To Anthony Scaramucci, White House Communications Director:
Hey, big guy. So I saw what you said to that nice reporter over at the New Yorker. Like when you threatened to kill White House staffers (which I’m pretty sure is a crime of some sort), or when you called Reince Priebus a “fucking paranoid schizophrenic, a paranoiac” and then said Steve Bannon was “trying to suck his own cock”. By the way, I’d pay real money to watch Bannon trying to do that; you guys should consider including a clip of it with your boss’s Russian hooker pee tape.)
But I digress. That was some enthralling reading. You really let them have it. Now, I want to say something to you, and I need you to hear me out.
So I’m known as a man who uses, how did you put it, oh yeah, the colorful language to make a point. I’m also quite a wordsmith too. Hell, I write some wicked poetry. You should read them sometime. I think you’d enjoy the darkness words create in the souls of men. You seem to enjoy that kind of stuff. But I digress.
So anyway back to you. Can I give you some advice? Of course, I can, God knows you could use it right now. As the communications director for the President of the United States, even if that person happens to enjoy “competition in the West Wing,” it is your duty to rise above the mucky fuckery that is the day‐to‐day sausage making that is Washington politics. You are supposed to build bridges and foster understanding. You don’t become the story. You run the public relations and messaging of the White House agenda. But boy oh boy, did you become the story.
Once again, the president’s agenda of hate, insanity, and something akin to what one would see on a reality television show was interrupted by a member of his own administration’s hate, insanity, and something similar to what one would see on a reality television show. You are not in an episode of the Sopranos where you can settle vendettas like a greasy mafioso. You are not even in an episode of Jersey Shore where you come in and crash the party by flipping the beer pong table like a douche.
Do you not realize you work in the White House?
If you’re going to use “colorful language,” how about some passion and fire for human rights? Give a fuck about the rights of LGBTQ Americans! The environment? The Earth is fucking dying, and you guys want to fuck it up further with your anti‐science garbage.
The working class? Fuck me, stop giving tax cuts to the wealthy fucks who already have everything under the goddamn Sun. But no. You decided to crawl out of whatever gaudy monstrosity you call home to launch firebombs at members of your own team in the West Wing to The New Yorker. The New Yorker! By the stars, what were you thinking?
Were you even thinking or did you do a line of coke when you woke up? Maybe you hit your head and lost touch with the physical plane we exist on. Who knows?
What I do know is that you have royally screwed this up for your boss. The man, whose destiny and fate you latched onto, was on shaky ground even before you came bursting into the room with the grace of a Spanish bull in an elegant china shop with an eye for slaughter. Now, look around you Mooch. Look around you. What do you see? If your answer is anything but a mass of pissed off people wearing US House and US Senate pins, you aren’t paying attention, and a man in your position can not hope to last very long.
On second thought, keep doing what you’re doing. I do love a good battle royale of fascists and sycophants tearing each other apart. It’s almost as good as watching Game of Thrones. Let’s just hope that you don’t burn everything to the ground in the process.
Hugs and kisses,