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We’re all spending good lifetime hours watching the likes of Democrat operatives: the three, President Joe Biden; V.P. Kamala Harris, pseudo-black personage who infuses every right-shoulder TV shot populated by Scranton Joe; and the longtime Fox TV cohost of The Five for umpteen years, Juan Williams.
All can start a conflagration in those not of the Democrat persuasion. To watch them is to lose one’s lunch. Or to lose your blood as it boils merrily into the clammy ether of your lockdown apartment or home.
Their body language gives us a clue as to how accurate or honest their public appearances are.
President Joe doesn’t appear often, but when he does, it’s usually to opine on maskery, stay-in-ery, don’t-go-near-anyone-ery.
Joe rarely if ever answers a question yelled out from the peanut gallery of White House press corps stenographers. If it’s a question he can hear as he shuffles out on muffled feet, he’ll grace the rabble assembled with a “no” or, rarer still, a “yes.” Shuffle off, left.
But when he speaks, he often touches the spine of his nose — not the tip, mind you — with the index finger of his right hand. It’s brief, it involves no scratching of any itch, and it is a constant.
Such a touch indicates a bunch of body language cues.
Were he to tap the tip of his nose, say, that would indicate smug self-satisfaction: I know this, keep me in your eye.
But he doesn’t tap the tip. He doesn’t, in fact, feel all-wise.
His nether-side glide and down with the hand indicates deceit, trickery, getting away with something. It also betokens insecurity and a desire to comfort himself. “I’m a good boy, I am!”
It also accompanies, by elision, avoidance: by constantly squinting into the near distance, reading the large-font teleprompter, harping on masks, mandates, and pesky distancing, telling us, “This is not political,” it is precisely a dodge. It is nothing but political. His nasal touch signals this: he avoids the third rail of the border crisis, where thousands of migrants undocumented, unvetted and untested, are piling in, endangering the states, spewing viral vectors everywhere, before they are assigned to helpless cities and schools and social halls and hauling trucks across the fruited plain.
The president is trying to get away with the flim-flam of distracting his audience with his forbearance, fatherliness, and oceanic love, ha-ha, aimed solely at preserving the polity until the 2022 elections and their continued tolerance for mail-in ballots without accountability, signature verification, or accurate provenance. It’s the dream of his true people. The DNC and the left-wing fervid chorus of “let’s overturn everything” mantras in glee.
The watchers are fooled and think he’s really talking about masks, no matter where they are in the hajj of inoculations, first, second, or solo.
For her part, the nicely suited, mahogany-maned, brash Indian-American vice pres, Kamala Harris, eagerly clutching her dance résumé close to her vest, is ready with a hearty and riverine gale of laughter.
Did you mean what you said about Biden being abusive to women in his frequent sniffing and groping episodes? Giggle: “It was a debate. A debate.” (Okay, scratch that #MeToo reality, we’re guessing?)
Will you be visiting the swollen southern border of the U.S.? Full-throated hilarity.
Will you be taking over the portfolio of foreign dignitaries who seek to speak with the actual 46 on critical affairs of State? Runaway Radio City Hall histrionic roars.
At first, months ago, a feminine laugh once in a while was unexpected, perhaps, but acceptable. Just. Now, it’s a sign of near-derangement. Or more germanely, a sign of contempt for the questioner or journ. A sign of avoidance and cementine untransparency.
And with an actual president suffering from something suspiciously close to derangement, Kam’s trilling and cackling on every exposure to a camera is pretty old, pretty fast.
Last and decidedly least, Juan Williams. Williams, swanned away from CNN a decade or so ago, has a decidedly tough gig. He’s outnumbered 4 to 1. And the people he’s encapsulated with aren’t the ladies of morning silly sally, The View, dusty dim bulbs desperately in need of brain cell infusions. Juan Williams has to supply the rationale for the nearly insane and hurtful policies of a crazed presidency married to nutcase radicalism at all costs, even if the policies the administration is championing and de-facto’ing are bent to pretzelized grotesquerie.
He manfully joins his cause, often spewing justifications in stem-windy spiels that cause the others to shake their heads or rear slightly back in disbelief.
While listening to the strongly worded and logical assertions of mega-smart Jesse Watters or Greg Gutfeld, Katie Pavlich, Dagan McDowell, Dana Perino, or Emily Campagno, Juan keeps his face carefully noncommittal, not betraying grief at being proven wrong or catastrophically (deliberately?) misguided. Or perdurably ditsoid.
After Juan speaks his piece, however, his eyes blink furiously — a blink rate that betrays his anxiety — and worry that he’ll have to go home and justify to his magenta-haired spouse being outreasoned by the other four, night after night. He stoutly talks over the others when they stab to death his entire ridiculous justifications for the impossibly puerile naïveté of the regime in the White house, those he is sworn to try to rationalize. But blink, blink, blink he goes, establishing his discomfort as transparently as the nefarious nose-touching Biden or the hysterically fusillading Kamala.
And you thought body-language interp was just for poker players.