Melania mania hits DC!

Dr. Ermann Esse, under the CIA alias of fashion designer "Gunther Zimmer", was in the East Wing planning out Melania Trump's outfits for the week.

"Zat outfit for Argentina President was ridiculed, Gunther!" she cried, wagging his finger at him with a smile and locking the bedroom door behind her.  "They said it was junta chic!"

"I know, my darling, please forgive me?  Look what I brought you!"

He kissed her passionately (he was getting better and better at this part of his undercover mission), then pulled out several dresses his CIA seamstress team had put together.  She turned around to let him kiss her neck while he took off her clothing.

"He insisted on going to zee white trash rally AGAIN yesterday!" she bemoaned, while moaning.  "Pennsylvania!"

"I know, Melania.  You belong in Manhattan!  Or at least in Georgetown."

"And why did Ivanka get to call the astronaut?"

"I don't know.  It's wrong!"

"And why did Merkel invite Ivanka to German entrepreneur conference?  I can speak German, and I am the REAL entrepreneur, right?"

"Exactly!" said the psychiatrist, who was supposed to be hypnotizing her into influencing her husband but was getting nowhere.  "You and I worked our way up from humble roots!  And here we are today, in the White House!  Ivanka was BORN rich!  She is no entrepreneur."

"AND she had plastic surgery!" said Melania, admiring her own buttocks in the mirror.

"YOU are the TRUE beauty, Melania!" said Dr. Esse.  "Nobody can believe you are 47!"

Melania frowned at this reminder.  Though she had celebrated a fabulous and stylish birthday in Washington last week, she was demonstrably too old now to land a different rich old husband now.  And hers had become too insecure to dump her and seek a fourth wife.  Everyone knew he got fatter and uglier every year!  "Do you think he's right about the Canadian wood?" she asked, changing the subject.

"He only knows about golf club wood!" Dr. Esse replied, and this got a good laugh from Melania.  "And THIS kind of wood!" he added, pulling her close to him.

"Ah, you are too fast, just like him!" she laughed, pushing him away.  "I need to finish trying on zee outfits first!"

The shrink lay down on the bed to watch her striptease her way through the remaining outfits (all of which fit perfectly, and looked fabulous on her).  "But, seriously," the psychiatrist said, "it would be good for you to calm him down about NAFTA.  Ripping it up could destabilize the continent."

"What continent?" she asked.

It was then that Dr. Esse realized she was actually too clueless to even be used by the CIA to influence Donald Trump.  "What are you thinking of for President Duterte?" he asked.  "I am thinking black, with some lace and ruffles.  That gives off a bit of a Catholic vibe, and you cannot be too frivolous in color since he has a lot of human rights complaints."

"Maybe," she sighed.  The Filipino thug of a dictator had no money or style, and she didn't have the slightest interest in ever visiting a Trump hotel in Manila.  "Do you think zee climate change protesters are right?" she asked suddenly.  "Will Mar-a-Lago be underwater?"

"Rich people can build sea walls," said Dr. Esse.  "The poor will be underwater."

Out in the hallway, Randy "Bubba" Blaylock was pacing the hallway furiously.  The security guard hired by Steve Bannon had developed an intense fixation on Melania as soon as she had moved in, and he was certain there was hanky-panky going on with this fashion designer.  "What does she see in HIM?" he muttered out loud.  "Everybody knows those guys are all fruit loops!  I'm the handsomest hunk out here!"  He stopped to look at himself in the mirror, then pulled up abruptly when he realized a Secret Service agent at the other end of the hallway was smirking at him.  They think they're better than me! he thought.  Just because I'm from a small town in Virginia and didn't rise up the ranks!  But POTUS LOVES me!  He knows I'm one of his kind.  He scratched the skin under his cursed ROLEX.  Next time this fag Gunther shows up, I'll tell him he's no longer allowed in there!  Then she'll have to ask ME to help her into and out of those dresses!  I'll show her what a real man is!  He heard a sudden squeal of laughter and clenched his fist.

