When I see Jeff Sessions now, I can't help but think of Milton.

No, not John Milton, 17th century author of "Paradise Lost." Sessions doesn't serve in heaven nor rule in hell. He gets the worst of both realms.

Which is why, when I think of Sessions, I see in him Milton Waddams, that poor, muttering sap from "Office Space," forever in search of his red Swingline stapler.

And I said, I don't care if they lay me off either, because I told, I told Bill that if they move my desk one more time, then, then I'm quitting, I'm going to quit.

Sessions, like Milton, was ostensibly hired to serve a purpose. Milton was brought into his suburban office hell to collate pieces of paper. Sessions was appointed to the Justice Department to collate people for swift deportation.

Each has a fanatical obsession with rules.

I told Bill that if, if Sandra's going to listen to her headphones while she's, while she's filing then I should be able to listen to the radio while I'm collating so I don't see why I should have to turn it down because I enjoy, listening, at a reasonable volume.

Both made the mistake of believing their bosses saw them as people. Both believed they deserved respect. Instead, each has reaped the contempt and cruelty of a hostile boss and been banished to a cold, dark corner.

And, and I told Don too, because they've moved my desk four times already this year, and I used to be over by the window, and I could see the squirrels, and they were married.

And Sessions, like Milton, doesn't seem to know exactly what to do about his predicament, except to stay put at his desk.

Any maybe this is where the parallel ends. While Bill Lundberg -- a sentient, upright tube of Brylcreem -- almost certainly would have voted for Donald Trump, he isn't Donald Trump. His arrogance makes him confident. He doesn't move Milton to the basement and off the payroll because he hates him. He just doesn't care. He's indifferent.

Trump is a lot of things, but he's not indifferent. Not about our boy Jeff. He hates Sessions now because Sessions, like Milton, is the one guy he can't seem to fire.

And he took my stapler, and he never brought it back and then they moved my desk to storage room B and there was garbage on it, and I really don't appreciate garbage.

For someone who lifted himself into a second-life of celebrity with the catchphrase "You're fired!" it has been remarkable how few people Trump has actually terminated.

Many in the White House have tried to outlast their cohorts, all for the opportunity at some sort of personal benefit. None seems to be in the job for anyone but themselves. But as Milton said, the ratio of people to cake is too big, so most wind up leaving of their own accord in last-ditch attempts to salvage careers, if not dignity.

The real-life Trump doesn't fire people. He makes their lives hell, on purpose or not, until they quit. With Sessions, Trump is making him purposely miserable -- demeaning him on Twitter, sub-Tweeting him in stump speeches, calling him Mr. Magoo behind his back, and calling him a disgrace to his face.

The only thing Trump hasn't done to Sessions, it seems, is move his desk to the basement like Milton and order him to kill some rats while he's down there.

But Sessions just won't quit, no matter how many times he's threatened to do so.

Ok, that's the last straw.

If Trump were going to fire Sessions, if he were able to fire Sessions, he would have done it already.

If Sessions were going to quit, he would have quit by now.

Instead, they are locked into bringing this meandering plot to a satisfying close -- by fulfilling a promise Milton's made over and over again while no one listened, while no one took him seriously.

"I'm going to set the building on fire."

Kyle Whitmire is the state political columnist for the Alabama Media Group. You can follow his work on Facebook through Reckon by AL.com.