Captain Louis Renault, the reluctant toady of the Nazis occupying the French colony Morocco, brilliantly portrayed by Claude Rains in Casablanca, contributed a very useful expression to the English language when he self-righteously claimed to be “shocked, shocked” to see gambling going on here at the smoky, gin-soaked gambling lair in Morocco, just before he is handed his winnings:

So the latest entry in the long saga of emasculation and wussification of American males ledgers in the 11-year-old guy-talk palaver between a media type named Billy Bush and a private-citizen entrepreneur with a blond thatch by the name of Donald J. Trump, the latter long a beauty pageant aficionado and purveyor of what my investor hedge-fund group calls the “honeys.”  He’s married to his third wife, a leggy beauty from Eastern Europe.

What the crude excerpt from 2005 shows and tells is the hot open mic of two men jagging when they think they are in private.  The talk is relatively purple, not polite convo between tuxedoed couples.  So if it’s salty and erotica-tinged, lustful and appreciative of female acquiescence – as if! – so what?

We’re not part of the deluge of what Mark Levin, radio host and constitutional scholar par excellence, calls the “pom pom girls” of flacks worshiping at the Hillary Clinton tabernacle.  But even if we were, what Fox News bulletined in the second week of October is harmless braggadocio, men being men.  They admit they’re thrilled to be around beauty and juiced when, because of their celebrity and alpha male status, women – sometimes – let them get away with a quick grope without the usual slap on the shave-plane just to the left of their noses.

Compare their admittedly salty pearls with the behavior of real sociopaths, one of whom is exceedingly related to the female candidate for president, 2017-2020.  William Jefferson Clinton, not known for reticence in the Oval Office – or Arkansas, or elsewhere in Washington, D.C. – did more than talk earthy to other guys of the alpha rank.  Big Dog Clinton actually groped, actually touched, actually had affairs and molestation buffets with women mostly unwilling and subsequently punished by Ms. Hillary Rodham for the effrontery of having been chosen for handwork not including embroidery, cigar-jobbing, and dress malingering on a variety of handy damsels in his purview, the most unfortunate of whom were profusely worked over  by the missus.  Tires slashed.  Pets killed.  Fired from jobs.  Mocked in public and maligned as “trailer trash” and similar assorted negatives.  All carried out by the “bimbo eruption” teams set upon these hapless victims of WJC’s lustful heart.

But back to the matter at issue: Trump’s “shocking, shocking” blue streak in a Winnebago with another guy, and their adolescent glee as they anticipated meeting with a lissome lovely for some media event.

The media orgasmatron will be hard at work exposing and re-exposing these juicy tidbits of inconsequence solely because they are titillating in and of themselves, and all about hauling Trump down from his neck-and-neck with the distaff candidate, Ms. Hillary Pantsuit.

Ironically, or maybe not by chance, the same day this nugget of male excrescence came to light, more of the Hillary scandalmissal came out, too.  Several of HRC’s private corporate speeches were revealed to contain views and policies only 180 degrees at variance with her long-running public utterances for the hoi polloi, regular citizen groundlings at her sporadic–cum-anorectic rallies.

I submit that the whoop-dee-do is yet another way of squelching normal male behavior and speech, another peg in the mortiseboard of decommissioning men from being men.  Another gambit to socialize men by indirection – See what happens to even the high and  mighty when they refuse to watch their tongues in the hyperglobal gossip-ranch of political correctness?

What the anchor bubbleheads of the fourth estate forget as they chortle at the incipient fall of DJT is quite important.  Hillary Rodham supporters are not rabid and enthusiastic in-spite-ofs.  Like many of my colleagues in the business and social circles, they kinda sorta like the idea of a female president.  They can’t dredge up a decent reason other than fear or dislike of Trump, in many cases, or they fish out the hoary, discounted non-accomplishments of the frequent flyer miles Clinton achieved as worthless and reckless secretary of state.  Or her tenure as inconsequential N.Y. senator, wrested carpetbaggerly from Rick Lazio.  Or her entirely un-noteworthy efforts as first lady to the serial philanderer while he was #42 in the Rose Garden.  Her smarmy arrogance, harsh vocal stylings, inordinately unflattering attire, and blazing entitlement somehow recommend her to clueless and info-starved voters who imagine the suggestion of breasts and think, Ooh, awesome presidential material…!  Me gonna vote for that.

Sure, highly qualifying credentials, those.

But what los punditos and los periodistos forget is that Trump followers are gritty.  They have withstood the brickbats and insults of TV, radio, and print media; online scarifiers; and all the late-night comics save those on Red Eye at 3 a.m., and most people are catching zzzs at that hour, so they don’t get corrective laughs from non-Dems, alas.

But by and large, since they have worked hard to defy their neighbors, colleagues, and ex-friends, they are full of what newsman Lou/Ed Asner in the first episode of Mary Tyler Moore’s comedy show called spunk.  Trump’s voters are spunky.  Tough.  Not lily-livered links of skinny protoplasm listlessly failing to stand up for their country.

Trump advocates are loud and proud, standing up at myriad-thronged rallies in broil, cold, rain, or raw.  They are often forgotten men, disenfranchised men, union people who are sick of the pinky-raised fingers of the current White House inhab, whose every gesture and haughty, dismissive hectoring reminds them this president seems a lazy egotist who promised the sky and delivered…nadissimo.  Especially for minorities, women, and men.  Especially for everybody who values traditional mores.  And loves this country passionately.

So these men, and women, still possessed of testosterone and not wonked out and denatured by the “trigger”-happy polentas of the Dem crowd, are raucous and gleeful, exulting in the non-predigested pap of the woman who has just been infallibly revealed as having one morality and view in public and a completely reverse take in private.  In other words, another sleazy pol who never means what she says, because there’s a whole different person behind the façade of leftist tropes, just lurking behind the carefully applied lipstick scrim.

These voters have spine, intestinal fortitude, and the courage of their convictions.  They’ve taken a whole lot worse from the female candidate, in dollars, in corruption, in foundations, in selling nuclear materials better kept for our nation, in four precious men dead in Benghazi after almost 600 requests for additional security, in the pay-to-play favors extended to major national enemies given most favorable respect and responses.  And on and on.

So as for the blue language of Mr. Trump and his hands-off admiration for pulchritude, available or rejecting, vis-à-vis the landslide of hypocrisy and actual misbehaviors of the robotic lady challenger: what difference, at this point, does it make?