Sean Spicer needs a replacement.
And I know a self-employed empty-nester with resolved anger issues looking to write the third act of his forthcoming biopic.
Point blank: the Spice Rack (I came up with that) is doing a helluva lot of jaw jacking and not a lick of saying much and it’s in direct violation of The American Way.
I believe it was Yankee outfielding great Paul O’Neill who said, “Don’t say that much and walk around with a heavy bat.” Spice Rack’s over here blabbing like my wife Breverleigh’s youngest daughter Lolli (from a previous marriage), and carrying, like, a friggin’ feather duster or something. It’s untoward.
First thing he got wrong was not wearing a pair of wrap-around BluBlockers at every single press briefing. That should’ve been from jump street, because he wears his fear between the crest of the brow and the crease of the jowl and you can’t let these news punks even once see you sweat.
Which brings me to my next point: this guy — and I’m not blaming him even though it’s unsightly — sweats in the wrong spots. You seen that thing where he beads up right there on his upper lip? Hey, Sean. It’s called a mustache. We’ve all got one and we love it. Problem solved.
My editor — who is soft — tells me I’m beating a dead horse now, and, even though he is wrong, I will leave of off Spice Rack for the time being and artfully pivot to the second part of this column where I touch on what all of us have been thinking for months: we gotta get Crimshaw behind the podium.
I watched like fifteen minutes of this buster on my tablet and, I dunno, but, like, it feels like he’s having a helluva go trying to answer these questions, huh? For instance, this one chick in the middle was like, “What in the name of Sam Hill is going on with Russia?” and the Rack pretty much crapped his sack right there on C-SPAN 2.
Here’s how ol’ Buck would’ve handled that situation:
NEWS CHICK: Mr. Crimshaw, I was hoping that you could comment —
ME: — that’s Dr. Crimshaw, honey.
NEWS CHICK: I’m sorry?
ME: I forgive you. But these hard-working folks to your left and right don’t. They’re on deadlines and you’re doing some major league bush beating. Spit it out, sister.
NEWS CHICK: (probably turned on by this point) Yes, I see that now. I also see that the cut of your slacks is incredibly flattering. Dr. Crimshaw, I was wondering if you could give us an update on the president’s willingness to testify regarding the Russia investigation.
ME: (checking my watch) Yeah, we’ve danced this jig before, sweetheart. But, lucky for you, I’m in a good mood. The wife’s in Cabo with her windsurfing team so I’ve eaten porkchops for seven consecutive meals. I’ll remind you that the president’s favorite film is 2004’s Miracle and that he has, on more than one occasion, married busty Eastern Bloc babes to rescue them from a lifetime of cooking stroganoff for blonde-headed weightlifters. If that doesn’t answer your question, then you’re wrong. And if you ask again, you’re gonna have 18-plus years of Greco-Roman wrestling vaulting toward your face, and that’s just true.
NEWS CHICK: Thank you for telling us the truth, Doctor. Here is the key to my hotel room. You must be lonely while your wife is away. It would be the thrill of a lifetime to keep you company, if only for a night.
ME: My wife and I have an open marriage, and it was totally my idea, so, yeah, maybe, I’ll think about it.
That’s textbook public relations and also networking. I gained an ally in the press through tough talk and eye contact while simultaneously defusing a situation stickier than that time I fell asleep with pie in the bed.
I’m the man for this job. Call me, Spice Rack. We need to talk.