Moochie we hardly knew ye

SHERIFF: "Who was that foul-mouthed man?"
OLD COWPOKE: I don't know, but he left these.
SHERIFF: A pair of silver shades?
SCARAMUCCI (FROM A DISTANCE): Hi ho White
House, you're fired!

Dang! I’m a semi-invalid. Well, a recovering semi-invalid, slowly regaining my mobility after hip surgery. But it's no fun.

Even so, I'm trying to heal. Why, just yesterday, I took my cane and my shopping cart and lurched six blocks  to Trade Joe's to restock my empty larder. Then I lurched home again. Then I lay down in agony.

In between, because I’m homebound and sometimes in a bit too much pain to concentrate on what’s left of my pathetic business, much less blogging, I need entertainment — lots of entertainment. 

Donald Trump obliged beyond all expectations with Anthony Scaramucci, the White House communications director who turned into a flash-in-the-pan former communications director, likely at the very moment I was buying cheap bananas and a big box of Joe’s O’s. 

Well, The Mooch’s short-lived career, like a dud rocket that gets halfway off the launch pad and then explodes rather spectacularly, was entertainment, too. But then some wet blanket of an ex-Marine, General John F. Kelly, became White House Chief of Staff. He fired The Mooch, who had been threatening to fire everybody, thus cutting the level of late night merriment in half.

Worse yet, Kelly  is threatening to restore some semblance of normalcy to the executive branch.

Good luck with that, unless Kelly can sew The Donald’s mouth shut with fishing line and confiscate his cell phone. All the same, Kelly has thrown a pall of grim earnestness over what had been America’s best source of yaks since late night TV was invented.

If the high mucky-mucks at Disney had any courage (that’ll be the day!) they’d commission a Donald Duck movie called, “Donald In The Oval Office.” The plot? A cranky duck becomes President of The Ducked-Up States of America. He appoints as his closest advisers his nephews, Huey, Louie and Dewey. Meanwhile, thousands of miles away across the Pacific Ocean, Porky Pig begins launching nuclear missiles.

Will America survive? Will this nation, and its president, turn out to be everything we're quacked up to be? Hollywood, do your stuff!

Meanwhile, I’ve been speculating how all this could have come to pass in the first place. And again, Hollywood may be able to supply the answer. Here’s a transcript of events as I imagine they happened:

DIRECTOR: Roll Camera. Sticks!

SLATE BOY: Mr. Trump Goes To Washington. Scene one, take ten thousand, nine hundred and eighty-five.

ANTHONY SCARAMUCCI: You freaking leaker, I’m going  fire you. I’m going to fire everybody. You're all fired. I told you not to leak but you’ve leaked all over everything. If I don’t fire you today, I’m going to fire your ass tomorrow.

DIRECTOR: What? Cut! Cut goddamn it! Who is this guy?

SCARAMUCCI: What the f….? I was doing great. I hit my mark, I read my lines….

DIRECTOR: Those aren’t lines from this movie.

SCARAMUCCI (WAVES HIS SCRIPT): Sez who? Here’s my lines, right in the script.

DIRECTOR: That’s the script for Deplorablefellas. This is Mister Trump Goes To Washington. You’re in the wrong movie!

SCARAMUCCI: Isn’t this Sound Stage 2?

DIRECTOR: No, this is Sound Stage 15. Somebody hustle this guy out of here.

And so they did.