Trump’s Downfall: Forget Stormy Daniels…Here’s Real Hope
As I have said many times on the Whiskey Congress Podcast, I am 100 percent sure that Donald Trump had an extramarital affair with Porn Star Stormy Daniels. I have said at least as many times…”I DON’T CARE”.
The undisputed facts regarding the thrice married Trump document that he is a serial philanderer (or worse). We all remember the Billy Bush video where Trump uttered the now immortal words “grab’em by the pussy”. Not enough seem to remember that prior to those famous words, Trump bragged about trying to cheat on the current First Lady. Trump bragged that he wanted to take a different woman furniture shopping with the expectation of sex. Once again, I DON’T CARE.
However, there is a suspected Trump mistress that I do care about. One that might know something relevant. I am talking about former Trump Communications Director Hope Hicks. Calling her a suspected mistress may be a bit of a reach. I am making the leap based on the cryptic comments from “Fire And Fury” Author Michael Wolff who clearly insinuated that Trump was engaged in a current extramarital affair in the White House. Wolff also hinted that it would be easy to read between the lines to identify the said mistress.
Reports that Ms. Hicks was working out of comparatively tiny office that was conveniently within shouting distance of the President and that he would often yell out “Hopey. Get in here.” Well, that sounds pretty suspicious to me. Now Ms. Hicks is allegedly communicating with the Mueller Investigations Team. If she knows something relevant to the goings on in the White House that might indicate undue influence from foreign entities or (perhaps more likely) efforts to cover them up. Now I’m very interested.
On the morning of Wednesday, February 28, Hope Hicks arrived at the White House just after 8 a.m. Within a week, it would be snowing in Washington, D.C., but she was dressed for spring in a bouquet of purple, yellow, and blue, as if willing the end of winter with her miniskirt. She held on to her iPhone in the West Wing, in violation of a rule that normally diverted it to a locker secured by a shiny silver key, then retreated to her office, a first-floor broom closet that in the past had been assigned to presidential secretaries.
When the administration began 13 months before, competition among some staffers had manifested as a struggle for real estate here; Omarosa Manigault, a perennial reality-TV contestant, had gone so far as to steal a room that had been designated for Anthony Scaramucci, “the Mooch,” a hedge-fund millionaire obsessed with astrology and the word f—, because of its status-confirming glimpse of the Washington Monument. Both of them were eventually fired, along with a procession of others who failed to maneuver the chaotic status hierarchy President Trump seemed to cultivate out of boredom.
A view of duck-tour buses circling the mall wasn’t needed for Hicks to know her standing. What her office lacked in flair it made up for in proximity. While others were left wondering what the president was thinking, Hicks could often hear him shouting, even with her door closed. “Hope!” he’d scream. “Hopey!” “Hopester!” “Get in here!”
