Years before President Trump, I once attended a private AVATAR screening at Steve Mnuchin’s 26 million dollar home in Bel Air, where I drank too many glasses of white wine after playing tennis with him in Beverly Hills earlier and pissed all over the floor and a fancy toilet seat without lifting the lid because I couldn’t hold it a second longer after squirming through the last half of the film, followed by a couple imported beers, and I think it was probably the wine plus the beers combined with the fact that I didn’t eat anything besides some sashimi being passed around that caused me to lose focus and crash the large BMW I was riding into his security gate at the bottom of the driveway when it wouldn’t open on my way home, which often happens with motorcycles and automatic doors triggered by unseen sensors like that making the moral of the story about Steve Mnuchin is there isn’t one.