Gentle reader, back in the days of our youth, the days when the radio regularly poured forth the strains of Prokofiev’s “Love of Three Oranges” to introduce the semi-official stories of the activities of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, did we dream that the day would ever come when a segment of the American populace would assert that “If you work for the FBI, you should die!” But, regrettably, that day has arrived, thanks to the adoration and adulation some people now have for Donald John Trump and the sanctity of his rooms in that high-cost, if not high class, temple of tawdriness, the clubhouse of Mar-a-Lago, in Palm Beach, Florida.

Never mind that those agents of the Bureau were armed with properly issued search warrants; never mind that the fruits of their search produced boxes and boxes of documents that belong not to Donald John Trump, but legally are the property of the government of these United States of America; never mind that his possession of these documents violates the classification statute, and never mind that these facts, on the face of it, make Donald John Trump a criminal, a thief, a crook, in short a felon.

The opinions expressed in this column do not reflect the views of this newspaper.