We don’t tear wings off flies, Dick and Jane often told themselves. We’re nice to widows and orphans.
Spinning the truth at the White House? They considered that a duty taxpayers paid them to do.
Hadn’t Forty-Five been elected president? And didn’t honchos from Honest Abe’s party line up every morning for their freshly baked talking points?
When Iranian drones rained down on Ukrainian civilians under orders of a man they were being paid to promote, they retreated into code-red denial. We didn’t order those strikes, they assured themselves.
Coincidence or not, that’s exactly when Dick was ambushed by a near total inability to keep food down.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Mr. Doe,” the diagnostic team at Mayo agreed. “It‘s psychosomatic.”
“If you put that on my records,” Dick warned, “I’ll destroy you on WebMd.”
