The Gutfeld Monologues

by Greg Gutfeld

  Now when average citizens (I count myself as three-fourths of one) hear this, they like what they hear.

  I presented these topics daily. Because I liked hearing myself say it, too! But there weren’t a lot of people voicing this stuff—just me, and a few others who were slightly taller than me, if not as charming. I can count them on a three-fingered hand. Then came Trump, who took the topics of a cable news show and made them into a visionary plank that carried him to the White House.

  Now when leftists and the media (one and the same usually, but they’ll deny it) saw this powerful message coming at them, their instinct was to place it in historical context. “Yep, we’ve seen this before!” they would scream, pointing to past racists who ran on similar concepts (studiously avoiding all the racist Democrats, naturally). They fashioned a filter of intolerance—claiming that everything Trump said was a “dog whistle,” a secret noise that only bigots could hear, and nodding at each other in glee. But the irony is that the only ones who heard these dog whistles were leftists and Trump critics. They could identify the racism, alerted by the secret whistles. Which raises the question: How aren’t you the racist, if you hear the whistle and we can’t? Why is it that only the antiracists who accuse people of being racist can hear the racist clarion call?

  (Interestingly, I can hear A-ha’s “Take on Me” when no one else can—but what does that prove? That I am mentally ill.)

  Trump critics weren’t just on the left, of course—there were many on the right, precisely because we had so many candidates in the running. I counted myself as one of those critics. Although I knew Trump and liked him, he was not my first, second, or third choice because I foolishly thought he had no chance. A man who took too many verbal risks would end up falling flat on his face, sooner or later—and it would just take too much effort trying to explain to everyone that he was just kidding. I didn’t want that role—I wanted a president who explained my aspirations, not the reverse. I liked Rubio—he seems pretty sharp and articulate, and wouldn’t mess up in major ways. Though the Clinton camp expected Jeb would be their opponent, they seemed to think Rubio was their biggest challenge. He scared them the most (I believe it was the dreamy eyes and that he also owned a boat), so that was going to be my guy. I was wrong. But more than wrong, I was also a hypocrite.

  Trump was a challenge to people like me who required the “liberal vs. conservative” construct to see life clearly, and to also benefit our lives, and careers. I identify as a conservative libertarian (or a conservatarian, if you wish an exact label)—which was nearly impossible to square with Trump’s positions on trade and immigration. I’m for free trade and believe healthy immigration is good for a growing economy. But what I noticed was that Trump wasn’t so much setting policy as he was setting the table for policy. He was taking strong, extreme positions, so down the line, more moderate positions could be negotiated and embraced.

  I also noticed that his positions weren’t jarring just the right, but also the left. They were looking at what Trump was saying and liked what they saw. I met a (mercifully) few Sanders supporters who favored Trump over Hillary (probably on the stands I liked least about Trump).

  It slowly dawned on me that it was no longer about left or right, but about who could win. Still, I assumed anyone could do better, but looking back, I’m not so sure.

  The bull (Trump) in the china shop (traditional ideological boundaries) made it impossible for anyone to get solid footing anymore. It was his overarching message that reached Americans beyond any ideology. No one cared about the litmus test anymore. We were all slipping around, grasping at straws, as the ground sank beneath us. The upside: We survived, Kathy Griffin didn’t. This election broke people, but it also broke the lightweights who placed more emphasis on emotionalism than on fact. You saw them wilt, scream, and implode all around. At certain times, I was definitely one of them.

  Trump was a strange orange meteor that hit Earth and only took out those who couldn’t take a joke.

  How weird is it that so many of his victims were comedians!

  This brings me to my Sherlock Holmes Infuriation Trump Theory (or SHITT). You remember Sherlock and his work wife, Dr. Watson? Whenever they came across a startling event, Dr. Watson was always expressing anger, glee, passion, or frustration. He was an emotional mess. Then Sherlock waltzed in and crapped all over Watson, with pure rational analysis. Watson would say, “Sherlock, I’m in love with the most perfect woman alive! I think I shall propose!” And Sherlock would respond, “My dear Watson, that lass you are smitten with is no woman at all, but a store mannequin in the front window of Aunt Elena’s bridal shop. She is nothing but a collection of woven straw and plaster.”

