Saturday, March 4, 2017

March 4, 2017

Dear Diary,

Woke up to the news that Carrot Head thinks Obozo had wiretaps all over his home during the final days of the you-know-what.  If it weren't for the fact that you can keep a secret, diary, I'd stay out of this whole thing, but the fact of the matter is that the finding bugs crawling all over Carrot Head's townhouse was the least of it.

There's a reason that big-eared Blackamoor the ex-President would swagger in and out of meetings with the pomposity of a Beverly Hills hairdresser brimming with so much confidence  He had more dirt on more people than J. Edgar Hoover, without the dress collection, because whenever he wanted anything, he simply raided Michelle's closet -- and there was nothing she could do about it.  He'd just prance into her dressing room, grab an outfit and say, "I'm taking this!" and then prance right out again, giggling like a hyena in heat.  He never even washed what he wore, let alone hang them back up.  Michelle would get especially upset about her Manolo Blahniks, because even though they both wore the same size, his foot was wider and would stretch them all out.

That man spent more on wires, microphones and transmitters than you could find at Radio Shack (before they went broke under his "economic stimulus plan."  Ha Ha!), even though he had no idea how any of this stuff works.  He was SO dumb.   I remember at one meeting, when I was Secretary of State, someone brought up how much he was spending on transmitters, and all he could say was that he wasn't going to discriminate against any kind of mitters, be they gay, lesbian or trans.  After a long silence, we just changed the subject.

He really thought he was a combination of John Kennedy, Sammy Davis Jr. and Judy Garland.  I bet he was the only president whose entire music collection was composed entirely of Broadway musicals.  We used to have to sit through hours long meetings while he sang some obscure song from "Cats," priding himself on how everyone else only knew "Memories," but that he knew the entire score, like it was some big deal.  He'd stand at the head of the table, doing that "I'm so cute" cat's paws thing with his hands, encouraging everyone else to sing along.  Of course, nobody did, mainly because none of us were tone deaf and he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.  Remember that video of him sining to a crowd?  Auto-tuned.

I guess Obozo was concerned that as long as he had something on them, people wouldn't have anything on him, so he tapped the shit out of anyone within slapping distance.  It didn't matter who you were or what you did.  At our house, we used to joke about it.  Bill and I would sit at breakfast, talking about this or that, and then Bill would wink at me, lean forward and say, "Speak up...into the flower vase."  Sometimes we'd laugh and make up stuff, knowing Obozo was listening, just to freak him out.  One time, I joked about whether anyone from Benghazi left me a phone message and Bill went on with that old Bob and Ray schtick about "Slow Talkers of America." We laughed and laughed.

That didn't turn out so well, though, now that I think about it. Oh well, water under the bridge.

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