Color me shocked. 👎
Imagine President Trump asking her about it at a debate. She’d probably go up in a puff of smoke. Heals first of course.
More “openness” and “transparency” from the Democrats.
Gonna be a bit more difficult to demand PDJT’s tax records now. You’d best believe he’ll bring this up.
So much for the liberal desire for “transparency”. And so much for Kamala being so proud of her record in law enforcement positions.
Down the memory hole...
While the deep state hides the actual public records of their miscreant candidates, they demand Trump private tax returns. See how that algorithm works... pay no attention to the puny filthy lawyers behind the curtains.
Russians? Lol
borrowing from a web analysis of Orwell’s Animal Farm
One evening, Clover sees a shocking sight: Squealer walking on his hind legs. Other pigs follow, walking the same way, and Napoleon also emerges from the farmhouse carrying a whip in his trotter. The sheep begin to bleat a new version of their previous slogan: “Four legs good, two legs better!” Clover also notices that the wall on which the Seven Commandments were written has been repainted: Now, the wall simply reads, “ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL / BUT SOME ANIMALS ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS.” Eventually, all the pigs begin carrying whips and wearing Jones’ clothes.
An oblong slip of newspaper had appeared between O’Brien’s fingers. For perhaps five seconds it was within the angle of Winston’s vision. It was a photograph, and there was no question of its identity. It was THE photograph. It was another copy of the photograph of Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford at the party function in New York, which he had chanced upon eleven years ago and promptly destroyed. For only an instant it was before his eyes, then it was out of sight again. But he had seen it, unquestionably he had seen it! He made a desperate, agonizing effort to wrench the top half of his body free. It was impossible to move so much as a centimetre in any direction. For the moment he had even forgotten the dial. All he wanted was to hold the photograph in his fingers again, or at least to see it.
‘It exists!’ he cried.
‘No,’ said O’Brien.
He stepped across the room. There was a memory hole in the opposite wall. O’Brien lifted the grating. Unseen, the frail slip of paper was whirling away on the current of warm air; it was vanishing in a flash of flame. O’Brien turned away from the wall.
‘Ashes,’ he said. ‘Not even identifiable ashes. Dust. It does not exist. It never existed.’
‘But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory. I remember it. You remember it.’
‘I do not remember it,’ said O’Brien.
Aw, dang! I misunderstood the headline.
Was almost headed over to The Smoking Gun, hoping to see a Drunk Skanky Kamala-face among the celebrity mugshots.