Exonerated my ass.

He thinks we’re all stupid doesn’t he?

If Donald Trump has been “totally exonerated” by the carefully hand-selected scraps of Epstein files his own so-called Department of Justice was dragged kicking and screaming by subpoena into releasing, then I’m a natural fucking blonde who never fucking swears.

Monday night on Air Force One, Donald Trump waddled out to the press cabin and announced his total exoneration from documents he had not read — with the glazed, self-satisfied certainty of a man who had just been told by his favorite doctor that he remains the most vigorous, metabolically gifted specimen ever to inhale oxygen. He had not read the files. He had been “briefed,” he explained, by “very important people” — the full-time, on-retainer, federally funded taint-licking chorus of yes-men, sycophants, and professionally supine ass-kissers whose singular job function is to keep their lips so firmly pressed to every available surface of this man’s saggy underballs that reality cannot wedge itself in.

He declared himself cleared by evidence he had not seen.

Schrödinger’s innocence. Perfectly preserved so long as the box stays closed.

This man has been “exonerated” so many times by so many things that did not exonerate his gold-plated grievance-gobbling ass that the word itself should be chain-smoking outside a long-dead Beefsteak Charlie’s under a flickering parking lot light, wondering how it became the emotional support crutch for a man who has been criminally convicted more times than he’s been faithful to a wife.

Exonerated by Russia — an investigation that explicitly said it did not exonerate him.

Exonerated by the “perfect” Ukraine call. Perfect the way a toddler insists the lamp “fell.”

Exonerated by an election he lost. Lost loudly. Lost publicly. Lost in all fifty states of denial.

Exonerated by January 6th — the “peaceful tourist visit” that left 140 officers bleeding and concussed while rioters smashed windows and hunted lawmakers through the halls of Congress.

Exonerated by COVID — the “hoax” that killed 1.2 million Americans while refrigerated trucks hummed in hospital parking lots because the morgues were full.

Exonerated by thirty-four felony convictions. Thirty-four. Enough charges to require its own season of Law & Order: Special Victims of His Own Bullshit.

And now he is “exonerated” by two percent of the Epstein files.

Two percent.

Three hundred gigabytes out of fifty terabytes.

The investigative equivalent of a lifeguard watching someone drown, filling out one line of the incident report, and calling it a completed rescue. The forensic equivalent of a fire department hosing down one mailbox while the house burns to the studs. The prosecutorial integrity of a doctor diagnosing a compound fracture by asking the patient to rate their pain on a scale of one to ten and billing it as a comprehensive physical.

In the unredacted files, his name appears more than a million times.

More than a million.

Which means ninety-six percent of those references were blacked out.

Ninety-six percent.

They showed us the garnish while the entrée was locked in the kitchen, lights off, chef gone, fire still burning — and then they acted offended when we asked where the rest of the meal went.

And in that sliver — that thin, begrudging slice of daylight — there are sworn depositions and civil filings, women speaking on the record with names and dates and details that do not disappear just because someone takes a Sharpie to the page. There are flight logs. There are photographs. There is testimony that carries the weight of rooms no child should ever have been in and nights no one should have had to survive.

And we’re supposed to believe that all of that somehow adds up to innocence.

Bullshit.

That’s not innocence. That’s smoke pouring out from under a locked door while someone inside insists everything’s fine.

Does that feel like exoneration to you?

If this is exoneration, then I have been exonerated from my last three relationships, the time I told someone I loved them first and they said “thank you,” and that roasted chicken dinner I made in 2011 that may or may not have given my entire family food poisoning and sparked a very serious discussion about whether I should ever be allowed to cook again.

Because if Donald Trump has been exonerated by the Epstein files, then Jim Jones was running a juice cleanse, Ted Bundy just had a bad dating profile, and Jeffrey Dahmer was beta-testing a bold new tasting menu.

Mr. Totally Exonerated appears in those files more than Jesus appears in the Bible. More than Voldemort in all seven Harry Potter books. More than Sam in Lord of the Rings — and Sam is in every single goddamn scene hauling Frodo across Middle Earth.

They shouldn’t call these the Epstein files. They should call them the Trump files featuring Jeffrey Epstein.

Pam Bondi sat before Congress with survivors seated directly behind her, her back turned to the women whose lives had been shattered, and treated the hearing like an inconvenience she couldn’t bill for. After that — after sitting in that room and refusing to meet their eyes — she sent a formal letter to Congress listing Marilyn Monroe as a “politically exposed person” in a modern trafficking case. Marilyn Monroe, dead since 1962, when Jeffrey Epstein was nine years old.

That is the level of seriousness we’re dealing with.

And presiding over this entire grotesque carnival is Donald Trump.

The most litigious organism in the history of the world. A man who has sued yoga pants, television commentators, and whatever else bruised his bronzer that week. He called a lot of lawyers about some yoga pants. But not a single one about this. Not one lawsuit against anyone who has called him a pedophile.

And that silence is telling.

Because outside this insulated bubble of denial, other governments looked at the same files and reacted very differently.

France kicked in doors. Norway filed charges. The UK stripped a prince down to his last sad title.

The rest of the world looked at two percent and said: this is the beginning.

Donald Trump’s regime looked at two percent, listed a long-since-deceased Hollywood starlet as a suspect, turned its back on the survivors, and said: we’re done here. Case closed. Time to move on.

The absurdity is mockable. The incompetence is laughable. The brazenness is staggering.

But we’re not just talking about some files. We’re not just talking about some black bars on a page.

We’re talking about children.

Children who were hunted.

Children who were raped, mutilated and murdered.

Children who were promised justice.

Children who deserve justice.

Ninety-eight percent of those files remain in the dark.

They are betting we will look away.

They are betting we will forget.

They are betting we will move on.

They are betting we will get tired.

They are betting that outrage has a shelf life.

They are betting that redaction plus time equals absolution.

They are betting we will let them get away with it — that no one will ever be prosecuted, that no one will ever be held to account.

And that is a bet they are going to lose.

And with that, today’s song:

I love you guys!!

I could not do any of this without you and your support, and frankly, I wouldn’t want to. You guys have built a community on here that is… truly life giving, and I am so lucky to be a part of it.

Some pretty cool stuff coming up this week — I’ve got Allison Gill and Gavin Newsom on Friday (two separate shows but so, so cool and so, so humbling).

Please let me know if you have questions for either one or both.

And tomorrow I have my live show with BrooklynDad_Defiant! at 4:30 PM Eastern which you can watch right here on substack!

Also — I’m excited to now be partnering with Ground News and using it in my work. It helps me compare coverage, understand bias, and see who’s REALLY shaping the narrative behind a story. You can get 40% off the unlimited Vantage plan here: Ground News/JoJo

Please stay strong, stay sane(ish), and stay safe!!

You mean more than you’ll ever know!

💙 Jo