I always enjoy hearing from some ghost in my past, so I was thrilled to hear that Robert Mueller was coming back to investigate Carrot Head and his
I can always tell who's a real German, because they keep the spelling of their last names all mucked up with extra vowels. Believe me, if Bob were really true blue American, he would have changed his name to Miller years ago. It's a secret sign, sort of like when skinheads wear certain shoelaces in their stormtrooper boots: if they're yellow, they're just posing. The real, death-stomping Nazis wear red ones.
Don't ask me how I know that, diary -- I've been a bad girl with an anonymized web browser. Tee hee.
As you know, diary, not many things have gone my way lately. Even with the Librium, my outlook isn't always as rosy as it should be, but I'm working on trying to find the silver lining in all these clouds. I guess I should be grateful for the little victories, like the way
How she chose that Jew pervert over me still baffles me. Damn.
Everyone likes Bob. Even Obozo liked him. Well, for two years, anyway. Then I heard something about how they were drinking one day and Mueller made a joke about Michelle being kind of butch and Obozo just lost it. Next thing you know, Mueller hit the bricks and that's pretty much how we ended up with Comey. Obozo was always a lightweight. I would have punched my way out of it, but Mueller outweighs him by at least forty pounds and even if Obozo took the first swing, it's probably still a felony to rearrange the president's face.
I doubt that this whole Russian thing will play out, through. I mean, really: They had phone call records for Benghazi and billions of my classified e-mails on a server next to my toilet in the guest room and I'm still not breaking rocks in Leavenworth. This shit can go on forever, but in the end, all it really does is pump up book sales after
Those guys at Harper Collins will buy anything.