I have a weird hobby. Okay, so another weird hobby. Alright, among my many obscure, odd hobbies, one of them is keeping up to date on former Trump Administration officials, especially those ousted in humiliation or disgrace.
Part of this is morbid curiosity, and part of it is like my reasons for wanting to know where Vlad Tepes is buried: it’s good to keep track of some people and/or potential vampires, because you don’t want them suddenly unleashed upon an unsuspecting public (speaking of which, Stephen Bannon was last seen doing a weird, pro-fascism world tour)(this is reductionist, but not nearly as much as you’d hope). When I last wrote of Sean Spicer, he was headed toward Dancing with the Stars as a contestant (no word on whether he was taking the Eisenhower building mini-fridge with him). This is all totally accurate. Spicer’s brief stay at the White House was characterized by hostility with him and the Trump team, him and the press, him and, one must assume, humanity at large; and numerous, readily-discredited lies. At this point he has literally tens of dozens of nearly-alert fans. To paraphrase Robin Williams, this is a man screaming out to be made fun of. Those of you familiar with my work and writing style might see where I’m heading with this.
It’s an old stereotype that white men can not dance, but, unfortunately, white people haven’t exactly worked hard to reverse that image. The best we’ve done, so far, is “Riverdance,” which, not to demean tap-dancing, but anything less athletic than some performances I’ve seen on “Dance Dance Revolution” is not exactly impressive. Okay, there’s ballet, which is impressive, and it is traditionally dominated by white people, but probably because you’re more likely to see “ballet classes” offered in Bel Air middle schools than Compton. So, I guess the totally-accurate, more-empathetic phrasing of that would be, “white people excel in dance performances that are highly choreographed, require hundreds of hours of formal instruction, and a near-sterile environment with few unplanned interruptions or ill-timed pliés” (technically, I suppose that should be “des pliés,” or “les pliés,” but my French grammar is spotty). There are exceptions to every rule, and I’m sure I’ll be inundated with clips of the breakdance fight scene from Zoolander, but, for the moment, I’ll stand by my cruel, racially prejudiced remarks that white men — the traditionally most-repressed segment of society — should keep their dancing confined to ball rooms and private wedding receptions. Yes, I’m now an agent of deep state oppression.
Having said that, it gives me extreme joy to share the following news, and admit that my primary source of information on this is TMZ (there’s a sentence I never thought I’d write) and other tabloid-esque rags (sadly, New York Times coverage on third-rate reality TV shows is dismal). His Spiciness made his grand debut on Dancing with the Stars last night, and here it is:
Author’s warning: You should probably put on sunglasses before watching this; if you suffer from photosensitive seizures, you might want skip the following video.
Author’s other warning: Although I never condone the use of illicit or controlled substances unless under direct medical supervision, I’ll make an exception today and say you might want a line of cocaine or two to get into the proper mindset.
And with that build-up, here… we… go:
Some days, you crawl out of bed wondering what to write about, sometimes, you have to forcibly restrain yourself from going full-frontal Leo Tolstoy and churning out a Russian novel on the simultaneously horrible and delightful nature of human existence.
The next time some Internet troll complains about why we can’t have “white pride” days or parades, force them to watch that clip and explain exactly what they see that’s worthy of pride. For the rest of humanity, if you ever wondered what Tony Montana’s club was like in Scarface, I think we got a pretty good idea. We also have a good idea of what the unmade Roadhouse sequel would look like.
It’s also worth noting that I feel reasonably confident I could do that dance, and, let me remind everyone, I need a cane if I’m walking more than a block.
Also, is anyone really under the impression that Latinx folks still wear giant, 17th-century frilly shirts? Because I lived in Miami for two years, and the number of times I saw humans in shirts like that was… well, I’d say zero, but I’m not sure if the actual number is lower. Also, I’m reasonably certain that shirt can be seen by geosynchronous satellites. It’s like Lestat went through his wardrobe, sent some stuff to a good will store, and Sean somehow found that gem (I also hear Javier Bardem’s voice saying, “This shirt was made in 1979. It has been traveling forty years to get here.”). When we talk about cultural appropriation, I think we need to include in that discussion when amazingly white people (“prohibitively white,” to borrow a phrase from the short-lived Alpha House TV series) steal from outdated, largely-imaginary stereotypes (somewhere, Carmen Miranda is furious). I’m also certain that Spicer’s first choice of music was that classic wedding reception stand-by, Conga by Miami Sound Machine, but I’m even more certain Dancing with the Star’s budget would not cover getting the rights to use it.
