Donald Trump’s voters wanted him to put the management style that drove failure-proof casinos deep into the earth’s mantle to work on behalf of all Americans.
They got their wish. The maestro of organizational management — he who surrounds himself with only the best — presides over a band of vulgar misfits that would embarrass a Barnum & Bailey ringmaster.
While the media fawns over General John Kelly, a man willing to diminish himself as a Trump cabinet secretary and now chief of staff, the big hire immediately preceding Kelly’s — a whopping 10 days ago — has already been reduced to a blood-spatter pattern on some wall in the White House comms shop.
Apparently Trump, possessed of an allegedly preternatural talent for spotting, well, talent, didn’t see this Spicer-Scaramucci-Priebus-Kelly murder-suicide shitshow coming. That’s telling, as anyone who saw the Mooch introduce himself last week — together with a raft of personality disorders as prominent as his gaudy cufflinks — could have called the over-under on the Mooch’s projected longevity at right about, well, ten days.
Indeed, I’ve had dogs with more discernment than Donald Trump. A friend once came over to my house with her new boyfriend; my German Shepherd became so agitated at this chap’s very presence that I had to warn him to please, for the love of all that was holy, avoid making eye contact with the dog. About an hour on, when he accidentally did glance at the dog, let’s just say the evening’s festivities came to an abrupt end. I later apologized to my friend, who told me not to worry — she’d been wondering about this guy anyway; he was out on bond after hijacking a truck full of sneakers.
This was the one thing — the one thing — that Trump was, according to his voters, supposed to do well. He was supposed to manage. Yet he failed to see the menace in Anthony Scaramucci that any dog could have sniffed out in mere seconds.
And the show goes on.