Nancy Pelosi is no Mitzi Gaynor.
Last September when the speaker of the House was caught on video at her neighborhood hair salon with wet hair and no mask, we saw a desperate woman who just had to “wash that man right out of her hair,” who would have done anything to get President Donald Trump out of the White House. Even if that meant breaking her own laws, or better yet, writing her own deeply dissonant musical, where she is center stage.
President Trump is no Ezio Pinza (who starred in Broadway’s “South Pacific”), but at least he knows his lines and his audience. Last February during his State of the Union speech, where he spotlighted ordinary Americans who have done extraordinary things, the country watched as Speaker Pelosi dramatically tore up her copy of his speech for her audience of washed-up, tired elites who hang out on their own Bali-ha’i.
Or, as Sen. John Kennedy of Louisiana, whose quirky quips never cease to entertain, calls them, “the shaved truffle crowd.” Perhaps Sen. Kennedy could add playwright to his significant accomplishments.
Speaker Pelosi has tried so many times to rewrite her script, from pushing for the fictitious narrative to impeach President Trump, to supporting her radical stand-ins during the near tragedy of the Brett Kavanaugh hearings, to admitting withholding much needed political cash to Californians because “we have a new president,” to now defending, in an inarticulate soliloquy, her “Falstaff”: U.S. Rep. Eric Swalwell, D-California.
The speaker stated unequivocally that she plans to keep the fair-haired lover of a certain Chinese spy, who goes by the stage name of “Fang-Fang,” on the House of Representatives’ Intelligence Committee. Even Shakespeare or Gilbert and Sullivan couldn’t come up with such a scenario. It’s time Hollywood hypocrites and those power hungry Californians, who eat out on others miseries, build a walk of shame, where the state’s hoi polloi voters can wipe their ragged soles.
Now that Nancy Pelosi’s matchy-matchy masks have fallen enough times to reveal how dangerous, unpatriotic and self-serving she is, it’s time she exit stage left from the charade that she’s been selling tickets to for decades, retire to her San Francisco mansion and Napa Valley wine cellar, devour her stock of designer ice cream, get drunk on her hypocrisy and ask a mirror on the wall, “Who’s the least fair of all?”
The author lives in Montecito.