An allegedly telegenic sycophant called Anthony Scarmucci (he looks plain goofy to me) has been named White House Communications Director, and at his introductory presser, he wasted no time getting on his knees to exalt his Dear Leader. In a gross and creepy and altogether homoerotic display of slobbering animal submission, Scarmucci (shall we call him Mooches?) lathered Donald Trump with a quantum of “love” and reverence and wonderment that would have left any narcissistic psychopath blanching with embarrassment. (Trump, no doubt, was verily pleased with his new lackey.)
In a tribute befitting a North Korean propagandist, Mooches went so far as to laud Kim Jong Don’s athletic infallibility:
He’s the most competitive person I’ve ever met. 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.
It’s no wonder that even Sean Spicer, the King of Bullshit, couldn’t countenance this fool. Scarmucci might have some Wall-Street swag, but he’s so politically callow that he didn’t see the Kim Jong-il analogy coming from as far away as Trump can be from a green while man-jamming it in for an eagle.
While the myths about North Korea’s current Dear Leader, Kim Jong-un, center around his magnificence as an artist and composer, Kim’s now-deceased father and predecessor, Kim Jong-il, was reputed to be a world-class athlete:
In his very first golf game in 1994, Kim finished an 18-hole round of golf at 38-under par — over the 7,700-yard championship course at Pyongyang, according to state media. Kim was in a zone, recording five holes-in-one (some reports have the number as high as 11). Another legend had him bowling a perfect 300 in his first attempt at the sport . . .
These are the measures of a great leader in the minds of tyrants, their minions, and the masses of lemmings who follow them; a great man-god-hero is one who can drill his leather through a slot with sturdy precision; swoosh a roundball through a hoop again and again and again; sink his balls from 30 feet away. And when he is, in reality, a limp, impotent, scared little man-child, well, there’s always a Goebbels — er, Scarmucci — around to gloss that over.
So this is what it’s come to. We join the ranks of the world’s North Koreas, led by a vulgar buffoon who is so dull of mind that he can’t even formulate an articulate tweet, so unrefined that he mistakes gaudy extravagance for elegance, and so physically idle that he can’t make it 700 yards without an assist from a golf cart. He is, in every sense of the word, bankrupt. But he must be told, often and loudly, that he is the opposite of his real self: brilliant, dashing, vigorous, beloved.
What separates Americans from North Koreans is that we chose this. Scarmucci’s opening circus act was not just an indictment of Trump’s sickness and perversion; it was an indictment of our own ignorance and complicity.