My psychic powers sometimes allow me to enter the minds of others. The night of the closing of the RNC, I awoke drenched in sweat. It may have been a bit of food poisoning. It may have been mixing NyQuil with bum wine. It may even have been shooting up with an infusion of bloodworm venom and demon ichor (and daffodil petals, for some reason). Whatever the case, I was transported into the troubled soul of the current RNC PR BS Guy, Reince Priebus.
Over and over, I heard it. I still can’t shake the image.
The despair in that weasel-like voice will haunt me forever.
Michael Steele calls me sometimes.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just laughs.