Hope Springs Infernal

Hope Hicks and the Reality Show

Yes, the headline is too much by half. I grew up on wordplay, and if I’m still smashing out witticisms even as they drag me in front of the wall at GITMO, I’ll consider it a ticket to linguistic Valhalla.

Hope, that singular, beautiful, utterly human concept, never leaves us. It simply waits until it is subpoenaed to testify in front of a courtroom where the former President of the United States sits stewing in his own juices of malice and mendacity.

Hicks is a certain kind of woman for whom Trump feels a set of conflicting desires. Beautiful, polished, well-bred and well-dressed. In short, she’s the opposite of the kind of Palm Beach West-of-The-Island, West-of-the-Interstate kind of vulgar climber who haunts the mildewed halls of Mar-A-Lago with their bad filler, trout-pout lips, and be-Spanxed and bedazzled hooker-milkmaid prom dresses.