  Watson would say, “My God, Sherlock, how did I miss this?”

  And Sherlock would respond, “It is what you wanted to see, my dear, perverted Watson. It’s what we call, in scientific circles, confirmation bias.”

  A lot of good books have been written about the rational gifts of Sherlock. He’s the slow-thinking tabulator of reason, and Watson is the emotive chap who feels stupid after Sherlock smacks him harshly with facts.

  So what’s my theory? Oh yeah.

  My theory: Our media, when it comes to Trump, are all Dr. Watsons. There isn’t a Sherlock among them. All reactionary, impulsive, emotional, and rash. Whenever he does anything, they react with shock and surprise—as if they’ve never experienced someone who likes to screw with you.

  Except for me. I’m a Holmes. At least, now I am. If you remember me during the primaries I was very much a Watson—repeatedly saying, “Oh my God, I can’t believe Trump said that! Holy crap, did he really do that??? Jesus, I can’t believe he ate that!”

  I wasn’t the only one. But every day I was “Dr. Watsoning” everything (I’m sure a few of you were doing the same thing, too). During the debates, I used to yell at the TV, “He’s our only choice for president!” Then on TV I’d scream, “He can’t be our only choice for president!” I was a total mess.

  But then, I stopped. I pulled a Rachel Dolezal and changed my identity from a Watson to a Holmes. So how did I move from the emotional to the rational?

  First, I cut Trump a break. I stepped back, rationally, and assessed, slowly, the entire context of his life.

  First, he’s a billionaire, and a seventy-year-old man. Meaning, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass anymore about anything other than what matters. He’s lived a wild life already—so he doesn’t care who his casual comments offend. When he makes a joke it’s like when a baby farts. It’s nothing personal, the baby’s forgotten it, while everyone is choking out in the room.

  But the baby doesn’t care.

  I also had to admit that he’s never been in public office, so he doesn’t know how to be that particular kind of phony. I mean the phony that we all accept—which I call the “mandatory fake.” The mandatory fake is the married news anchor who condemns unseemly sexual behavior while banging Dalmatians in a nearby hotel.

  Being an old rich uncle who’s never been in politics, Trump has no familiarity with mandatory fake. There is, however, a different kind of fakery in Trump’s world of real estate fibbery. But such lies—salesman’s lies—are deliberately obvious by their excess.

  You know a salesman is lying when he tells you the car you’re buying from him was only driven by a little old lady once a week to church, which is great because she lives in the attic above the church! A salesman’s lie is done with a wink and an exaggeration (“This is the biggest crowd ever!”). A politician’s lie is a promise that could very well be true, but never is (“Read my lips, no new taxes”). You see the difference? Trump’s lies are common and do not insult us, because he assumes we’re all in on the joke. Politicians are daring you to go against your own innate skepticism (which is always a mistake). Am I “Trump-splaining”? Yes, I am. For now that he’s our president and up against so much, it’s no longer fealty to do so. It’s actually fairness.

  Anyway, as a Holmes, I’ve since reeva
luated some positions that I’ve taken for granted. I’ve looked at the research on illegal immigration and its effects on unemployment. I’ve also looked harder at crime numbers, legal vs. illegal offenders. I’ve pretty much stuck to my original precepts, but I realize that ideology ultimately helps no one in that debate.

  What helps is an ability to talk about all things, an ability to be flexible, to adhere to a greater vision that is centered on security—security from criminals, terrorism, suffering in general.

  That vision won.

  Pot, Kettle, Black

  Yes, I was a hypocrite—and I will point this out in many parts of the book, later on. My hypocrisy lies in the assumption that as a TV host I can make silly jokes and petty asides in speeches, insult the looks of adversaries, and in general stir up shit—but a presidential candidate cannot!

