The POTUS is an adolescent who can’t remember to pick up his dirty underwear. Sometimes he throws them on the floor with such emphasis you’re positive that he’s done it on purpose.
Then his spokesdroids—walking oxymorons—hustle out of his closet to pick them up, take them to the laundry basket and explain what he really meant to do.
It’s perfect for a pol. He gets to sound like, say, an anti-Semite, “confusing” a Kosher supermarket in Paris with a deli, where even gentiles might hang out, and contending the attack on the people there was random when even the perp said he shot it up only because Jews were there.
All this presidential mendacity pleases a certain segment of the Worm’s diminishing fan club, especially the Iranians he’s sucking up to. And then, before the heat of the reaction gets too intense, he’s been backtracked to the opposite: philosemitism.
He knew it wasn’t a deli. Didn’t even say it was, you fool. Check your ear privilege. He luvs him some Jews, honey.
How long can this go on? Until next time, of course, when he does it again.
THE TEXAS SCRIBBLER 