Over in NoMa, lifestyle blogger Giuliana Sunstream was holding her first-ever Ljubljana Luau to try to attract the attention of Melania Trump.  The Slovenian caterer had brought zlikrofi, golaz, and turnip soup, which had all tasted so dreadful to Giuliana on the sampling day that she was complementing them this afternoon with Hawaiian pizza, mahi mahi, and a sculpture of Ljubljana Castle made entirely of poi poi.  The whole party made absolutely no sense, but she was on a desperate quest to find the Trump zeitgeist, and the Hawaiian punch was spiked with so much Russian vodka that the $200/ticket revelers were having an excellent time.  Half the women there, Giuliana included, were wearing their hair long and parted in the middle like Melania, though some were achieving this effect with wigs.  They had shoes from Ivanka's collection, and dresses and jewelry from Melania's collection.  The other half of the women had thought this party idea was an ironic theme, and were dressed in tacky combinations of Hawaiian mu-mus and stiletto heels.  The men, likewise, were evenly divided between (1) dark suits with red ties and (2) khaki golf pants with Hawaiian shirts.  Giuliana's toy Maltese, Vegas, was draped in fake diamonds.

"Who's ready for the Ljubljana Limbo contest?" asked Giuliana, to enthusiastic cheers.

She didn't realize that a drunken Democrat had already written over the marked measurements with phrases like "attacked federal judge", "attacked free press", "questioned practicality of Constitutional government", and, on the very lowest notch, "nuked North Korea to distract from Russia probe".  "How LOW will we GO?!" he shouted, before getting the whole crowd to chant with him:  "How LOW will we GO?!  How LOW will we GO?!"

Over at Lafayette Park, Washington Post "Metro" reporter Perry Winkle was meeting with one of his secret White House sources on a park bench.  What had begun as an attempt by Winkle to break into political journalism had, instead, brought him back to struggling with questions about the supernatural.

"She thinks nobody there understands Slovenian, but I do!" exclaimed the housekeeper.  "I worked at the Slovenian embassy for years.  The First Lady doesn't want to live here because of ghosts!"

"Are you sure?  There seem to be plenty of other good reasons not to," replied Winkle.

"She has been on the phone with her sister talking about it.  She's not frightened of them, but she finds them very annoying.  She keeps throwing salt and pepper everywhere, and lighting peppermint candles."

"Peppermint candles?  I've never heard of such a thing."

"It smells like you're brushing your teeth and smoking at the same time."

"Does the President hear ghosts?" asked Winkle.

"Why do you think he's got bags under his eyes all the time?" she sniffed.  "It's not because he's up late reading in the Oval Office!"

"Have you heard any ghosts?"

"Of course not!  Those people are crazy.  I'm just telling you so you can print the story."

"I wish I could," said Perry, who was still on anti-hallucinatory medication since his editor had sent him on sabbatical after his last attempt to write a supernatural story (about zombies).  "But let me know if you hear of anything Trump decides to do based on what he heard from a ghost."

"I WISH he would decide things based on a ghost," she said, shaking her head.  "There are much scarier things happening in there."

Back inside the East Wing, the ghostly presence of twin pre-schoolers Regina and Ferguson jumping up and down on the bed was making it impossible for Melania to have sex with Gunther.  "You can't take you clothes off!" she insisted.  "They're right here!"

"I don't see anything, sweetie pie," replied Dr. Esse.

"You really can't see zem?  Do you think it's stress?"

"Let me give you another treatment," said the CIA agent, beginning to hypnotize her.  Then Reggie and Fergie got bored and went off to mess with Steve Bannon again.

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COMING UP:      
Prince and Prowling racking up the billable
Trump hours--in Washington and Beijing!

The diary of SCOTUS newbie Neil Gorsuch!

