There was a guy I used to see on bike rides in Fort Wayne. A cross-dresser, I guess you’d call him. “Transgender” might be the current term, but from the gossip about this guy, he had a wife and lived as a man, and wasn’t trans in his daily life. But when he got on his bike he was wearing a cheap blonde wig that looked like it came from Party City, a black lace top and enormous fake boobs underneath. I mean: E. Nor. Mous. They looked like balloons. He’d add wraparound sunglasses and blast down the bike path, turning heads the whole way. He never stopped to talk to anyone. Just a blonde, balloon-boobed sight to see.

Well, as often happens, if you live long enough, you learn some things. As soon as I saw the leaked photos of Kristi Noem’s husband, I knew where I’d seen it before, and I learned it’s a fetish with a name: Bimbofication.

If you didn’t see the pix, I just described the look. And apparently Bryon Noem is deeply into it, deep enough that he goes online to chat up sex workers catering to his preferences, one or more of whom dimed him out to the Daily Mail.

I’m not here to kink-shame. The guy on the bike path was harmless. Bryon Noem is likely harmless. It explains, perhaps, why his wife was able to have an affair with Corey Lewandowski without even bothering to conceal it, perhaps. I learned they’ve been married since 1992, longer than Alan and me. They have adult children. They’re grandparents. They have an understanding, I’d bet.

In a Democratic administration, such a revelation would have Republicans clutching their pearls and grabbing smelling salts with the other hand. Today? Eh. Avert your eyes, nothing to see here.

Me, I’m more worried about tonight’s presidential address. That he will declare victory in Iran is a given. Alan thinks he’ll also announce we’re leaving NATO, far more worrisome.

As usual, Putin is laughing his ass off. World War III, dead ahead.