The Constant Humiliation of Sean Spicer

(Image by Molly Reilly/AFP/Getty)

By Coleman Patrick Ranahan

White House Press Secretary – Spokesman for the President of the United States and the Executive Branch of the government.

Now, imagine a man, who on behalf of the President of the United States of America, the leader of the free world, one of the most powerful people in existence, came before an entire nation and his first words weren’t that of hope, a shared compassion, a message of unity, but instead were that of a scorched earth, a message not of coexistence and raising others up, but that of something so critically stupid, so beyond the pale of what matters in the mind of the modern American, that the sight of the American message disappears.

Crowd sizes – the great trivial pursuit. Sean Spicer’s first press briefing was one for the ages. He gripped the lectern hard as he railed on about the bust of Martin Luther King Jr, and then transitioned to crowd sizes. Barely catching his breath, he leapt from one sentence to the next, as if a open mic comic was trying to remember his jokes, trying hard to please, trying not to eat it in front of a whole nation. Except his words weren’t just his, they weren’t personal. They were that of the man with most powerful nuclear arsenal on the face of the planet, mere yards from where he stood.

Comedy as they say, is the age old equation of tragedy plus time. But in Sean Spicer’s case, it’s all tragedy, and none of the time.

Tonight, Sean Spicer was paraded around a crowd of celebrities at the Emmys, treated as if he were Melissa McCarthy’s joyous, bombastic, painfully accurate impression. People laughed, Spicer made light of his own tenure, pictures of celebrities openly gaping at the appearance of someone who beckoned to Donald Trump’s call to chastise and threaten the freedom of the press on an annual basis, openly lied about the repeal of American healthcare, and told lies on an annual basis.

That very press by the way (you’ll notice this is a nerve for me), whose existence has yielded countless corporations and government officials doing things we wouldn’t even know about it if we didn’t have a free press. It’s exposed heinous killers, generated thoughtful discussion on social issues, and exposed dangerous, dangerous practices of all kinds. And they laughed.

This isn’t Melissa McCarthy chewing gum in front of a podium. It’s not Stephen Colbert’s over-the-top Republican caricature. This is the man communicating on behalf of the federal government of the United States, who openly targeted reporters,  congressional leaders, and advocated the for the heinous collateral damage killings of family members of enemy combatants. It’s not that he’s not allowed to make light of himself at some point in the future, it could come in time, but the wounds he and the administration inflicted are so fresh, it’d be like watching someone stand over you, having just stabbed you, going, “Sorry the blade wasn’t dull enough…”

“That’s what you sign up to do,” he lauded on Jimmy Kimmel’s late night talk show, alluding to saying whatever needed to be said for Donald Trump.

Callbacks to World War II are easy, but when some German soldiers were asked as to their participation in the countless slaughter of Jews and Europeans, some soldiers replied that they were just following orders (commonly known as the Nuremburg defense). That’s one thing that has always stuck out to me, in the worst war of all time, the simplicity of “we were just following orders.” Sean Spicer isn’t a nazi, but he worked for a white supremacist sympathizer.

Never mind the countless damage this President has done to the United States reputation, never mind the withdrawal of the United States on the world stage, a hollow shell of a man stood before us for months, his character voided out and presented like an art show, welded together. He chose to be a puppet of the United States, to be directed however he pleased, drawing a paycheck from the American taxpayer, and willing to openly lie like a bad car salesman on his last legs.

I guess it’s indicative for Sean Spicer to want to fraternize amongst a group of pretenders. After all, the biggest pretender of the world holds the title of President. But it’s not hard to smell the opportunist in the room, the one who reeks of doing whatever it takes to get him into that bumpin’ Hollywood club. Not all of them wear stupid hats, leather pants, or are trying to shove their business card down your throat, this one just happens to have a fitting tuxedo this time around.

Sean Spicer as the mouth piece for the President, damaged the country, damaged the press, and damaged himself. He was willing to be openly flayed, humiliated, and torn apart in front of a whole nation, all in the name of appearances.

And now he’s back, chatting with late night talk show hosts, comedians, actors, taking selfies, making light as if his targeted press conferences meant nothing, that it was all part of the game. Except Sean Spicer isn’t Omar Little. He’s not sticking up other drug dealers, being the rebel with cause, he’s worse than the entity he tried to vilify.

