Be Easy On Donald
In 2019, Donald Trump lost his dearest friend, Mr. Jeffrey Epstein—a math teacher (despite not earning a college degree) at a private school in the Upper East Side of Manhattan—who woke up one morning with a billion dollars in his bank account—perhaps by freeing a genie from a lamp.
How did Epstein end up being granted power of attorney for Billionaire CEO Leslie Wexner? Why did Leon Black, one of the wealthiest hedge fund CEOs, pay Epstein almost $200 million for “tax advice”—despite Epstein being in no way an expert in taxes?
I’ll answer that question with another question: Why is that any of your business?
It is not my concern how a high school teacher—who creeped out his female students—became surrounded by billionaires begging him to take their money.
Eight former students who attended the prestigious school during Mr. Epstein’s short tenure there said that his conduct with teenage girls had left an impression that had lingered for decades. One former student recalled him showing up at a party where students were drinking, while most remembered his persistent attention on the girls in hallways and classrooms. (NYT)
All Mr. Epstein wanted to do was ensure that some female students received the attention they needed. He probably showed up to those high school parties to make sure the girls who drank too much had a safe ride home—and perhaps a place to spend the night.
How thoughtful.
I’d hate to be constantly reminded of my best friend’s passing but the media will not give Donald Trump a break.
All day long, it’s Epstein files this, and Epstein files that. No one seems concerned how Trump feels about hearing his main man’s name get slandered.
Our president is hurting and the Wall Street Journal decides to leak a lovely letter Trump sent to his beloved friend on his birthday.
The letter bearing Trump’s name, which was reviewed by the Journal, is bawdy—like others in the album. It contains several lines of typewritten text framed by the outline of a naked woman, which appears to be hand-drawn with a heavy marker. A pair of small arcs denotes the woman’s breasts, and the future president’s signature is a squiggly “Donald” below her waist, mimicking pubic hair.
The letter concludes: “Happy Birthday — and may every day be another wonderful secret.” (WSJ)
What a beautiful relationship. I wish my friends sent me crude illustrations of women and reminded me of the “wonderful” little secrets we share.
We’re in the midst of a male loneliness epidemic and folks are upset that these old friends had little inside jokes.
I suppose the elephant in the room is Jeffrey Epstein’s international “bang little girls” parties on his private island but that has nothing to do with Donald Trump. In 2005, law enforcement began investigating Epstein after a 14-year-old’s parents said she received money for sex.
But Trump was long gone by then.
The two men stopped hanging out in 2004. See, here’s Trump himself explaining his problem with Esptein in a leaked audio released literally as I’m writing this.
Trump: People were taken out of the spa, hired by Epstein… I told him we don’t want you taking our people, whether it’s spa or not spa. He did it again, I said out of here.
Reporter: Was one of the stolen people Virginia Giuffre?
Trump: I think so. He stole her.
Virginia Giuffre was a 14-year-old girl who worked at Trump’s spa and Epstein stole her away to do god knows what. Donald was employing the local youth, teaching them the value of hard work, touching old men all day— and Esptein took his best teenage gal away.
It sucks that Trump had to distance himself from Jeff. Oh, not because Epstein recruited his adolescent, unqualified massage therapists, but because of a real estate bidding war:
Eventually, in late 2004, Mr. Trump and Mr. Epstein ended up squaring off — this time, over a piece of real estate. It was the Maison de l’Amitié, a French Regency-style manse that sat along the ocean in Palm Beach.
The two hypercompetitive men each had their lawyers bid on the property. Ultimately, Mr. Trump came out ahead, purchasing it for $41.35 million.
There is little public record of the two men interacting after that. (NYT)
Can you imagine battling your bestie over a multi-million dollar oceanfront property and the teenage girls you wish to populate it? Heartbreaking stuff.
Also, interesting timeline, right? Trump and Epstein get into a beef over a real estate deal and suddenly the police start investigating Epstein’s little girl collection. I’m sure Trump didn’t tip off the authorities out of retribution. Our president would never do such a thing…
…Anyway.
Now Donald is forced to relive all this trauma. It’s not fair. Sure, he and everyone in his circle spent most of the 2024 campaign trail discussing Jeffrey Epstein—unprovoked— like, absolutely not an issue most voters concerned themselves with— but enough already.
Yes, Donald Trump’s best friend was the most prolific teenage sex trafficker in modern American history.
Yes, they sent each other cute little notes reminding each other of the secrets they share.
Yes, Trump had a minor league roster of pre-teen masseuses ready for the call-up to the Big Leagues over at Epstein Island.
But let’s have some decency.
Jeffrey Epstein killed himself. It is far too soon to speak poorly of the dead.
Show some respect for the president’s feelings.
What We Watchin’ Wednesday
Welcome to What We Watchin Wednesday, where maybe I help you guys decide what nonsense you should stream next. This week, let’s get into some reality shows I’ve been mindlessly consuming.
Love Island Season 7 (Peacock)
I love Love Island. It’s a show that examines the relationship between beauty and intelligence, as some of the best-looking young men and women have the most vapid, meaningless interactions.
The Love Island contestants have slightlyyyy better communication skills than breastfeeding infants.
If you dropped the contestants of Love Island and a group of newborns in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, there’s a chance one of those newborns survive to write a New York Times bestseller about their experience.
All of the Love Island people would be dead after taking turns drinking from the same bacteria-ridden lake over and over until their intestines dropped into the lake they’re squatting over, the same lake they’re all drinking from.
On Love Island, gorgeous sociopaths pretend to fall for each other in hopes of winning $100,000 if they make it to the final episode and viewers vote them as the best couple. In the meantime, the show airs SIX DAYS A WEEK. Most episodes include a “challenge” in which they kiss, spit, suck, hump all of each other. I recognized immediately winners of these challenges are never declared. The challenges exist exclusively to transmit STIs from one mouth to the next.
Love Island is a disgusting demonstration of what occurs when men and women in their early 20s, who all would have a difficult time spelling the word “restaurant” if asked on the spot, are sequestered into a vacation home with no phones or access to the outside world with producers in their ears forcing them to focus all of their attention and efforts into making out with each other.
5 stars. Truly abhorrent broadcast. Perfect show. Love it. Truly. No notes.
PolyFamily (TLC)
I feel like I don’t need to describe this show in great detail. Just look at this photo and you get it.
The season is built around one of the women having a child and not wanting either of the men to know which one was the biological father, so no one would get jealous and they could all be one big happy creepy family.
I am glad TLC did not renew this show for a second season. These people, who switch beds every night so they have equal time with everyone, need to be spayed and neutered. Although, I reckon they are creating a legion of children who will one day fund the local therapist’s in-ground pool so I guess they’re doing good work for the community.
MasterChef: Dynamic Duos (Fox)
Every time I watch an episode of MasterChef, I am reminded I have no idea how to cook and Chef Gordon Ramsey would not be impressed by my hot dog recipe. Someone was eliminated this season because their steak was medium instead of medium rare. Every burger I’ve ever cooked was accidentally well done. Gordon Ramsey would strangle me like Homer does Bart.
This season of MasterChef has a new flavor. All of the contestants are duos. Husband and wife. Mother and daughter. Brothers. There’s a divorced couple that always feels like one misstep away from calling each other brand new slurs.
A girl cuts her thumb off. Her partner passes out. The latter happens in an entirely different episode from the former.
As someone who sits alone typing words all day, I am fascinated watching these duos work cohesively in high-leverage situations while Gordon Ramsey looks on, disgusted by their lack of salt usage or whatever.
Every episode reassures me that I made the correct choice working alone.
Thanks for reading. All typos are windows to the soul.