In the next book I write I’m going to air all kinds of dirty laundry from inside the Whitehouse. The easy access I have to the inner workings of the current administration reveal information far beyond what you get in official presidential tweets. Not that the president tweets very much or shoots off inane opinions about world issues while sitting on the toilet. He’s not that shallow.
But lately he’s been asserting that there is no dirty laundry to be aired, and that just blows me away. The presidential airspace is full of clotheslines designed specifically to air out the recently-cleaned dirty laundry. So, agreed, not actually dirty, but formerly dirty and now being aired out to dry.
If you’ve bought into Sarah Sanders party line that “this president has never generated a single piece of dirty laundry,” consider this: the reason you rarely see Melania is that the president has ordered her to wash dirty laundry and hang it out in the Whitehouse yard surreptitiously, behind cleverly-designed barriers that foil paparazzi cameras. Or else she can kiss that US citizenship goodbye, because he’s sick of her talking about bullying all the time. And no, he didn’t have sex with that trollop Stormy Daniels or any other hot babe porn stars.
Instead of this dirty laundry witch hunt, would someone please look into Hilary Clinton’s dirty laundry?
Thanks for your message. Sorry, I’m not available to answer your query. It turns out I’m away from the office.
What does that actually mean? Aren’t we all “away from the office” these days, emotionally speaking? What makes me feel compelled to wear my absence on my sleeve? And how about some details?
All I can tell you is that I’m not going to be able to respond to your email while I’m away. I’m not going to read your message on my phone whilst at the beach with my family. It’s just not my style. I mean, sure, if it was a big shot calling, like the president of the United States of America asking me to break a couple laws here and there (and the emails were marked “urgent”), I might notice and would quietly make a plan to undermine an election.
But otherwise I’ll get back to you next week.
For quite a while now, people have relied upon me to keep them up to date with the latest on mochi via my mochi blog, and once again I’ve let them down. I haven’t posted a decent mochi review in longer than I can remember. And I’ve heard your pleas and have witnessed your disgruntlement. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to defend myself.
Look, reviewing mochi might seem a dream job to you, but to me the day-in, day-out grind of it is wearying.
You scoff, but you’ve never had the pressure of finding nuances in mochi and writing about them, and I have. Excuse me while I get I tissue.
Sob, snort, hack, blow loudly.
Do you realize the kind of pressure I’m under, reviewing mochis for all my readers across the world? If it was something inconsequential, like chicken fingers, or chicken toes, no problem, but this is mochi, an American treasure.
Speaking of which, have you seen the mochi room at the Smithsonian? Hilarious!
Next week: why Costco Mochi kicks the ass of Super 88 mochi by miles!
I know you follow this blog on a daily basis from your outpost in southern Rhode Island, the twin cities, San Diego, etc., and so you’ll fondly recall my blog post from November, 2013, in which I talk briefly about a certain portly, aged gentleman clad only in a loincloth, who rides up and down the streets of greater Boston on a scooter. I’ve caught sight of him in Harvard Square, in Brookline, in West Roxbury, and just last week spotted him motoring through Cleveland Circle in Brighton. He’s unmistakable, an aging Sasquatch of a man, mostly nude, riding around on secondary roads with his baggy white flesh exposed. It’s like this is the only way he can cool down during the hot summer months. Hey, I get that. It’s why I ride my scoot.
Of course, I don’t ride nekked.
I can’t tell you his brand of scooter because I’m always caught unawares by his sudden emergence, riding across my field of vision. And then he’s gone. He’s like a rare bird alighting in your backyard maple tree long enough for you to spot him and yell for the kids, but not long enough for them to see him too. In those few seconds, it’s impossible to pull out my smaht phone and git me a pitcher. Perhaps if I spent more time staring at my phone whilst driving I’d be at the ready when the naked scooter man happens by. Of course, then I probably wouldn’t see him.
Truth be told, he’s not totally bare; he does us the favor of covering up his groinal region – previously employing a loincloth, and last week opting for something more Speedoesque – but otherwise he hasn’t changed: still plump; still with thin wisps of gray hair sprouting from the sides of his helmet; still on that scooter.
The first time I saw him was so long ago (like decades) that I should be forgiven for assuming that he must have passed on to the next life by now. The naked scooterist is a survivor.
I’m suddenly reminded that in the late 1980s, when I worked at Mass General Hospital, there was a guy who used to roam around the Charles Street area wearing nothing but a speedo and a little holster for his essentials (keys and a few bucks?). Short, sinewy, with black hair in tight curls, he seemed perfectly normal but for the lack of clothing. I imagined back then that he must have had a mental illness. Perhaps exhibitionism is the word.
You’re probably wondering if I ever roam the streets similarly scantily-clad. The answer is no. It turns out I’m not one of those very few (if any) people who look good in a speedo. (Or a loincloth.)