Dear Diary,

Wow, time flies when you're having fun!  Can't believe I already got to block a DNA appeal on a death row inmate!  Another one bites the dust in Arkansas!  That's what I'm talking about!  Not sure why some people say allowing an execution is the opposite of being pro-life:  I'm just here to uphold the law.

For people who questioned whether my appointment was worth ending the Senate filibuster, PLEASE!  That branch of government has always been overrated.  Senator McConnell is as greedy as they come, and barely one step removed from being hillbilly trailer trash.  And Paul Ryan?  What a lightweight!  Read Ayn Rand in college and thinks he's some kind of intellectual genius.  And talk about spineless!  I seriously cannot believe he's third in line for the Presidency.  They should amend the Constitution to put the Chief Justice third in line.  And take Secretary of State out of there, while you're at it!  Rex "this is your brain on petroleum" Tillerson!  "If you drill it, he will come!"  Field of memes.

And did I steal Merrick Garland's appointment?  Hell yes!  And I would do it again in a heartbeat!  If Scalia can't be here, I am definitely the next best thing:  I'm brilliant, originalist, fearless, and committed to greatness.  And since I'm not an overweight smoker, I imagine I'll be around a lot longer time than him.  Sh, diary!  You're the only one who knows, but I DO think I will have a bigger impact than Scalia!

And to people who said I talked too much my first day out there, and interrupted women on the bench, STUFF IT!  The ladies can interrupt me if they want to--nobody's stopping them!  And that attempt to start labeling me #ChattyCathy on Twitter?  Nice try, losers!  Actually, I'm hoping "Notorious RBG" gives me a nickname.  (But if she doesn't, I'm going to anonymously float #OMG!NMG!, #GorsuchMuch?, or #NeilAppeal on social media.)

I invited Ruth to the opera, but she's not buying it--still in mourning for Scalia.  Invited Sonia to watch "House of Cards" with me, but she's not buying it, either.  Maybe I'm still too young and handsome:  the ladies are following the Mike Pence rule about avoiding the opposite sex, ha ha!  The guys are okay, but this hazing with the hidden tape recorder is NOT funny.  Ghosts?  Seriously?  They denied it, but my clerks sure wouldn't have the audacity to plant recordings of creepy, whispered messages like "justice is blind and still all-seeing," "rule now with us, and rule forever," and "death to the infidels."  And I still can't find the hidden tape recorder!  I'm not sure why the head of security just sighed, shook his head, and muttered "that won't help" when I asked him about checking security camera footage to see who's been secretly going into my office and planting these voice recordings.  In any case, it will take more than that to scare ME!

I will confess (only to you, dear diary!) that Trump does scare me a little.  Not sure why he's challenging North Korea to a nuclear death match.  I'm all for being tough on crime domestically, but Trump might be a little delusional if he thinks he can get Un to roll over and play dead.  And Pence trying to have some kind of a Ronald Reagan moment at the N.K. border there?  I have to admit, I'm kind of hoping the military never actually turned over any nuclear launch codes.

Not that Trump is a bad guy!  But he might have a little dementia creeping in there.  Seriously, if his kids asked a judge to declare him incompetent, I think they would have a 50-50 chance in most courts.  He can't even remember he bombed Syria instead of Iraq!

It IS strange to be back in Washington after so many years.  Nice to see so many white people have moved in!  Weird that Clinton still got 96% of the vote in D.C.  I can see why POTUS is suspicious of the federal workforce!  And, boy, these people are not going to let up with the endless protests at the White House, Trump International Hotel, and the Capitol!  I know we have the First Amendment, but it's getting a little excessive.  And these lawsuits about the immigration policy:  that's a rotten form of protest, and I sympathize with General Sessions, really.  I'll overturn that judge in Hawaii the first chance I get!  I already told Trump that, but I'll tell him again when we have dinner on Thursday night.  I got him to invite the whole Supreme Court to dinner to give me cover!  But we'll have a private minute to discuss that, maybe some other cases working their way up on appeal.  More importantly, I'll meet Jared in the men's room to catch up.

