Give Kash Patel a break. If you had to routinely trek over to the White House to kiss the president’s McDonald’s-encrusted a-- —and that’s putting it lightly—you’d probably also spend a lot of time drunk on the clock. As I’m sure everybody’s aware, the bug-eyed FBI director is under renewed scrutiny following the publication of a juicy exposé this week which detailed his (alleged) frequent intoxication, (alleged) paranoia, and (alleged, but come on now…) incompetence at the helm of America’s pre-eminent domestic law-enforcement agency.
Patel has, of course, denied all the charges in the article. He has filed a $250 million lawsuit against the Atlantic, which published the exposé in question, and held a Happy Hour news conference with new acting Attorney General Todd Blanche in which he loudly excoriated the “fake news” while devoting a lot of words to not denying that he’s ever been blotto at Quantico. As is so often the case when Patel opens his mouth, he didn’t do himself any favors.
Technically, his lawsuit sorta-kinda also confirmed some of the reporting. Like, he acknowledges he locked himself out of his office computer that one time but swears he didn’t freak out about it, thank you very much.
The weird thing is, I have some sympathy for him. I grew up around a lot of guys just like Kash: Try-hards who weren’t particularly good at anything but who believed themselves destined for greatness. Hell, I’m one of those guys. The difference between us is that I was unwilling to sell my soul to achieve my goals.
The same guy whose high school yearbook quote was “Racism is man’s gravest threat—the maximum of hatred for a minimum reason” has now chained himself to the most blatantly racist administration since the Reconstruction era. The same guy who went to work as a public defender out of law school is now pursuing politically-motivated campaigns of destruction against people and organizations who fought against the exact “gangsterism” he condemned in the past. The government corruption he railed against during his tenure as a podcast host is now the Trump administration’s standard operating system.
I’m not in a position to judge Patel’s tenure as FBI Director. Well, except I sort of am—that’s democracy for you! According to him, he’s done a bang-up job.
On the other hand, the “Epstein files.”
On the other hand, the most high-profile domestic kidnapping case in decades, which remains unsolved.
On the other hand, he fired the FBI’s Iran experts on the eve of the Iran War because they helped the previous administration investigate Trump’s mishandling of classified files.
Unlike his predecessors, Patel correctly views his position as presidential lapdog. The nine-figure lawsuit he filed, the accompanying press conference, as well as his absurd claim that the FBI now has evidence to prove the 2020 presidential election was stolen and arrests are forthcoming—all are widely viewed as a drowning man screaming for his boss to toss him a life saver. So far, Trump has yet to comment on Patel’s future, though he has been overheard asking if the lifeboats will be seated according to class.
I obviously don’t know if Trump is planning on firing him, but regardless of when he finds himself back in the podcasting booth like his former deputy, the literal blockhead Dan Bongino, Patel’s legacy is already secure. He will be remembered as a boob. A showboater. As paranoid and vindictive a figure as J. Edgar Hoover, but with neither Hoover’s investigative skills nor his collection of flattering shapewear. If there’s a Trump administration candidate for “Most Likely to Wind Up Sleeping in Their Car,” it’s Kash Patel. Or maybe Stephen Miller.
In this administration, Kash will always be an outsider—and he knows it. His blind loyalty gained him admission to the club, but there’s a red velvet rope preventing him from the VVIP room, and no amount of wheedling will get him past. He doesn’t have the bank account, skin tone, religion, or the “central casting” look that Trump prizes so highly. He’s found himself at what he thought was the summit—the White House!—only to discover that it’s being bulldozed and that he’s still in the foothills of Trump’s affection.
The good news for Patel is that Trump is currently busy firing all the women in his administration, which might buy him a little more time to fly around in the Director’s jet. Still, Patel has to be wondering if it’s him or Tulsi next.
It can’t be fun to read a major exposé about what a f-up you are. Once, when I was in Patel’s adopted hometown of Las Vegas, I found myself reading a bad review of my work on a TV show while walking towards the pool, and was so consumed with hurt that I walked directly into a concrete pillar. So I get it, Kash. But I didn’t sue TV Guide for $250 million, and I didn’t try to curry favor with the nation’s worst human being to make me feel better. I did what you’re supposed to do in that situation—I got drunk. Which is my recommendation to our FBI Director.
Oh wait, I see he’s already two steps (and three sheets) ahead of me. Allegedly.