Normally, we’d have some stupid pop-cultural side-show; I’d show up and make snarky, MST3K comments, and we’d all forget about it after a few hits from Medium referrals . Except the world was already writing the next part of this grotesquerie for me. His Spiciness (BTW, the physically-attractive ratio between him and his partner can not be calculated, because that would involve dividing by zero) and partner got a 12 out of 30. I’ve been told that’s an aggressively mediocre score, but I honestly have no idea, because I’ve never seen a baseline of 30 used for anything except AP Bio pop quizzes, but it is reassuring to note that even lousy television shows have some standards, and His Spiciness is barely meeting those. Again, interesting twist and I’d be inclined to hit the “Publish” button and move on, except things got weirder.
Governor Mike Huckabee, he of Arkansas gubernatorial fame, tweeted the following (and my apologies if this isn’t formatted correctly, I honestly don’t know proper form for quoting Tweets)(another sentence I never thought I’d write; I’m just traipsing through the circles of Writer’s Hell):
Wanna create an emotional meltdown in Hollyweird? Vote for @seanspicer to win “Dancing with the Stars” tonight and every night he’s on. @seanspicer is a good guy and a brave sport to go on DWTS. Let’s show him some love!
Remember Sean’s fan club I mentioned in the first paragraph? It would appear we’ve found him. Mike’s more-famous daughter could not be reached for comment, one assumes she’ll have a press release soon about how 12 is actually 30, for very large values of 12 (you think I’m joking).
His Spiciness then Twittered — again, this is a direct quote:
Really, Sean? The judges marked you low because of Jesus? I’m not really sure I’d use His name in conjunction with this “performance,” that just seems like it’s begging for smiting.
Astute readers and/or Mike Huckabee might remember my earlier, opaque references to imaginary white persecution complexes (medically, the DSM 5 would probably label that as an inferiority complex). It rears its ugly head, again. At the documentary film festival I was recently in, a director had to explain to a white crowd the difference between racism and prejudice. He did an okay job, but to reiterate (to man-splain)(yes, I’ll fight patriarchy with more patriarchy, I haven’t had any coffee yet), everyone has some prejudice, but not everyone can act on that prejudice in a way that’s harmful to other people. When you have both that ability to harm people and desire to do so (the prejudice), that’s racism. Christians (of all shades — and you’ll note Mike and Sean aren’t specifying their sect) make up the single largest religion in the world. 75% of Americans currently identify as “Christian.” You guys are in absolutely no danger of direct religious discrimination, unless somehow a quarter of the populace can bring you to your knees (not saying it’s not possible; it is how apartheid worked in South Africa, but there are no laws banning Christians from certain professions, and there are even rumors we’ve had entire Congressional caucuses and lobbying groups made up of — and directly working on behalf of — Christians). There’s a solid chance you’ll see one or more DwtS judges in church on a Sunday (which is more than I’d say of the President, who prefers hanging out with prostitutes and watching Shark Week). I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but, historically, a Huckabee endorsement is correlated with a failed venture, and, worse news, if His Spiciness and his mini-fridge (who I’d immediately vote should replace the human partner on the basis of novelty — you can see men dancing with women anywhere; it’s less-common to see a kill-bot disguised as a PR flak dancing with a minor appliance), are booted from the show, they’ll claim a weird, reverse-discrimination against Christianity (I’d argue the factual evidence suggests God doesn’t want Spicer’s lily-white, hyper-male ass anywhere near a set of qualified dancers, and he should sit down, shut up, and stop breaking the Ninth Commandment). And, if His Spiciness loses, it won’t be because he’s a Christian; it will be because he’s unoriginal and can’t dance. But who knows? Weirder things have happened in the last 24 months.