Thursday, August 10, 2017

Brief Encounter: The Mooch and the Douche

The Douche and the Mooch, moments before Scaramucci's 
"accidental" airborne departure from Airforce 1, sans parachute.

 “Your baby doesn't love you anymore
Golden days before they end
Whisper secrets to the wind
Your baby won't be near you anymore” – Roy Orbison

In the madhouse known as the White House, “chaos” is Pee Wee’s secret word and news changes and breaks, not just daily, but almost by the minute. When truth is never uttered and lies are the current currency of choice, such is always going to be the case. Veracity is easy to verify, while prevarication and the constant corruption it represents, frequently requires the invention and presentation of an ever-shifting, colorful kaleidoscope of falsehoods, fibs and flagrant misinformation.  It’s an IMF level mission attempting to remain contemporary and newsworthy on presidential proceedings and impeachable events and, even more so, on the present employment status of White House personnel, who tend to come and go as quickly as the Flash with premature ejaculation issues. But, on occasion, one of these ships passing in the night is so unique, so sensationalist and so, well, vile, that irrespective of his or her fruit fly-like tenure in the People’s House, to quote Linda Loman, “attention must be paid!” And so, today, for one singular blog post, we recognize, acknowledge and, of course, ridicule, that offensive, cartoon, ethnic stereotype of a stereotype; a living, breathing, cursing insult to all Italian-Americans and every Italian immigrant who ever alit upon our democratic shores - Anthony Scaramucci, hatingly known as the Mooch.

The Mooch – a fantastically, fictional concoction,  born of an ugly amalgam of angrily rejected literary notions from Damon Runyan, Mario Puzo and a momentarily deranged, Erma Bombeck;  and physically constructed and animated with discarded tissue from Joe Pesci, Leo Gorcey and my Nana with the severe black dress and hair net, from the old country.

"They laugh alike, they talk alike, at times they even walk alike -
 you can lose your mind"
The Mooch and the Douche: A Love Story

Prior to Anthony “my Mother’s a Saint” Scaramucci, being so unceremoniously, ruthlessly and rapidly rubbed-out, leaving the hallowed halls of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue to return to the cast of Broadway’s, “A Bronx Tale,” he and the Donald had quite the torrid, if temporary and tempestuous, political affaire de coeur - brief but blazing, and with the kind of “fire and fury” usually reserved for baseless, wrathful and reckless threats made toward other nuclear powers. Much like Lucy and Harpo on opposite sides of an empty frame, they saw in each other a mirror image – two wealthy, ignorant, unpleasant, belligerent, hateful, faux street toughs (as genuinely menacing and street as the Sharks and the Jets Fosse-ing through the playgrounds of Hell’s Kitchen), both with a philosophy of “me first, f..k everybody else” and it was loathsome lust at first sight; the next best thing to inexhaustible self-gratification. Consequently, like a farmer fragrantly fertilizing his back forty, the Mooch had many and myriad a far-fetched, complimentary accolade aimed in his 11 day bosses direction - so, with very little pride, and a substantial amount of nausea, we share but a taste of this distasteful and blatant bootlicking and brown-nosing - enormously humiliating and, inevitably, for naught - Smooches from the Mooch.
I think he’s got some of the best political instincts in the world, and perhaps in history, if you think about it.”
“I mean, this president, is he something or is he something?
 “Okay? I’ve seen this guy throw a dead spiral through a tire.”
“I’ve seen him at Madison Square Garden with a topcoat on. He’s standing in the key; he’s hitting foul shots and swishing them, all right?”

"He sinks 30 foot putts."

"I love the president and I'm very, very loyal to the president and I love the mission that the president has.”
"I love the president."

Leave the gun, take the cannoli.
But surely, with such an inventive imagination and discernible flair for fervent flattery, there must be more unctuousness to uncover and impart (editor’s note: at this juncture, our legal team of Jacoby, Meyers, Cellino and Barnes insist on the revelation that the quotations to follow are not factual but fictional flights of fancy) – Smooches from the Mooch, part deux.

"He's never had a B.M. He finds it unseemly, so pays someone to do it for him."

"There will be no second coming of Christ since, God-wise, Donald kicks his scrawny, Middle Eastern, terrorist ass."

"Melania doesn't sleep in separate bedrooms (wings, floors, cities, countries, continents) than Donald because, as she puts it, "he's a revolting, repulsive, pig-man, who smells of the death of five thousand, diseased mole rats, I wish I was an escort again," it's because, otherwise, she would never be able to stop sexually ravaging him."

"You have to understand, when the President repeatedly talks about how hot his daughter is and how he'd like to "do" her, he's displaying the great regard and admiration he holds for all women. But, come on, marrone, that Ivanka is one spicy soprasseta. She can be my goomare any day... no disrespect."

"If President Trump asked, I would gladly abandon my wife and newborn baby for him." (editor's note: oh, sorry, this really happened.)

And, lastly, from the Mooch's resignation letter - "If I should stay, I'll only be in your way. So I'll go, but I know I'll think of you every step of the way. And I will always love you. I will always love you. You, my darling you. hmm."
The Mooch & the Douche in "Li'l Tuff Guys"
And so, with memories of Anthony “Jersey Shore reject” Scaramucci, the only individual to actually know Tony’s fate from “The Sopranos” finale, fading rapidly in our rear view mirrors, like the vagrant drifter we ran down in the darkness of the Catskill wilderness and left for dead, those many decades ago (editor’s note: Jacoby, Meyers, Cellino and Barnes stress that this is but a dark and crude jest, not an actual occurrence from a college road trip involving the consumption of far too many Genesee Ales) we bid him a substantially less than fond farewell  and leave you with the understanding, and empathetic lyrics of the legendary, Roy Orbison.

"God bless."
 “All the rainbows in the sky
Start to weep, then say goodbye
You won't be seeing rainbows any more
Setting suns before they fall, Echo to you that's all that's all
But you'll see lonely sunset after all

It's over It's over It's over It's over”

Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?  Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com.

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