Dear Mr. Trump,
It took three glasses of wine, but I managed to listen to your entire disjointed, rambling, babble-packed press conference (and I use that term loosely) this afternoon. Without entering a convent. But just barely.
Dude, what was that?
- A skillful and nefarious manipulation of language, power, and the media designed to deflect attention from your administration's disastrous occupation of the White House?
- An appalling and calculated outpouring of lies, half-truths, veiled threats, and blame composing a series of desperate defenses against the indefensible?
- An hour-and-a-half-long infomercial on dementia?
You got one thing right, though.
Women are SO angry.