The ex-POTUS body language in the presence of the lion king; when Mt. Rushmore is your audience.

A body language expert (not dubious whatsoever) has made some observations about President Trump’s arrival at GHWB’s funeral yesterday;  especially of the “effect” it had on the other sitting ex-Presidents and their wives assembled together in advance of the current POTUS’s arrival.

DONALD Trump was like a lion startling a herd of animals when he arrived at George H.W. Bush’s funeral, a body language expert has claimed.

Expert Judi James told The Sun Online: “You could spot the moment Trump arrived in the National Cathedral even before he honed into view of the cameras.

“Until then the gathering of previous presidents had involved some relatively relaxed displays of sociable body language but suddenly – like a herd of animals sensing a lion – their poses and non-verbal signals morphed into something far more wary and stony-faced.”

The 41st US president died Friday in Houston at age 94. His wife of 73 years, Barbara, passed away in April.

Judi added: “Bill Clinton had been leaning into Michelle Obama, ever resting his hand on her arm as he chatted and Hillary had leaned across her husband to chat with Barack.
“Hillary and Michelle had been emphatically tactile and friendly before they took their seats, with Hillary placing one splayed hand over her heart as she spoke and the two women standing with their arms round one another at one point.”


Judi James describes the smarmy scene before President Trump walked in the door, upsetting the hypocritical balance.

When President Trump arrived, James notes:


the group all stiffened up – looking as “stiff as Mount Rushmore”.

She said: “Barack’s chin went up and his mouth clamped shut. Michelle sat rigid beside him while Bill turned to Hilary and rubbed her arm fondly in what looked like a gesture of affection and reassurance.

“Trump and his wife walked hand in hand down the aisle and received an upturned mouth shrug of acknowledgement from Barack as they walked past.



Oddly, the body language James describes upon Donald Trump’s crash landing into the funeralscape, describes that which I seem to elicit in many group settings I arrive at. I’ve noticed it enough times that it’s become a secondary artifact to my presence which I’ve come to expect, and in fact, welcome.

Lips purse, bodies stiffen, relaxation flees. People do not seem to rejoice at my presence.  Or at the very least, I’m a dark cloud dropping in to dim the sunny day.

People  turn to stone as I intrude.  Mt. Rushmore is my audience.

And I’m not even President.



The Grover blame game comes back to bite in the ass.

Sometimes a photo arouses a memory.  Just the photo, itself, alone, elicits a thought, something you’ve heard or experienced in the distant past.

This photo did that for me. It reminded me of an old joke, one of my favorites, one I’ve repeated so many times that my delivery has been perfected to an illustrious comic degree.



So the joke…I’ll throw a twist in and tell it in first person.


I was nervous as hell.

I had gone out with Emily on 3 dates but this was the first time I’d been to her house, and the first time I was to meet her parents. As happens when I get the jitters, my stomach begins to rumble and rebel. It’s been lifelong curse that when life calls upon my nerves of steel,  my stomach falls to gassy knots. It’s hard to feign dignity when my guts are scrunched up in imprisoned farts.

Anyways, I drove to Emily’s and as I walked up the sidewalk, my stomach began to rumble. As if on cue.  Horribly.  I thought about running back and looking for a public restroom but I was late so I continued to the door.

I knocked, uneasily, and was dismayed when a man in his 50’s answered the door.

“Ed?” he asked simply.

“Yes, I’m Ed. You must be Mr. Cromwell I replied.

He nodded and waved me inside. “Have a seat,” he told me, gesturing at a large, blue sofa that sat in front of a television set tuned to a cable news channel.

My stomach’s discomfort grew in intensity.

Gas built with unrelenting persistence. As I sat on the sofa, I saw that an old, sad looking Bloodhound mix had been laying on the floor all this time. As my explosive stomach pressure built, I strategically sat where my feet rested near the old dog.

Mr. Cromwell sat in a recliner on the opposite side of the throw rug.

I could hear the faint rumbles of my stomach as I nervously idled by.  We sat in uncomfortable silence. Mr. Cromwell smiled at me and comforted, “Emily should be down soon.”

I smiled weakly. My stomach was killing me and all I could think about was this gas that would not leave me, and in fact, only grew in intensity. It consumed my existence.

Finally, unable to hold it, I release a plume of noxious fart.  It came out much louder than I anticipated.

Mr Cromwell looked at the dog, “Grover!”

Aha. He thought it was the dog. Relieved, I carefully released another little tortured biscuit.

“Grover!” Mr. Cromwell barked.

Somewhat grateful that I could now deflect my anxious flatulence on Grover, I released a third sputter of machine gun air biscuits. The sound was tremendous but I could not help it!  At least Emily’s dad thought it was the dog.

“Grover, I”m warning you!” Mr. Cromwell yelled. “Get out of there before he shits all over you!”