the handle. Then, with Sherri and Eduardo lost in each other’s eyes, Franklin pulled out a dry rag from his shirt pocket. He doused it with a quick spritz from the pump, stuffed it into the open tank, and lit the end with a lighter.

“Have a nice day,” he said. The couple ignored him. He walked, briskly and purposefully, behind the station. And as the car exploded, which caused the entire pump to explode, he smiled to himself. It had been a long time since he’d smiled.

Uhm. Oh, here’s what I was going to say– if that dude had been known for starting fires as a kid, and his 3rd-grade teacher had outed him for it, that would have been a fair thing to do. Because he’s a dangerous dude. But eating glue? Come on. Let that shit go, lady.