“The Mooch showed up a week ago,” a foul-mouthed Anthony Scaramucci told a New Yorker writer last week. It was perhaps the only sentence he spoke not bristling with more profanities than there are fruit in a fruitcake. I was shocked, and I’m no sweet innocent lass with a pure tongue. In truth, my language is sometimes overly salty for good company.
But The Mooch surpasses anything I’ve ever heard when it comes to sheer crudeness and mind-boggling nastiness. Somebody needs to stick a bar of soap in that guy’s mouth. Then, this same somebody should inform The Mooch, that swaggering sack of self-adulation, he might at least feign humility by speaking in first, not third, person when referring to himself. Who does he think he is, the president of the United States?
You might remember The Donald, during his campaign, talked about women’s private parts in the most vulgar of ways. The Mooch’s comments to the New Yorker, however, The Donald ever-so-piously deemed “inappropriate.” Here is the key takeaway, boys and girls: Men’s dingalongs are unmentionables. Women’s privates, however? Fair game.
The Donald selected The Mooch despite The Mooch’s coming across like a bad caricature of “The Fonz,” he of Henry Winkler sitcom-television fame. The Mooch even sort of looks like The Fonz. There’s the coiffed hair, that slick, slimy look, an overlay of untempered, heedless bravado.
Now, of course, The Donald has sacked The Mooch, a mere 10 days after appointing him White House communications director. Scaramucci, I barely had time to learn how to spell your name, and poof, you are gone. When these two men were conversing, surely The Mooch, to have won The Donald’s appointment to such an illustrious, important post – spokesman for the most powerful person in the world, at least before we lost the world’s respect – must have spoken sans language that included [delete], [delete] and [delete], or [delete], [delete] and [delete]. And The Mooch, while in The Donald’s presence, must have never threatened people as he publicly threatened other White House staff members.
“The Mooch showed up a week ago,” a foul-mouthed Anthony Scaramucci told a New Yorker writer last week. It was perhaps the only sentence he spoke not bristling with more profanities than there are fruit in a fruitcake. I was shocked, and I’m no sweet innocent lass with a pure tongue. In truth, my language is sometimes overly salty for good company.
But The Mooch surpasses anything I’ve ever heard when it comes to sheer crudeness and mind-boggling nastiness. Somebody needs to stick a bar of soap in that guy’s mouth. Then, this same somebody should inform The Mooch, that swaggering sack of self-adulation, he might at least feign humility by speaking in first, not third, person when referring to himself. Who does he think he is, the president of the United States?
You might remember The Donald, during his campaign, talked about women’s private parts in the most vulgar of ways. The Mooch’s comments to the New Yorker, however, The Donald ever-so-piously deemed “inappropriate.” Here is the key takeaway, boys and girls: Men’s dingalongs are unmentionables. Women’s privates, however? Fair game.
The Donald selected The Mooch despite The Mooch’s coming across like a bad caricature of “The Fonz,” he of Henry Winkler sitcom-television fame. The Mooch even sort of looks like The Fonz. There’s the coiffed hair, that slick, slimy look, an overlay of untempered, heedless bravado.
Now, of course, The Donald has sacked The Mooch, a mere 10 days after appointing him White House communications director. Scaramucci, I barely had time to learn how to spell your name, and poof, you are gone. When these two men were conversing, surely The Mooch, to have won The Donald’s appointment to such an illustrious, important post – spokesman for the most powerful person in the world, at least before we lost the world’s respect – must have spoken sans language that included [delete], [delete] and [delete], or [delete], [delete] and [delete]. And The Mooch, while in The Donald’s presence, must have never threatened people as he publicly threatened other White House staff members.
Here is the second takeaway, boys and girls: There is no sin in acting and thinking like a lout; in fact, you can aspire to hold one of the most public positions imaginable. Just make sure you tone it down, won’t you, when talking to reporters who, while taking a breather from making up fake news, might just record and publish your remarks.
I’m relieved The Good General, new White House Chief of Staff John Kelly, apparently forced The Donald to exfoliate The Mooch, perhaps as a condition of employment … “It’s The Mooch or me, boss. You gotta choose.”
But, I’m doubtful Our Last Hope can curb The Donald’s excesses for long, or successfully quash The Donald’s compulsion to tweet whatever floats through his head.
We can pray, however, The Good General can successfully turn The Donald’s attention away from The Manly Man in Russia and toward North Korea, where The Great Leader, Kim Jong Un, seems to have developed an intercontinental ballistic missile capable of reaching, The Madman says, “the whole U.S. mainland.”
This raises the unpalatable possibility we, The American People, could wake up one fine morning only to find ourselves Blown to Bits.
Quintin Ellison is editor of The Sylva Herald. Published with permission from The Sylva Herald.
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