Blond Bomber

by Pam Bondi

If I hadn’t been so bright and academically disciplined, I probably would’ve been a movie star or at least a Playboy Bunny. But I know I made the correct career choice becoming an attorney in my twenties and as a precocious forty-five-year-old defeated all challengers to become the first female attorney general of Florida. It was great being young and powerful and glamorous in the Sunshine State. I met all sorts of exciting people, the most overwhelming of whom was of course Donald Trump.

“Pam, you have unbelievable talent,” he told me. “I think you’re going to be our first female president.”

“I doubt that, but I can see myself as attorney general of the United States, under the right president.”

“And who would that be?” he asked.

“He’d be Donald J. Trump, and I’m going to help you every way I can.”

“Let me help you first. I’ll donate twenty-five thousand dollars to your re-election campaign next year.”

I kicked ass the following year, garnering fifty-five percent of the votes, and guarantee that Donald Trump’s support in no way influenced my decision to distance myself from a lawsuit containing more than twenty complaints of fraud against Trump University. I’m still comfortable with that decision and so is President Trump.

I wasn’t too comfortable a few days ago, though, when I testified at hearings before the House Judiciary Committee loaded with radical Democrats looking for fights. All they wanted to talk about was Jeffrey Epstein and his victims, several of whom were seated behind me. I apologized to the survivors for the abuse they suffered. But I refused to apologize to them or anyone else because my overworked justice department’s accidentally failed to redact sensitive personal information about some of Epstein’s victims.

“I’m not going to get down in the gutter with you,” I told several smartasses. “I wasn’t responsible for those oversights. Nor did I bear responsibility for redacting the names of men suspected of knowing about the activities Jeffrey Epstein.”

“Why weren’t you responsible? That’s your job.”

“You’re a washed up, loser lawyer,” I said to the elderly woke congressman.

Another Democrat nonentity complained about something irrelevant Donald Trump allegedly did.

“I’m sick of these attacks on the greatest president in American history,” I said.

Another talking corpse complained, “Donald Trump is implicated thirty-eight thousand times in the Epstein files.”

I pointed an index finger at his unattractive face and said, “There’s no evidence Trump has committed a crime. Listen to me, all of you. The stock market is at an all-time high and retirement accounts are booming. That means Americans are getting richer. Let’s talk about that.”

“That’s not the subject matter the House Judiciary Committee is supposed to be examining,” said some fat lady Democrat.

“You can’t compete with the success of President Trump so you’re trying to frame him for what some dead man did long ago.”

Even today, at age sixty, I turn lots of heads, and, especially after these hearings, think I would’ve made a good president, but most people are afraid of strong women so I may have to settle for continuing to be the best attorney general this nation has ever had.

George Thomas Clark on Amazon