Pam Bondi Is Such A Bitch
A Pedophile Protector in Pumps & Pinstripes
It was another day ending in Y in Donald Trump’s motherfucking America. And there we were again, dragged into yet another gobsmacking gauntlet of gilded grift and grievance theater — a stress test of our sanity, our restraint, our daytime sobriety and our ability to resist the urge to chuck the goddamn remote control through the goddamn living room window.
I was watching clips from the Bondi hearing — which dragged its bloated carcass across my screen for hours — and it was the single most unprofessional, evasive, petulant, mean-girl spectacle I have ever seen in my life.
She was smarmy. Insufferable. Condescending. Combative. And so fucking rude.
Was she raised by a marauding band of exiled Real Housewives, bottle-fed on boxed Pinot Grigio and menthols, left to marinate in a playpen with a bleach cocktail and a stack of National Enquirers? Did she learn her signature brand of venom by mainlining reruns of Jerry Springer and YouTube compilations of cats getting drop-kicked?
She didn’t even have to speak — her mere presence radiated the kind of entitled malevolence that made you want to leap through the screen and personally escort her out by the hair, heels scraping marble, before dumping her out on the curb with the rest of the day’s trash.
I hated watching that shit. I would have rather scraped dried gum off a subway platform with a stolen Starbucks gift card. Sat through a three-hour lecture on municipal sewage infrastructure delivered by a man who thinks PowerPoint transitions are a personality trait and “let’s circle back” is foreplay. Reorganized my junk drawer with tweezers. Untangled Christmas lights in July. Argued with Comcast about a phantom fee.
But that was where we were.
And if the Democratic members of that committee could endure her resting Cruella-de-Vil-sucking-on-lemons face, so could I.
That nasty-ass, sanctimonious, snide, self-satisfied so-called attorney general didn’t answer questions — she ducked them, barked over them, and mangled them into unrecognizable shapes until the substance evaporated.
Every time someone asked a direct question, she reacted like someone had just keyed her car in the parking garage. Not a public servant. Not an adult. A snarling, eye-rolling, grievance-soaked little tyrant in a blazer.
Was she trained in some underground seminar called How to Dodge and Demean in Ten Easy Steps? Did she major in Advanced Deflection with a minor in Playground Bullying?
Because instead of answering anything, she barked, she sniped, she flung insults like cocktail napkins at a closing-time bar. Bulldozed the clock. Yanked the conversation sideways. Tried to smear the person asking the question as if character assassination could substitute for substance.
Oversight wasn’t oversight to her. It was a personal affront. And she responded the way insecure people do when they know they’re cornered — louder, meaner, smaller.
She called Raskin’s questions “Trump derangement syndrome.” Called members jokes.
Snapped “no evidence.” Threw out “transparency” like it was holy water. Invoked “the Dow at $50,000” — which is not even a thing the Dow does — as if stock tickers function as moral disinfectant.
Then Ted Lieu played the footage.
Trump and Epstein laughing together at Mar-a-Lago.
Lieu asked whether underage girls were present at that party or any gathering Trump attended with Epstein.
She refused to answer.
Instead, she bristled. Raised her voice. Redirected. Inflated. Deflected.
Members of Congress went into those Epstein files and came back saying his name was everywhere. Not once. Not twice. Everywhere. And as Raskin pointed out, we now know his name has been redacted nearly 950,000 times.
Nine hundred and fifty thousand.
A forest of black ink where sunlight should be.
What did the public get? A blizzard of black bars. Entire sections gutted and wrapped in Sharpie like accountability was contagious.
Thomas Massie pointed out that survivor testimony naming the men they say trafficked them had been carved up beyond recognition — thick slabs of black swallowing names, swallowing details, swallowing oxygen out of the room.
The girls named names.
Those names were buried under redaction like bodies under fresh concrete.
Then came the part that should haunt her.
Survivors were asked — right there in that room — whether they had requested meetings with her Department of Justice and been granted the opportunity to speak.
Hands went up.
One after another.
Not one of them had been given a meeting.
And she sat there. Snack in hand. Phone glowing. That thin curl tugging at her mouth.
She kept her eyes fixed anywhere but their faces — on her phone, her notes, the clock, the ceiling tiles, maybe the exit sign glowing red like a tiny neon lifeboat.
She refused to look at them.
She refused.
People were watching and recoiling. You could feel it — that collective stomach drop, like watching someone trip a child in a grocery store aisle and then blame the child for being in the way.
My phone lit up all day with the same blunt reaction.
What a bitch.
And let’s stop pretending there was ever mystery about who she works for.
We’ve known.
She works for Donald Trump. Not the public. Not the Constitution. Not the girls in those files.
Him.
Her loyalty doesn’t move outward toward justice. It shoots straight up toward power. She is an instrument — a puppet — of his lawless authoritarian regime. A fixer. A fluffer. A fellator. An enabler in a tailored suit who treats proximity to power like a sacrament and accountability like heresy.
If she ever had a soul, she taxidermied it and mounted it over the fireplace long ago. What’s walking around now is just the costume.
She isn’t some tragic accident of bureaucracy. She’s the symptom you can see because the infection is already everywhere — rash, flare, pus surfacing. The rot was there long before she took the chair. She volunteered to wear it like perfume.
And there I was, jaw tight, watching her slither away from accountability like it was an Olympic sport — ducking, deflecting, reshaping language until it resembled something that might survive cable news chyron therapy.
She’s betting time will sand this down. That transcripts will fade into footnotes. That redactions will dull into abstractions. That history will blur the footage instead of writing down exactly what she did.
She thinks time will bleach the record.
Like she bleaches her hair.
Well, fuck that.
And fuck her.
Fuck the smugness.
Fuck the gaslighting.
Fuck the corruption.
Fuck the criminality.
Fuck the coverups.
Fuck the complicity baked into every plastic smile and prewritten talking point.
Fuck the moral sewage bottled and sold as “law and order.”
Fuck the fraud framed as faith.
Fuck the cruelty polished into policy.
Fuck the idea that we’re supposed to sit quietly while predators are shielded and it’s called justice.
Accountability may not have arrived today, and it likely won’t come tomorrow. But it will arrive just the same.
Because history is going to lay her out flat — no spin, no lighting tricks, no PR gloss — just the record.
It will remember exactly what she chose to be.
A fixer.
A fluffer.
A fellator.
An enabler.
A loyal operative for power.
Not a guardian of justice.
Just a henchman in heels, shining the boots that crush downward.
And when the redactions lift — because they always do — the record will show exactly who turned away from the survivors.
And exactly who didn’t.
(Just LOOK at her face here 🤬).
