Scooch Your Cooch, Mr. Mooch
What you consider normal is one of the most fascinating aspects of your personality.
There was an Olympic swimmer who said it was hard for her to train in her native Syria because there were sometimes bombs in the swimming pool. People in China remember to carry air masks as habitually as wallets because of their poisonous air. Some are cool with grabbing others by the pussy. For some reason, man buns still exist. Depending on where you live, how you were brought up, and what you value, you likely have a set of events that register in your head as 'yeah it makes sense for that to exist.' They may be misinformed or misguided, but they are your norms, and to you they make sense.
Despite this breadth of perspective, it's an almost universal norm that you can't call your boss 'Penis', even if his name sounds temptingly like the word 'Penis'. You shouldn't follow that up with "tweeting some shit to make [that same guy] crazy," and then accuse him of 'cock-blocking' you for six months. You probably can't accuse your coworker of 'sucking his own cock', or worse, *trying* to suck his own cock. You also generally shouldn't refer to yourself in the third person by a nickname you created, but that's probably a lesser crime than a weird fascination with cock.
Given all of this, we were somehow still surprised that Anthony Scaramucci was fired eleven days after being appointed, six days after taking office, and negative fifteen days before he was actually supposed to be sworn in. This was all with complete knowledge that the President is more famous for firing people than actually being President, and the dangerous history of other administration personnel (all the way from Acting Attorney General Sally Yates to the aforementioned Reince Penis) being axed. And now, another eleven days after the height of his powers, we're still kind of surprised.
"He's probably just hiding in the bushes," we tell ourselves. "He's taking a well-deserved 17-day vacation," we whisper, trying to convince ourselves that he'll return. "He's probably starring in the next Wall Street sequel," we pray, hoping that a second career will keep him in the public eye. We loved The Mooch in a way we wouldn't have loved him a year from now, if he had worn out his welcome in a Sean Spicer-esque way. He dazzled us with his masterful control of a room, entertained us with his hot-take ramblings and contradictory messages, and seemed like he was a hack just in it for himself.
Those qualities are oddly evocative of another man: the president himself. Which makes sense, because remember when Donald Trump was funny? It was way back when he was calling his rivals 'Crooked Hillary' and 'Lyin Ted' and 'Lil Marco' and talking about how he had a big dick (recurring theme). That is, if you can get past the casual racism, which is kind of like saying that Jaime Lannister is a good person if you can get past the incest. Scaramucci was a Trump-concentrate, as if you packed him into a five-hour energy bottle and fired it up your ass with a magnum. That high still hasn't worn off.