What happened when I dunked my hand in the reflecting pool?

I reached into the water in the reflecting pool at the National Mall almost four years ago.

I must’ve seen this coming.

President The Donald has tarnished so much … now he’s screwing with my mental photo album.

I went to Washington D.C. in 2022 for a journalism fellowship conference thing (I don’t know - they said I could go, so I did) and, as soon as I put my stuff down at my hotel that afternoon, I pretty much ran to the White House.

I figured they probably needed my advice on something.

I was so excited, mostly because I’m a history geek, had never been to D.C., and they don’t let me out of my enclosure very often.

I first saw the building’s south side through a couple fences and some concrete barriers there because the south lawn of the White House is an important, dignified place where only the Marine One presidential helicopter and UFC fighters in purple Speedos attached to drunken fans punching each other in the face have access.

I walked around, gazing at the building like a 55-year-old hair metal queen looking at Jon Bon Jovi from the front row. It was smaller than I thought.

Not Bon Jovi - the White House. Though Bon Jovi has certainly got smaller if we measure from the hair.

President The Donald had already spent four years in the White House, but there was a new guy inside and I assumed they’d steamcleaned everything. So I wasn’t thinking about Mr. Orange. I was thinking about history.

I eventually backed into Lafayette Park, took a photo of the Marquis de Lafayette statue, sent it to a French girl I knew, and asked her to thank her people for helping us put a beating on the English.

She replied the restraining order was still in full effect and that I was an idiot.

“Touche!” I said, clearly impressing her by showing her I’m bilingual (“Touche” means “I’ll call my lawyer” in French).

Then I found out there’s a White House gift shop a block away and, again, took off in what I believed passed for running.

I have a thing for gift shops, even though I can’t afford much inside, which leads to a refrigerator infested with magnets (say that again, only slower). The best gift shop I’ve seen is at the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose, where I bought two Christmas gifts and nearly purchased a wedding ring if it was the correct size.

I went back to the hotel to attend what they call a “mixer” for the journalism fellows in a patio area. “Mixers” are where invited strangers have them mix up a few drinks, then start socially mixing once the alcohol kicks in. I don’t drink because you can’t take me anywhere, so it was a little awkward because no one understood why I was talking about the White House gift shop so much.

But the next day things didn’t start until later, so I immediately went to the second place on my list - the National Mall. When I got to the reflecting pool - you know the one where the mutated sea monkeys are building an underwater colony - the first thing I did was put my hand in the water.

I’m a geek. I wanted to touch it, even if it’s only 18 inches deep.

No arrests that time, but little did I know four years later, doing so would be treasonous, bringing the wrath of mounted federal soldiers, their black steeds billowing nostril smoke as they galloped me down and threw a net around me like I was a stray, half-naked, dirty damn human in Planet of the Apes.

Theoretically. If someone can make me a “fellow” again, I’d be happy to go back to the White House gift shop, before taking all my new magnets down to the reflecting pool to try my luck and report back.

Until then, what was a lovely little memory in the back of my brain will now forever be associated with Herr Trump’s monumental stupidity and a depth of character even shallower than that rotten pool.

I made sure not to spend too much time looking at photos of the UFC … MMA … CBS … whatever … guys doing whatever they did in front of the Lincoln Memorial before the south lawn turned into a reality show with incredible ratings in cities without plumbing.

When I hauled my goofy kid-in-Disneyland smile to the other side of the reflecting pool, climbing those steps, standing where MLK stood, then going inside to read the words on the walls … that was as close as I got to a religious experience. At least one I can tell you about. It was truly moving.

I don’t know why we’re letting this happen. But Trump was strangely prescient about one thing, even if it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. There really is a swamp in Washington D.C.

The question now is how does this end? Ideas?

My daughters have a dad to feed, so please consider paying $8 a month to read these columns. Find more nonsense in Tony’s book “Lying Drunk,” available from Barnes & Noble at https://bit.ly/46xoaJJ or Amazon at https://a.co/d/cYNCUPp).