In the interests of journalistic completeness, I have now read the entire 238-page Jeffrey Epstein birthday book. Now, frankly, I wish I’d trained to be a plumber rather than a journalist. The book is page after page of soul-corroding evil in which impossibly wealthy men chortle over their fun pal Jeff being a monstrous pedophile.
The banner revelation is that the Wall Street Journal‘s July description of Donald Trump’s birthday message was not only accurate, but that billing it as a “naked woman” really undersold the fact that it strongly resembles an underage girl.
