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.”
"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.”
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."
"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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