Gotta go!  Roberts is picking me up in ten minutes to be initiated into a society he said I'll love:  S.E.A.  Not sure what it stands for, but how do you say no to the C.J.?  If it's more hazing, though, I don't know what I'm going to do!

😒

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COMING UP:      Melania mania hits DC!

Let the Sunshine In!

Washington Water Woman has been tied up with #TaxMarch and Easter but will return to blogging next week....

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COMING UP:     
The diary of  SCOTUS newbie Neil Gorsuch!

Love in the Time of Choler

The morning mist starts lifting, and the girl runs up the steps to the castle wall.  She runs along the edge and around the corner to get a better view of the valley.  A raven lands with a squawk on top of the gun blind to tell her what is out there, approaching.  The girl turns back to look fifty feet down at the anxious villagers camped out inside the castle walls, starting to rekindle fires to cook their meager breakfasts.  "But their breakfasts are not meager because of what's out there," squawks the raven.  "Their breakfasts are meager because of him."  The girl is now on the highest lookout tower, but she is looking back at the magnificent castle, where the king will soon be sitting down to a breakfast feast of sausages, mutton legs, oranges, and oats dripping with honey.  "Out there," repeats the raven.  The girl can't fly; she can't jump.  The pink warbler arrives to start singing its morning song, and the girl follows it down a different set of stairs.  This is the escape gate.  The girl opens the door to rush away from the castle, but leaves it ajar for the return of the rightful queen.

"Angela?"  Dulles Samuelson was staring intently at his girlfriend, unsure if she was walking in her sleep or now awake.

"The mist has lifted," Angela de la Paz said.  "Things are clearer."

A couple miles from that houseboat scene, Chloe Cleavage was again doing her version of the "walk of shame" out of Trump International.  It had been a long time since her conscience had given her shame about anything, but her life was really in quite a shocking place these days.  For one thing, she was making ten times more per week as a high-priced call girl than in her day job as a staff attorney at Prince and Prowling.  What had started by accident had now morphed into a stranglehold on her life.  Then there was the fact that she was wheedling information out of Russian clients and feeding it to British spies of some sort, but she really had no certainty what their agenda was.  Some of the secrets ended up spilled into the news, and some had dealt serious blows to Trump's Administration, but other tidbits had met more obscure fates.  Was British intelligence doing something with all this?  Were the Brits feeding it to the FBI?  CIA?  She was finding mysterious bundles of compensatory cash at work and at home, which only gave her the creeps:  who was close enough to do that?  But worst of all, she had fallen in love with Sergei--a Russian businessman of dubious standing!  He might be a spy or even an assassin, for all she knew!  And he was paying her!  He would never have those kind of feelings for her, would he?

Over at the White House, Steve Bannon was doing his own walk of shame, having woken up from his Saturday night bender face down in the bowling alley--one hand wrapped around a beer bottle, another hand still immersed in a bowling ball.  "Alt-Right One is stirring!" a Secret Service agent chirped into his mouthpiece.  "No signs of vomit yet.  He's looking for his pants."

"Shut up!" hollered Bannon, who tried to throw a bowling ball at the agent but only succeeded in breaking a nearby chair with it.

"Your safety is our utmost concern, sir.  Step away from the balls."

"Don't tell me what to do, you jag-off!"

"I'm not the one with wet pants, sir.  You should use a condom when you're over-excited about blond fascist interns, sir."

"Give me your damned badge, smart-ass!  You're through!"

"Alt-Right One is on the move!" the Secret Service agent barked into his mouthpiece.  "I need back-up!"

"Here's your hangover remedy," said another agent, rushing into the room.  "Rebecca Mercer is upstairs waiting for you.  We told her you were reviewing Easter Egg Roll anti-terrorism plans, but she won't wait all day, sir!"

A few miles to the east, Dr. Khalid Mohammad and his (now visibly) pregnant wife, Yasmin, were hosting brunch at their new Southwest townhouse.  They were trying to get to know their neighbors, but the conversation had soon turned awkwardly to politics.

