Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Somewhere in the grand marble echo chamber of congressional theatrics, one can imagine Bill Clinton and Hillary Clinton being summoned to solemnly answer for the high crime of… a photograph. Perhaps two. A hot tub cameo. The republic trembles.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, dust off the gavels. Dim the lights. Adjust the microphones. We have bubbles to investigate.

Meanwhile, in the same sprawling stack of documents, the name Donald Trump reportedly appears with such frequency that one might reasonably ask whether the files were ghostwritten by him. If mentions were loyalty points, he’d qualify for platinum status. His name shows up so often you’d think it was a watermark.

And yet, the outrage spotlight swivels decisively toward a decades-old snapshot like it’s the Zapruder film of jacuzzi culture.

It’s a curious math problem. If a name appears tens of thousands of times in documents tied to Jeffrey Epstein, does it make a sound in the House chamber? Apparently not—unless that name belongs to someone who left office in 2001.

The comparison becomes almost literary. Trump’s name in those files rivals the frequency of Harry Potter in the Harry Potter saga. It approaches the devotional repetition of Jesus Christ in the Bible. By sheer textual density, we’re talking protagonist-level presence.

But in a feat of selective vision impressive enough to merit medical study, certain House Republicans squint heroically past those statistics. Instead, they zero in on a photograph like art critics debating Renaissance brushstrokes. “Yes,” they declare gravely, “but have we fully interrogated the hot tub?”

It’s almost performance art. Call it “Accountability: A One-Act Play.” Scene one: subpoena the former president over bubbles. Scene two: ignore the avalanche of other mentions. Scene three: repeat until ratings improve.

One can’t help but wonder who’s next on the witness list. Perhaps Kermit the Frog, just in case he once sipped tea within a five-mile radius of Palm Beach. Better safe than sorry.

The real marvel isn’t that politicians posture; that’s practically in the job description. The marvel is the straight-faced insistence that a couple of old photos outweigh mountains of documented references. It’s legislative calorie counting: obsess over the parsley garnish while ignoring the banquet.

And so the hearings march on, fueled by indignation, selective arithmetic, and the unshakeable belief that if you stare long enough at a hot tub, it will confess to something.