My presidential seal shirt is coming out of storage today in an act of hope on my part.
#itsddaymotherfuckers
#itsddaymotherfuckers
https://twitter.com/benjaminwittes/status/797450143813537792
I bought this shirt one day in 2015 on which I had back-to-back meetings with two heads of NSD: the incumbent, John Carlin, at DOJ, and @DavidKris, one of his predecessors, whom I was meeting for a drink at the Hotel Sofitel afterwards.
It was cloudy out, but I decided to walk the several blocks between DOJ and the Sofitel, which is right next to the White House. Mistake. A few blocks into the walk, the sky opened up, there was not a cab in sight, and I and my suit were completely drenched.
I mean really drenched.
The thought of having a drink with David like a shivering wet rat was, uh, unappealing, and while my pants and shoes were a hopeless case, I figured I could at least get a different dry shirt, a dry one.
The thought of having a drink with David like a shivering wet rat was, uh, unappealing, and while my pants and shoes were a hopeless case, I figured I could at least get a different dry shirt, a dry one.
The only store that sells clothing right there was an outfit called the White House gift shop, which sells overpriced tchotchkes to tourists. Mere shirts are not their thing; think, instead, commemorative coins, gold-leafed Christmas tree ornaments—that sort of thing.
But they did have one shirt: a nice t-shirt with a beautifully embroidered presidential seal. I snatched it up, went across the street, changed shirts in the bathroom, and found @DavidKris.
On November 12, 2016, I put the shirt away, tweeting that I would not wear it again until I had reason to have pride in the presidency again. I take it out today because #itsddaymotherfuckers and today is either going to justify the shirt—or, if we’re going down on the beaches...
...it’s the shirt I want to get shot in.
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