  This is inherently wrong, I realized, after some thorough self-examination. I asked myself a simple question: If I had run for president myself, would I have changed the way I express myself? Would I have stopped making jokes and delivering insults? Of course not. I would have done pretty much the same thing as Trump. I would have said outlandish things—joking, of course—which the media then would recast as something said in all seriousness, as immoral, as the product of an evil mind. (Mind you, this is something I noticed among many talking heads: After Trump ran, they all wondered if they should have, too. One such host even said to me with a hint of hurt in his voice, “I should have run. Why didn’t I?” Sorry, Lou Dobbs. You would’ve been a fine president.)

  Now there are some things I would not have done—such as mock a reporter’s disability. But as it turns out, Donald Trump didn’t do that either—it only looked that way. I assumed initially that Trump was a heartless prick, but then I saw a segment by the great John Stossel on his FBN show. Stossel—no fan of Trump by any stretch—showed other examples of Trump using the same body language when mocking a critic or competitor (one of them being Ted Cruz, who has no visible disability). The conclusion: Trump was mocking a reporter, but not the reporter’s disability. And yeah, it was juvenile, but was it hopelessly cruel, as we the media had originally thought? No. It just goes to show you that Trump can be a dick to everyone: He’s blind to race, creed, or disability. In a weird way, he might be the most egalitarian politician around, because he’ll tease a three-legged dog, if given the chance. Because he doesn’t see the three-legged dog.

  He just sees a dog.

  As you can see, it takes a lot to defend Trump. And it raises the question: Given the mountain to climb, why should you? That’s a lot of work. And that was my point about Trump. It takes a lot of sweat to explain the guy—so he makes it hard on you. And the rewards might not be commensurate to the effort put into it. I mean, he could lose!!! Defending Trump is, in many ways, a long drive for a short day at the beach. And during that drive, people are pelting you with hot coals.

  Having to parse exactly how your guy was using a gesture to mock the meltdown of an adversary is a big burden. And with Trump, a swamp-draining bare-knuckled bowl of sherbet with a colorful past, such burdens are an everyday thing. When you’re in a situation where you have to say, “No, he was just imitating a convulsion, not a disabled reporter,” you’re losing.

  And yet, he still won.

  I remember complaining to Ric Grenell—a top Republican analyst at the time, now he’s ambassador to Germany—speaking about having to always assess and defend a candidate’s flubs. His response was simply: “Go ahead, then, Gutfeld, you run. If you’re the better candidate, then do it. Fact is, everyone needs explaining. Everyone.”

  It struck me: He’s probably right. Even if I ran—perfect little me—my supporters would have to explain a lot of crap about me, too.

  But Trump was tops on the big picture, so the other stuff was forgiven. It’s like Paul McCartney. He wrote “Yesterday” and “Hey Jude.” So who can hold “The Girl Is Mine” against him? Or that his hair is now actually more orange than Donald’s?

  One such thing I really couldn’t forgive—until I recalibrated the context—was Trump’s joke about John McCain’s military service. If you remember, he joked that McCain, a POW for many years, wasn’t a war hero—because heroes don’t get caught. It was an absurd, idiotic comment—if you’re taking it seriously. But as a joke, well, it’s pretty funny in a “not supposed to be funny” sort of way. Larry David made a career out of this (check out the episodes when he refuses to say “Thank you for your service” to a veteran, or “Namaste” after yoga class).

  I realized that most of Trump’s performances are performances. He’s like a rock band doing the classics. “Build the wall” is his “Free Bird,” and “Lock her up” is his “Stairway to Heaven”—and they are fashioned less for debates and press conferences, and more for Friars Club roasts. So my view of these comments changed. I imagined Trump making that joke at a roast for John McCain. Shocking, blunt, and absurd—maybe even McCain would have laughed. Trump’s jokes operate on the absurdity of their, well, absurdity!

  However, I probably wouldn’t have made that joke. (And it turns out that Chris Rock made the same joke years before!) Because I don’t want to take the heat. And as for Trump—is there any heat that he can’t take? He can’t be fired.

  But I would also have judged the venue and the crowd. Which Trump seems to have little time for. But then again, I wonder—have I ever done worse? And I think maybe in speeches I have made jokes about people that were crude and sometimes cruel. I once told Dana Perino that I would eat her dog Jasper. It gets no crueler than that.

