I was present. But took note of the Watergate hearings primarily if they preempted Saturday morning cartoons.

A presidential candidate?

The careers of Glenn Beck and Bill O’Reilly—such as they were—are unlikely ever to be resuscitated.

No. The classic phrase is:

“This is the operative statement. The others are inoperative.”

Maybe I haven’t quite been alive long enough: though it sure feels as if I have. But has there ever been a period when members of the White House press corps weren’t celebrity stenographers worried about maintaining access to sources (and DC cocktail parties)?

Without thinking—when my hissy-fit was aroused—I seized upon an absurd notion with which to bash a fellow politician (one barely regarded as a serious adult, either). It was as if I had no conscious will in the matter.

You mean, in the scientific sense: like when an infinitesimally-small entity—in a highly-charged state—expands, or otherwise reacts to atypical stimuli?

Trump is an audio/videotape truther. That is: someone who believes what he says on tapes might actually be there: but only if it’s something he later believes he ought to have said.

It’s awfully hard to believe. I mean, in the original photo I’d scanned? It must have taken up less than one square cm.

Aha! A second one. Even if from a rather different angle.

Can you find someone—not Welsh—who can pronounce it?

Once—while I was retouching, in Photoshop—I noticed an unusual-looking reflection. This is about 300% to 400% zoom.

Both are capital cities.

Ah the grand Congressional traditions. Decorum is paramount.

Locals must grow awfully tired of American tourists asking for directions to Lie Chester Square.

Four years of three episodes each?

Taking the piss?

Reality is Silly Putty in his hands.

Macron stood right up and said “that’s bullshit” (only in French)