How many of you were thrilled by The Mooch’s unhinged tirade as reported by Ryan Lizza in The New Yorker? Of course we were astounded at first but really, what’s the big deal? In the Trump reality show, they have to keep upping the ante.

Now that Scaramucci has introduced cocksucking into the national dialogue, I personally could not be happier. Let’s all go nuts, okay? It won’t be long before someone in the White House calls Hillary a cunt. Should we count the days?

Meanwhile, the cocksucking.

Why won’t the Mooch try to suck his own cock? Is it because he’s so short? Does that make it harder? And why doesn’t Steve Bannon succeed in sucking his own cock? How hard has he tried? Maybe he has actually got it mastered, but the Mooch doesn’t know it?

Years ago, I came upon a portal to 1,500 photos of men sucking their own cocks. I swear to god I wasn’t looking for porn or even penises. I might have been looking at vintage photos of petticoats or something, but suddenly, boom, I hit a database of photos. I was afraid to open it. I know I talk a good game but in reality I am very squeamish. I once saw a picture of a girl with two penises in her mouth and all I could think was that she looked like a walrus.

Anyway. In the rough and tumble world of alpha men, is there shame in sucking your own cock? It seems like a feat you might take some pride in. The flexibility! The determination! The high testosterone count!

Vice has some advice on how to suck your own cock, Steve Bannon, but I’m not going to read it. Show it to the Mooch when you’re done.

Going forward, I hope Scaramucci will keep us apprised of all cocksucking in the White House. I’ll bet Melania performed her last duty in that regard many years ago. Good for her.

What about Jared? Has he tried sucking his own cock? Is he sucking someone’s else’s cock? As the season progresses, I hope to find out. In fact, I hope that all will be revealed without having to wait for next season. I’m praying the show will be cancelled just as soon as Trump gets impeached, so we can all wash out mouths out.

But I guess I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. As Winston Wolf says so eloquently in Pulp Fiction, “ let’s not start sucking each other’s dicks quite yet.”

I’m tired of this fetishistic trend in fashion, and one day you’ll be tired of it. too.

While I do like a man in a wedding dress, the Gimp-inspired looks are just sad rather than shocking. Mugler’s muse, Zombie Boy, is the perfect example of Goth Tribalism taken far too seriously.

Take the Gimp back into the basement and take Gaga with him. Wake me when it’s all over.

In keeping with the Plague Upon My House, I have now lost my watch. It is a small, delicate antique watch with a rose gold case and some tiny rubies. There are only three places that I keep that watch, and it isn’t in any of them.

I keep going back to each of the three places, obsessively looking for the watch that isn’t there. I feel a pervasive longing for the watch even though I didn’t wear it every day. I’ve tried calling out to it, like a mother calling her child in from outdoors, but it doesn’t appear. I would say I’m heartbroken, but I hate to sound materialistic. Let’s say I’m “annoyed.”

When I complained to my sister last night about the watch, I attributed it to the Ongoing Plague. She stunned me by suggesting a root cause: I don’t have a Mezuzah.

If you don’t know what a Mezuzah is, it’s a metal thing that observant Jews are supposed to put by their front door, I think to ward off bad luck. I really don’t want to know more than that, because that’s stupid enough. The very notion that somehow I could have prevented bad things from happening by performing some ritual is just infuriating. It’s worse that The Secret! It’s superstition packaged in guilt. Maybe I’ve just stumbled upon a definition for religion; In any case, a god that would put a curse on me for not having a Mezuzah is just a total fucker who I want no part of.

Thinking about superstition, I asked my BFF if she would have any problem in reciting the words: “I will probably lose all my teeth and get pancreatic cancer in the next year.”  I think most people would hesitate, fearful of tempting fate through some system of cosmic wrath. She dazzled me by reciting the words in a strong, godless voice, and I fell in love with her for the millionth time.

But back to the watch. The missing watch will continue to bother me, probably for eternity, but it reminds me of my favorite line from Pulp Fiction, when Christopher Walkin tells the young Butch the story of his grandfather’s watch. It’s a long, sentimental story that takes a wild turn with the revelation: “Five long years, he wore that watch up his ass.”

The word “wore” in that sentence is the difference between writing and poetry.  It’s the best choice of word, one that I could never come up with, one that gives me a fresh thrill of pleasure each time I think of it.

So the moral of this post is as follows:  Art is consolation in the face of chaos. (Wear that up your ass!)

Has everybody already discovered the Askinator game? The Wolf household can’t stop playing it. Think of any character, real or fictive, and the Askinator Genie will guess the answer. So far, it has correctly guessed Ignatious P. Reilly, the Gimp from Pulp Fiction, god, Madame Bovary, Borat, Marianne Faithfull, my mother-in-law and our dog.