Where's the Beef?

So, Frank Bruni ate steak at a strip club. Not quite sure if Frank actually dug the "saucy spectacle," because he seems so damned determined to let us know that the only strip he'd sampled was the steak. At one point, the comely Dr. Foxy offers Frank a relaxing neck massage:

The doctor coated her hands with moisturizer and, less seductively, antibacterial gel. She knows how to make a guy feel special.

Nope. Not sexy. Made me wonder if Frank's other seducer had scrubbed down:

[Bush] not only slaps reporters' backs but also rubs the tops of their heads and, in a few instances, pinches their cheeks. It is the tactile equivalent of the nicknames he doles out to many of them and belongs to a teasing style of interpersonal relationship* that undoubtedly harks back to his fraternity days.

Frank, how hard is it to say, "Where's the beef?" You did it with Dr. Foxy. Maybe if you'd spent more time savoring strip joint porterhouse than writing campaign mash notes the entire government wouldn't need to be disinfected now.

*Frank, normal people (as opposed starstruck stenographers) call that fratboy dominance.