Want a snapshot of this moment in Sentient Hate Cheeto's Presidency? Consider three things.
One: not one Grand Jury, but at least two. Results'll be months away, but there's more than one path to the end, now.
Two: A unanimous Senate keeps him from making recess appointments, just so he can't poopcan Sessions and get a temporary AG to poopcan Mueller for him.
They say it's a working vacation, because of air conditioning. I say it's a gathering of the yes men before saying "no."
The hunting dogs are edging closer to the fallen bird. It's no longer a matter of saying nothing got shot, or arguing how big it was, or if it's even fraking edible.
(Yes, this crap has already flown.)
So before the dogs come back with the bird -- muzzles red with blood, lips smacking with feathers, perforated avians gasping for deals -- it's just conceivable that Orange Boy's considering the escape hatch.
Just conceivable that maybe, somewhere between the golf and the drinks and the fine meals in a place that is not a goddamn dump, he might be meeting with people to talk about the next moves.
The ones that get his substantial kiester out of the frying pan and back into Trump Tower, where he so clearly belongs.
See, the Loofa-Faced poop-Gibbon in Chief never seems to consider the fallout of his stunts, only that they get him ahead of where he is... if only for the moment.
Clean-up is for lesser people. The ones who scrub his golden toilets, change his soiled silk sheets, and make him his gods-damned taco bowls.
The ones like you and me.
This is a turning point for him, and also for us. This is where the people who really care stand up and say "there are some taco bowls I will not eat."
This is where the people who realize they made a mistake eat crow and start giving a damn again, and where the people who are bought and sold suddenly get really quiet, if not absent.
This is where the noise happens, folks. When will you rage?