“I have not met with any Russians at any time to discuss any political campaign.”
These were the immortal words of Jeff Sessions, the A.G. as he made his way into work on Thursday morning. His thin lips were pursed even more tightly; a precursor of body language that he would not give anything away. He added “And those remarks are unbelievable to me and are false.”
Perchance, so are falsehoods?
“I have said that whenever it’s appropriate I will recuse myself.”
Excuse me? Are we on the same page here?
He had twice met with Russian Ambassador Sergey Kislyak during the campaign according to Department of Justice officials, as reported by the Washington Post late Wednesday. Sergey Kislyak is also alleged to be a spy.
Jared Kushner had also met with Sergey Kislyak in December along with Gen. Flynn. You ain’t resigned nothing like the mighty Flynn. So, who is meeting whom from Russian and why? Is money flowing from Russia to America from discreet channels? Is oil involved? Are supermodels involved? Pork bellied pigs? Gold? An invisible commodity?
Sergey Kislyak has become the man who never was. The invisible man. The High Ghost of Russia. They met him but no, they did not. Indeed he lives in the Kremlin walls. He is meek, he is quiet, he is the man who disappears after you meet him. He is the roguish man women fall in love with all the time. For he disappears, and they go quite mad. He has a bottomless wallet. He is steeped in saccharin charm, like a large colorful lollipop which never can be fully consumed. He is perhaps, God almighty. Buried. Resurrected and then gone forever. But not deceased. You can talk to him through a medium. A very eccentric Russian psychic. And they call her Madame (clairvoyant) Ekaterina.
I smile, therefore I am. Ego sum, ego ridere. Above picture. Sergey Kislyak.
I imagine a political cartoon with the slogan. “U.S.S.R. is getting married to the U.S.A. How thweet.”
One can imagine Sessions this evening talking to himself after a long, difficult day. He looks into the mirror at the end of his bed, clad in p.j.’s.
“I did not have communications with THAT country.” But he doesn’t point his finger towards the press. He’s not that adamant. He is smirking, confident and not at all dramatic. Com..com…communism…communications. He’ll say it three times and remember when he was backing Bill Clinton’s impeachment in 1999. He’ll tap his court shoes together a la Dorothy. He’ll sing the Karma song. Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma chameleon / You come and go, you come and go. You tell the truth under oath ? Oh, no, no, no. Oh, no, no, no. He’ll think of that situation again in 1999. Jeff Sessions said in 1999. ‘ I am concerned about a president, under oath, being alleged to have committed a perjury.’ He is not using that objective vein of thought to self reflect now, though. He knows that D.T. likes to say phrases three times. It’s like a Harold Pinter play. Tautology for emphasis. Knock three times, on the ceiling if you want the words to etch in people’s minds. Twice on the neurons, if the answer is no.
Because, frankly, my dear political diary, it has become this bizarre. A tale of far out strands of stories that fail to make any sense. It’s like living in a political limbo land where reality is fuzzy and laced with vicodin. It’s Orwellian 1984 colliding with Trumpellian 2017. Lies are accepted because what is the truth, anyway? Keep staring upwards on the operation table of 2017 ; to a hazy, surreal ceiling . Because folks, that’s where we’ve reached. Is that Sergey Kislyak floating up high? Why, I think it is !