  So, by making this observation, am I lowering the bar for becoming president? No, I am removing the bar altogether.

  Trump is able to get 60-plus-million people to overlook his unseemly comments, his taunts and impulsiveness, because he was exactly right on the big picture. Sure, he colored outside the circle at times, but at least he picked the right circle.

  Whenever I’m confused over my feelings about Trump, I think of two people: my mom, who died four years ago, and Andrew Breitbart, who died six years ago.

  They’re the only people I can reliably hear in my head, without having them present. I know for a fact that . . .

  Both of them would KNOW exactly what Trump is. He’s a mercurial, brawling bastard.

  But after all their complaints, they would find him absolutely hilarious. If both were alive today, we’d be on the phone every afternoon recounting the day’s events amid heaving bouts of laughter.

  If Trump is making my mom laugh right now, and making Andrew smile, then frankly he’s okay with me. Their memories have reminded me how to take Donald Trump: with a grain of glorious, hilarious salt.

  Where Are We Now?

  The funny thing is, for a while I thought Trump was going to win. Then I made the terrible error of talking to an “expert,” an analyst. My gut told me that the success of Brexit predicted a Trump victory. I told this to a polling “expert” (again, I misuse quotes) who said, condescendingly, “Greg, referendums are not elections.” Well, pumpkinhead, thanks for clearing that up. When I then asked, roughly, “Aren’t they similar in that polls may not reveal a voter’s intentions, if their vote is roundly criticized by the media? And since they remained quiet about their true voting choice, the other side saw no need to show up.” The analyst said, and I quote, “Shut up already about Brexit!” And you know what? I did shut up.

  My personal response to Trump—at home, among friends, watching debates—was “This was the man.” But at work, it became “He has no chance.”

  And it was because I foolishly let an expert tell me my gut was wrong. I regret that foolishness to this day.

  But now let’s jump ahead. . . .

  It’s May 2018, and cable channels are gorging on Stormy Daniels, Mueller, and collusion. Meanwhile, what’s missing from the news feed? ISIS videos. Remember those? They scarred our retinas weekly. They are gone (for now). Remember the North Korean nuclear holocaust? Just months ago, we were goin
g to die! C’mon, remember the false alarm in Hawaii! GONE. So, what were previously considered existential concerns have vanished under Trump. And the media response? Porn and Russia.

  They’ve turned a distraction into a disaster, because they had no other options in reporting on Trump. They were simply unprepared to report on a successful presidency. It was not in their bitter, infantile tool kit. What was in that bag of junk: rumors, gossip, porn stars, collusion. Their careers are now predicated on squalid distractions that serve only to undermine a president.

  And it’s a president in the midst of a good—no, great—run. It’s my warning to Dems and the media: If your goal is impeachment, history and the public will not be kind to you. Both will view your actions as an emotionally driven exercise done to unseat a president as he solves a major world crisis. My gut tells me: The more desperate they get, the better Trump does.

  It’s crazy and absurd that as major, earth-changing events are occurring with a major existential nuclear threat—North Korea—networks are devoting a majority of airtime to a tryst with a porn star that happened years ago. (This obsession from a group of enlightened individuals who never thought sex was a big deal when their guy did it.) They overlook the possibility that if you asked the world if you’d be okay with a cad if he solves world peace, the world would say “Cool.” And that only someone as “out of the box” as Trump could have opened the door for this majestic development. It’s still too soon to tell where this is going, but give the guy some credit—please—for something no one else has done.

  So What the Hell Is This Book For?

  Since I started my steady, profoundly bizarre TV career at FNC eleven years ago, the only real thing that people know me for, besides my delightful blue eyes, is my prickly, persuasive monologues. Wherever I go—shopping, commuting, windsurfing nude—I am hit repeatedly by the same question: What’s Kimberly Guilfoyle’s address—and where can I read your monologues? I’ve tried to find them myself, and frankly the world is too vast, confusing, and chaotic for even me to look up my most awesome crap. Also, I’m no good with technology. These kids and their computers! I tell the cops: The video with the donkey came with the phone when I bought it!