If you enjoyed this column, consider kicking a few bucks Coleman’s way by contributing to his Patreon account. You can also follow him on Twitter.

Et transitus

By Coleman Patrick Ranahan


My name is Coleman Patrick Ranahan. And things seem to be… in transition. I am not who I once was. And I am not the person I was ten seconds ago. And I am most certainly not the person I was when I graduated high school ten years ago. Which is how we arrived here, at this asinine post, a modern Coleman, if such a thing could exist.

This isn’t a starter pistol, there aren’t runners in position. The runners have already leapt out of the gate and are halfway gone. This is mise-en-scene. The camera was rolling and the director is drunk.

In 2017 if you had asked me if I was ready to start writing twice a month at the minimum, trying to construct something funny, I would have said, “Sure.”

Sorry, I think I caught myself off guard there. I mean yes – positive – OK. A couple of years ago? Absolutely not. Moving down to Los Angeles? No. Living in a house with ten to thirteen people? Negative. Sleeping on a pile of towels and a deflated air mattress, maybe after a few beers. Not even living in a single room in Santa Monica. It just wasn’t the time.

But things are transforming, taking shape and flying upward (I hope). I have kidnapped the hippogriff and I’m going for a joy ride. No seatbelt fastened (which I don’t think is a feature on the 2017 model). I may not be a rebel, wearing leather jackets (I have one it’s just too god damn hot out), smoking cigarettes (yeah, see?), or fighting the Empire, but I have an itch that I need to set fire to.

Now… having written all of that it seems silly to apply that to a humor column (or… an opinion column with humor in it), which, it is. But this desire to start producing, start writing, start filming, doing everything has reached a pinnacle. There’s no going back now. I am sick with something, some innate, idiotic, magicians trick. It’s the rainbow colored scarf I keep pulling at out of my sleeve but it just doesn’t seem to end.

It’s the means to a temporarily satiate, and I don’t necessarily mean monetarily (but please give me your money, preferably in buckets). I can’t focus if I don’t write.

You know how Superman as a kid started flipping out when his powers first started manifesting (and good fucking god I am not actually comparing myself to the most supreme being in the universe – as we all know that is Keanu Reeves), it’s like that. It’s endless noise circling my head. I can’t get to sleep. It’s like someone turned the crowd noise up in a stadium, in the middle of the night.

Sure, I could go to some event on a Thursday night (fuck you Wednesday), get frustrated, and rip some intern’s head off like a dandelion, but this is what I do to get through the day. It’s disgusting.

My writing isn’t quaint, or particularly thought provoking. It doesn’t make some grand gesture for the twenty-first century. I’m not solving any big moral quandary (cut to – X post later where I pretend to have insight) or providing analysis. It’s just the way I get through my day because whatever else people fill their lives with is a void for me. It’s just exists.

Which brings me to the point of this blog, or site, whatever you want to call it. I’m attempting to fill something here, not just a few more words on the page of course, but something in myself. (This is all walking a dangerously close – pretentious line).

Life is in transition, 2017, America, a new job, my brain, my writing, my filmmaking, me. Things are evolving, and I’m not quite sure where it’s taking me. But I’ve reached a point where I seem to be comfortable with a new song and dance (groundhog! – a musical reference I’m sure will be lost on most). I finally feel like letting some things escape.

Not all of it will be pretty, wrapped in a neat little bow (if I wake up with a bow on me I will have questions), or always properly expressed. I liken whatever it is I am to my poker skills. Sloppy, but when I win, I win big. Unsure if I’m winning right now, but I’m ready to start pushing in some more chips.

In particular to this blog, we’ll be covering a wide variety of topics, really it’ll be whatever the hell I’m feeling, maybe it’s something about life in transition, maybe it’ll be politics, or maybe it’ll just be about that time I didn’t realize the Best Buy check-out girl was hitting on me and I stumbled out of the store like a wounded gazelle trying to … sorry did you hit the snooze button already?

I hope the writing on this site entertains, and maybe, just maybe spurs a thought in your head, but we’ll see what happens. It’s a means to sort the noise, and if it can both ease my mind and put a chuckle or a “Wait, what?” on the mind, I’ll be OK with that. Until then, welcome to the Certifiable.

If you enjoyed this column, consider kicking a few bucks Coleman’s way by contributing to his Patreon account. You can also follow him on Twitter.