Beneath the Dignity of the Office

The first article of impeachment against president Donald J. Trump -- if the Democrats regain the U.S. House majority -- will be that his behavior demeans the office of the President.  Set aside for a moment that for Dem loons just electing Trump irreparably tarnished the stature of the office. 

But now, the Dems have Exhibit A to the impeachment article: Trump’s image-shopped WWE parody of himself “body-slamming” CNN, perhaps the most accomplished, and persistent purveyor of fake news. 

Unlike Bill Clinton -- whose pants around the ankles in the Oval Office, while being serviced by an intern, redefined dignity of the Presidency -- Trump at least picked a venue that couldn’t be conflated with the new age White House protocols.  But unlike Clinton, Trump kept his belt buckled, four-in-hand knot untouched, with nary a strand of hair displaced. 

Trump displayed the most dignified body-slam ever in WWE, or anyplace else. Winston Churchill’s soul is agonizing that he didn’t think of it first.

Trump’s communication style is certainly an abrupt detour from presidential norms, yet norms, according to Donald Trump, are made to be broken. And “beneath the dignity of the office” is a hyperventilating overreach, or as we say in the trade, a steaming pile.

In fact, Donald Trump has restored dignity to the office, when you consider how Barack Obama soiled the office with his own dissembling, fabrications, and manipulations, not to mention the sort of race hustlers, hoodlums, felons, and traitors routinely welcomed to Obama’s White House.

Beneath the dignity of the office: Bill Clinton spawned the genre. Obama fertilized it.

Lest we forget, Obama welcomed Al Sharpton 60-70-100 times at the White House.

At the same time, Obama hosted soirees with the Muslim Brotherhood. Celebrated the swap of five terrorists for U.S. Army deserter Bergdahl in the Rose Garden. Embraced Rick Ross, notorious rapper indicted for assault and kidnapping, whose ankle bracelet alarm went off at the White House

If you would like a refresher on the Obamas’ exercise of dignity, here’s a handy inventory of their nobility of purpose, from Gossip Extra:

“Michelle and President Barack Obama have hosted some of the crudest, foulest-mouthed rappers out there, thus legitimizing money- and fame-hungry cultural influencers whose demeaning lyrics urge a generation of young men to grope and objectify women.

“The Obamas may hate Trump’s infamous locker room talk, but they’ve got no problem with White House visitor Lamar.

Kendrick Lamar, a thug style singer whose Bitch Don’t Kill My Vibe, is the best of a disgusting lot,  trashed up Sunfest’s family night in 2013 with an hour and a half of n-words, “f”-bombs and “c”-bombs the likes of which the festival had ever heard.

“Here is a sample of his lyrics from Hol’ Up:

Stewardess complimentin’ me on my nappy hair/If I can fuck in front of all these passengers … Back in this bitch in the the back of that bitch/ Wit’ my back against the wall and yo’ bitch on the edge of my dick/ Jump off/ I call a bitch a bitch, a ho a ho, a woman a woman.

“Then there’s Ludacris, another repeat White House visitor. This guy’s lyrics include the self-esteem boosting song for little girls called Fatty Girl.

Of course, years earlier on the campaign trail, before Obama was elected as the first black president, Obama’s campaign couldn’t denounce Ludacris fast enough:  "As Barack Obama has said many, many times in the past, rap lyrics today too often perpetuate misogyny, materialism, and degrading images that he doesn't want his daughters or any children exposed to," campaign spokesman Bill Burton said in an e-mail statement.

Here’s more from Gossip Extra:

“And, finally Jay Z, the convicted felon who stabbed a record producer at a nightclub in 2001 and then married Beyonce, joined the Obamas for the White House Easter Egg roll. Jay Z, a major campaign contributor and fundraiser for the Obamas, is the promoter of classic tunes like Pussy. 

I-I know this girl we call her Sweet Cooch Brown/ Hands down Mami had the bombest pussy in town/ One dip in the girl pool, thatz all it took/ One sample of the snappa and ya ass was whooped.”

How delicious. How dignified.

And so, via WWE of all places, the redemption of old-fashioned dignity at the White House begins.

As campy art form, WWE has no peer. It is a purely American cocktail of simple morality tales combining villainy with virtue, quasi-sport mixed with choreographed, carefully scripted athletic mayhem. Compellingly bad taste, yet still amusing in its outsized caricatures. Pure parody, upon which its fans can’t feast enough, especially Wrestlemania, WWE’s annual Super Bowl.

Of course, beyond the 20 million or so in the universe of the WWE subculture, wrestling entertainment is seen as vulgar, low-brow, the stuff of trailer-park heaven. Just the tool for contrarian and disrupter Donald Trump to pummel the phony sensitivity of the media, and to hammer-lock sanctimonious posturing by the political establishment, whom Trump soundly thrashed last November, and whose diehard supporters will be ever cheering for more.

WWE is the perfect metaphor for the mainstream media. Phony but authentic in its phoniness. Mostly fabricated, but built upon a few truths once upon a time. Mostly forgettable, yet having enough whimsy for a return visit, if only to reaffirm loathing, or loving it.

An earlier Americana icon, The Ringling Bros. three-ring circus, after 146 years saw its final performance in May, as reported by CNN.

The irony is lost on CNN that WWE replaced the three-ring circus, with Trump, and CNN the main event. And CNN will taste the clammy canvas every time, with Trump still president, refreshed for another bout, where the outcome is already known. 

If you experience technical problems, please write to