He’s some character, my congressman. Nadler is the sweaty guy at the poker table holding a two of clubs, a six of diamonds, a 10 of hearts, a queen of spades and a Domino’s Pizza loyalty card. “Hee, hee,” he thought, “I’ll just bluff my way to the glory!” Everybody at the table tries not to snicker as they clean him out, hand after hand. Putting Mueller on the stand was the equivalent of Nadler suddenly putting his pants on the table, under the mistaken impression that it was now a game of strip poker.
Mueller’s appearance was a nothingburger wrapped in a nadachilada topped with a goose egg. Everything Mueller had to say, he’d already said in the ancient Mueller Report, from way back in the spring, though Mueller seemed only vaguely acquainted with it. The Democrats wanted him to do some sort of Vegas floor-show performance of the report in the mistaken belief that once the American people heard stuff we already knew about one more time, we’d clean Home Depot out of pitchforks and lanterns and march on Washington demanding impeachment, support for which still hasn’t reached the level of half of the Democrats in Congress. Instead of that, Mueller proved to be a human test pattern, Ben Stein in “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” Mr. Cellophane. Democrats and the media were famished, and wanted a feast. They got a rice cake. “Mueller? More like Duller,” said a headline in the newsletter of the left-wing site for precocious progs, Vox.
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