"Well, what about that Muslim terrorist slaughtering Christians in Egypt on Palm Sunday?" cried one woman.  "It's horrific!"

"He wasn't a good Muslim," said Dr. Mohammad.  "He's just a criminal.  Every country has criminals and sociopaths."

"But slaughtering people in a church?" asked one man.

"You had an American man slaughter people in a church," said Yasmin.

"Well, he was sick," said another woman.

"So was the Muslim in Egypt," said Dr. Mohammad.

"But it's so many," said another man.  "That's why people get nervous about letting in the refugees."

"Jordan has hundreds of thousands of Syrian refugees, and they flooded the border," said Dr. Mohammad.  "No refugees would resettle here without 18-24 months of screening."

"And Trump said his heart was moved by seeing those gassed children," said Yasmin.  "He must let in more refugees."

"Well, if we knew they were all like you two, it would be different," said another man.

"Presumed innocent until proven guilty," said Dr. Mohammad.

"Not for foreigners," said the first woman.

"Not for citizens, either," muttered Yasmin.

Back downtown, Washington Post reporter Perry Winkle was interviewing new legal hero of the resistance Coretta Rosa McIntyre in her Goode Peepz law firm office.

"Today I'm working on another FOIA for the legal justification to bomb a country we have not declared war on," she said.

"But we've been doing military operations in Syria for years," said Winkle.  "How is this different?"

"The U.S. has been fighting ISIS.  This is a direct attack on the Assad regime."

"But the U.S. has also been arming rebels against Assad," countered Winkle.  "There was no declaration of war for that."

"That was also a problem.  "The U.S. has troops in every continent in the world but has not declared war by Act of Congress since Pearl Harbor.  Still, this is a major escalation."

"But some are saying it is not even an escalation.  The U.S. told Russia to avoid air collisions; the Russians told Assad; planes and people were moved in advance; there was no major damage."

"If that's true, all the more reason to get all these justifications out in the open," said the Harvard-educated attorney.  "The taxpayers have a right to know why we exploded dozens of exceedingly expensive Raytheon missiles if there was no real impact to protect civilian lives--which is the implied justification even though Trump has banned refugees from Syria."

"The Administration will argue national security and never give you what you're asking, and no court will force them.  Why bother?"

"Because you never let a tyrant do one single act of tyranny without challenging it," she replied.

It was then that Winkle began falling in love with her.

Out on the river, Barbara Hellmeister (currently known as "Dr. Bibi Von Braun", special science adviser to the President) was curled up in her bridgeman's quarters bed, hidden on the 14th Street bridge, nibbling at raw pieces of flesh from the catfish she had suddenly found flopping around up there a few minutes earlier.  The Nazi did not know, of course that the demon Ardua of the Potomac had tossed it up there for her, but she had been happy to slice off its head and eagerly begin consuming as much protein as she could before any morning sickness might begin in the coming weeks.  It had taken weeks of lab work and the assistance of two Japanese robots, but she had successfully cloned Donald Trump and implanted the embryo in her own womb.  She would return to her East Wing suite tomorrow to continue advising Trump on science by day and doing the degenerate sex acts he liked at night, but now she had some verifiable Hitler genes growing inside her own womb, fused with her own Aryan egg, and her child would someday be a greater leader than Trump or his Slavic/Jewish offspring could ever be.  She smiled, feeling the special (unknowingly demonic) energy she got here, and mulled what kind of science policies she could talk Trump into before her unwed pregnancy became apparent to Pilgrim Pence and she was forced to vacate the White House.  So many morons, she mused.  I could rule them all if they were not so sexist and insecure about strong women.  She got up to throw the bones back into the river.  She briefly thought about the mutant baby born to her after the Election, but repressed the thought quickly.  It was Ernest's defective genes, she told herself, but she was dead wrong.

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COMING UP:    
The diary of  SCOTUS newbie Neil Gorsuch!