The shower of assholes that President Pussy-Grabber has brought into the White House is frightening and disturbing. It makes 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue a place where you would go if you wanted to take your skin for a crawl.
But for columnists everywhere, it is a godsend, as the clown car rolls through the gates and continues emptying this parade of wildly incompetent and barking mad head cases into the West Wing. So with stomachs knotted and trying to control our facial stress tics, Phillipe and Jorge nonetheless thank our Orange Orangutan for continuing to provide easy fodder for us on a regular basis. Any group of mental patients who can make our General Assembly look like a model of good government must be given their due.
Passing the odious Sean Spicer on his way out the door as he entered this week was The Donald’s sycophantic new communications director, the oily millionaire financier Anthony “Call Me The Mooch” Scaramucci. [Ed. note: And as we went to press, we got word that he fandangoed right back out that door. The clown car keeps moving faster.] You almost can’t make this guy up for his over-the-top, smug public persona, which we imagine not only has not just women, but men, running in the opposite direction. [Ed. note: Just ask his soon-to-be ex-wife.]This guy is a gold-plated creep, despite the fact that in the Narcissism Olympics, he is only a few steps behind his boss. “Heeey! Whaaa? Everybody loves The Mooch, right?”
(Special section for older P&J readers: At Casa Diablo, The Mooch immediately brought to mind the legendary “Moochie” from The Mickey Mouse Club’s “Spin and Marty” series. Moochie’s lovable and cute numbers were off the charts. On the other side of the yin-yang divide, The Mooch’s disapproval ratings and level of obnoxiousness may soon surpass that of President Tweet. (And, oh yes, The Mooch loves to tweet as much as his boss. Terrific.))
After going on every talk show that would have him once appointed and showing his immediate gift of speaking of himself in the third person, a guaranteed marker of mental Illness in P&J’s minds, The Mooch took out with a vengeance after The Donald’s chief of staff, the human jellyfish Reince “Ratso” Priebus, with whom he has had a longstanding, bitter feud. He essentially accused him of being the chief leaker in the White House, and said in an interview with The New Yorker that Ratso was a “fucking paranoid schizophrenic, a paranoiac.” Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Mooch. You want to take a turn on the couch? That would be verrry interesting. But he got his wish to get rid of Ratso when Priebus resigned his position forthwith, evidently fearing for his sanity if he got too close, too often to the frothing Mooch.
This is the high level of discourse The Mooch is bringing to the White House, which is already saddled by the public image of spokesperson Sarah Huckabee Sanders, who is so hideous and abhorrent in so many ways it would seem she could not be topped in the slimy category. But Mooch extended his rant to racist advisor Steve Bannon, another Morlock in the West Wing, saying he was essentially spending his time sucking his own organ, again elevating the conversation.
Well, now we have at least two bigheads in the White House who are concerned only about their own public images and being praised every time they utter a word or use Twitter to roll out brain meltdowns in 140 characters or fewer. And as communications director, it is certainly job number one to overreact to perceived slights or what is said about the president or himself with stunningly inappropriate responses, rather than have to deal with those pesky, boring issues like policy or legislation.
“Hey, you talkin’ to me? I’m The Mooch, you must be talkin’ to me. You talkin’ to me? I’ll kill you.”
Phoning it in
Rare praise for the creatures toddling around on their hind legs at Halitosis Hall by passing a bill this session that prohibits the use of hand-held cell phones while driving. (Texting while driving is already illegal, not that many morons we see doing so seem to care a whit.)
Most people have the good sense not to be yakking away on their cell while driving, but stupid is as stupid does. P&J can’t tell you how many times we have seen some a-hole with a phone to their ear blithely roll a stop sign at a busy crossroads, oblivious to other cars or the basic rules of the road.
Not that the conversations being held by these douchebags aren’t critical, due to the importance of those hanging on their phones. We are sure that these high-level chats involve conveying and receiving vital information (“Hi. What are you doing? I’m going to Stop & Shop”) or answering and solving Complex World questions (‘Should I be a math teacher, or should I be an actor? Should I drive an XKE, or a tractor? I don’t know.”)
So kudos to our Smith Hill legislators for passing at least one bill of worth before letting your leaders get into a playground dispute over who has the biggest willy and leaving the state hanging without a budget.
But maybe our towns and their local police forces can capitalize on this to beef up their now-stranded budgets. Just park cops at the busiest intersections in town and see how many idiots cruise by, unconsciously talking on their hand-helds. At $100 a pop for violations, they could raise more money than a hooker at a GOP convention in just as short a time. Go for it, folks. Vo Dilun stands behind you.
When in Rome…
It wasn’t reported in the US press, but the classless and tasteless Ivanka The Terrible showed off her cultural acumen and grasp of reality whilst in Rome after the papal visit by the abhorrent extended Trump family.
The phony Jewess, who converted so her clueless and dimwitted grinning chimp of a husband Jared wouldn’t be cut out of his overbearing Daddy’s will because his bride wasn’t kosher, took a tour of The Eternal City, and at one point saw a picture of a face on a wall. It was that of locally beloved former soccer player Giorgio Chinaglia, who starred for one of Rome’s two biggest clubs, Lazio, hated foe of Roma (think Red Sox-Yankees here, kids). Chinaglia then came to America to continue his career as a headliner for the New York Cosmos, alongside the legendary Pele, but his legacy endures in Rome.
Asked the deeply religious advisor-to-the-president Ivanka of one of her companions, “Which saint is that?”
Mazel tov, genius! That’ll be 10 Our Fathers, 10 Hail Marys, and 10 rosaries. Look it up.
Huge uproar in the British Parliament recently when the speaker of the House of Commons dared to rule that while “business attire” was required on members while in the house, ties were not obligatory. Said one English columnist about this outrage, ties are the “universally accepted signifier of male seriousness.” Oh, okay. Hmmm.
Here in America, suits are the uniforms worn by our Washington politicians, no doubt to show their own male seriousness (honk!). Unfortunately, in the US, suits and ties have become the pol fashion equivalent of putting lipstick on the hundreds of cheap hack, sociopathic, social climbing, intolerant, greedy and ethically and morally bankrupt pigs that inhabit the Capitol, and especially the White House. There our President Crybaby wears oversized suits designed to hide his blubbery gut and breasts and huge ass, while sporting a personalized “power tie” (made in China) long enough to use to wipe his derriere. But please take him for being a serious and sane guy, he’s wearing a suit.
Our Orange Orangutan is so wedded to the idea that wearing a suit can hide one’s mental and moral fragility that he reportedly once slapped his well-trained lying son Donnie, Jr. in the face when he visited him in college because he wasn’t wearing a suit. Can’t really fault the logic. If a suit and tie can convince people that Donald Trump is qualified to be our leader (take a bow, Middle America), maybe criminals should skip the hoodies and black jeans and hop into a nice Armani number. Oops, they already do that … in D.C.