Frank, the Cocky Loudmouth at the End of the Bar

A friend was bewildered as to why Trump appointed a clown like Pete Hegseth as his defense secretary. My reply:


Let me share an image I've been returning to since Trump was first elected. It explains his presidency pretty well. Not perfectly, but quite effectively:

You're sitting at a bar. Some stupid gin mill. And Frank, at the end of the bar, is a mouthy know it all shitbrain old dude who dominates conversations, so most people ignore him, which bothers him not one bit. Frank brashly spouts (to whoever will listen, or even to empty space) conspiracy theories, bitter criticism of those asshole politicians, knowing with all his heart that he could do a far better job than any of them.

From Frank's perch at the end of the bar, and 6 drinks into his late afternoon tear, it seems completely reasonable. Even though he's stupid and feckless and childish and undisciplined and ultimately just two balls and a mouth. Just because he's, y'know, Frank.

Say, through a series of screw-ups and accidents and lucky breaks and Frank's feral refusal to ever quit or acknowledge any limitation of any sort (plus loads of money from his Dad—or at least whatever's leftover that he hasn't squandered—plus a superpower of absolutely zero shamelessness or empathy), Frank gets elected president. Who does Frank appoint defense secretary?

Does he put in the work, flipping through binders of disciplined, stony civil servants and defense experts to determine someone qualified and competent?

Frank? Are you kidding?

No. "Who," thinks Frank, "is that pugnacious guy on FOX who's nearly as loud and cocksure as I am, who goes on and on about how we need to be TOUGH and stop being PUSSIES and HURT THE ENEMY and not be distracted with being NICE to people (gays, minorities, women) when we need real manly men who will SLAUGHTER REMORSELESSLY?"

Frank gets the name, and circles it with his Sharpie. "He seems perfect to me! That's my guy!"

Because of course he does. What else would you expect from Frank? Frank doesn't know anything. He's just that shitbrain from the bar. So of course he appoints the poser hair gel tough guy from the TV. How would this baffle you? What do you expect from Frank? Hey, you voted for Frank, suspecting that he was a paper-thin mouthy shitbrain running entirely on balls-in-your-face cocksure brio. And you're surprised he'd make this move?

For a sightly more satirical version, see Peter Seller's "Being There", great film about a simple-minded gardener who keeps rising and rising.

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And 1/3 of the country looks at Frank’s climb, and says “He’s just like me!”, and for them, it’s a glorious shattering of the glass ceiling. They’re in love.

Meanwhile, the Left hates Frank, but they're at least as devoted to this sort of political ego projection. According to their doctrine, every identity group pines for, and ultimately deserves, a politician who “looks like me.”

Me, sure, I’d vote for a Jewish president. But if a Presbyterian were an even slightly better candidate, I wouldn’t even need to blink at the decision. I can’t generate a nano-calorie of enthusiasm for a president who belongs to some group I belong to. How about someone smart? And competent? And hopefully, god willing, boring? Maybe that’s the way to choose a leader, rather than get one’s ego and victimhood (every American is an aggrieved victim) and self-story-telling all wrapped up in it. That’s how Franks get through!

We need to stop making politics a narcissistic mirror. That’s what frickin’ Instagram is for.

Don’t blame Frank. He’s just a disturbed opportunist. Blame us!