This is a rare guest blog by one my loyal subscribers, Fred Moullen. Enjoy.
Sean Spicer lasted much longer than I thought he would. But, as predicted, his head finally exploded! It was agonizing to watch a practicing – maybe even devout – Catholic doing his best, press conference after press conference, to represent the mercurial and mendacious Word of his political lord with the patience of Job. (What man is like Job, who drinketh up scorning like water? Job hath spoken without knowledge, and his words were without wisdom. Job 34:7 & 35) One can only imagine all those penitent trips Sean made to the confession box.
His replacement, Sarah Huckleberry Sanders, is unburdened by the moral wet blanket of a Catholic upbringing. And unlike the stress often apparent behind Spicer’s eyes as he grappled with translating chaos into coherence, gibberish into gospel for the masses, Sarah brings an easy, placid, somewhat bovine presence to the press lectern. I first thought of Spicer’s job in Sisyphean terms but the analogy of the rolling dung beetle is better; when the shit ball gets so big you can’t push it any longer you just have to quit.
The public humiliation of having to report to the “Mooch”, yet another New York gold-plated huckster, with the ethical fixity and personal loyalty of a water spider, was just the last dung roll. Ms. Huckleberry, the dutiful daughter of Baptist minister Mike Huckleberry, will do just fine as Trump’s Tower of Babel crier as she’s bound only by her “liberty of conscience” without any religious hierarchical authority to come between her relativist conscience and her lord, either in his heaven or his tower, whichever has primacy of relative proximity.
Instead of Spicer, Ms. Huckleberry will report directly to The Mooch (aka, what’s in a name: Scarymoochie), who dismissed The Donald two years ago on Fox News as a “hack politician” with “crazy rhetoric” that was “anti-American” and “very, very divisive”, he has now not only seen the light but rapturously gushes forth the love that formerly dared not speak its name (“I love Donald Trump”!); yet another acolyte drawn to power like a moth to the arbitrarily switched on bulb. One can sense the effervescent glow of self-confidence on his rapturous face as he speaks of his reverence for The Donald. (I’m absolutely certain everything he speaks from his salesman’s heart is genuine.) But has he so much confidence, that he’s failed to notice the spectacle of the one-way loyalty oath applied to the little red-neck, former Senator Jeff Sessions. (Whenever I see poor Jeff’s image I can’t help but think he’s out of time and place. He belonged in Ancient Rome in a senator’s toga, a diminutive, toady masochistically thriving on Caligula’s and his personal slave’s bitch slaps.)
The good news for Sean is he’s now free to sign that multi-million dollar book confessional having worn a hair-shirt, supped on and rolled around in a bull pen of dung for almost exactly 6 months. I’m sure by now, though, he’s aware that he needs to be careful, because the Lord of the Flies won’t hesitate to sue him for publishing disparaging words. Probably better to keep singing the lord’s praises if he intends to keep any of his book royalties.
May his god bless and keep him and remove the smell of manure from him for the remainder of his conscience stricken days.
I'm Not Making This Up... 