Question for the room: Does Donald Trump have his Pete Souza yet? That is to say, has he chosen a White House photographer? The only pix from the White House I’m seeing are the ones of him signing executive orders with his flunkies arrayed in a half-circle behind him. Pence always stands on his right, and applauds like the toady he is.
The pictures are unremarkable, wire-service stuff. The White House’s Flickr photo stream is empty, so I have to assume that this is one of those still-unfilled positions, like most of the East Wing staff.
And if you’re one of those people who doesn’t know who Pete Souza is, here’s part of his 2016 White House portfolio. I don’t recommend it if you’re feeling …emotional.
Especially this week, when yet another of the 10,000 veils dropped between the American public and the Trump administration. Yes, I’m talking about Natasha, makin’ money. I just can’t believe this stuff; I’m almost literally open-mouthed when I read it. What is wrong with these people? How is it even possible to be this crass?
Change of subject: Wendy was lying next to me the other day when she did something she’s never done before: Farted, audibly. There was a funny little toot, like the horn on a Fisher Price clown car, and then? Mustard gas. Do any of you have those dogs that bark at their own farts? Because that would be hilarious.
This little dickens:
She who smelt it absolutely didn’t deal it.