I’ve always found the attraction of sadomasochism a bit of a puzzler. I understand its theatrical appeal—the Catwoman dominatrix outfit, the dripping dungeon, the nifty props (whips, candles, cat-o’-nine-tails)—but, from the perspective of the submissive, all that kneeling, groveling, and ee-owing under the booted heels of Mistress Sybil sounds exhausting. Not for me, thanks. But at least consensual S&M is a private arrangement with an agreed-upon safe word to bring a halt to the action, should it get too hairy. Far more mystifying are the open-ended, plain-view degradations in which pride and morale are squeezed in a vise and the only opt-out words are “I quit.” Future psycho-historians and political head-scratchers will ponder the phenomenon—the pathology—of how and why so many men and women of semi-upstanding reputations and plump résumés allowed themselves to be coarsened and humiliated by Donald Trump, getting nothing in return but grief, ridicule, and possible indictment. “They sacrificed themselves for this guy?” will be the haunting cry. New Jersey governor and failed presidential contender Chris Christie, a plus-size bully at his Tony Soprano worst, fetched McDonald’s meals for Trump and was treated as a flunky at a Trump rally, with the candidate curtly telling him to vacate the stage (“Get in the plane and go home”), and didn’t even get rewarded with a Cabinet position for his valet service. Former New York City mayor and failed presidential contender Rudolph Giuliani, who has been wearing 9/11 as his Superman emblem for longer than is decent, debased himself by defending Trump’s “Grab ‘em by the pussy” statement on the talk-show rounds, yet he too was left standing at the altar. Jilted, the two of them may have lucked out, however, having been spared the captivity and turmoil of those who did make the cut. Consider the tormented souls working inside the Trump White House, especially those in the press office tasked with putting the best face on an administration which each day grows more gargoyle. Perhaps a few of them will squeeze a memoir out of their Marat/Sadeexperiences, but that is a large price to pay for the loss of your soul, a dank spot in history, and becoming a national laughingstock. There must be nights when Sean Spicer springs awake covered with fear sweat like Frank Sinatra in The Manchurian Candidate, wondering how this all happened.

Before Spicer signed on as Trump’s designated patsy, a position more formally known as White House press secretary, he had served his nation during the Bush II presidency as the Easter Bunny for the annual egg roll, and his party as communications director of the Republican National Committee. He was no Trumpian true believer during the nomination campaign. While at the R.N.C., Spicer criticized Trump’s stereotyping of Mexican-Americans and the sneers at John McCain’s military record. But something about the cut of his jib or the bite of his bark must have appealed to Trump. Picking up his cues from his boss, Spicer came charging out of the gate in his first press briefing, lambasting the media for underestimating the turnout for Trump’s inauguration, an insult to Trump’s size-queen pride. Spicer’s overture statement was a farrago of false assertions, misleading stats, and embattled attitude, putting those Beltway press-corps punks on notice that there was a new sheriff in town. It was no way to start a presidential honeymoon, but this testy belligerence was presumably what Trump wanted, and in the early press conferences Spicer maintained the brusque, patronizing, staccato Psycho Dad demeanor, giving the impression of a basement boiler about to blow. He also made stupendous gaffes, such as criticizing Syrian leader Bashar al-Assad by claiming that even Adolf Hitler didn’t “sink” to “using chemical weapons,” the gas chambers apparently having slipped his mind, and referring to the Nazi concentration camps as “Holocaust centers,” making one wonder about the quality of the history taught at Naval War College, where he got a master’s degree.

Video: The Voice of the White House

Capitalizing on Spicer’s anger-management agonistes and blunder bursts, Saturday Night Live geniusly cast comic wrecking ball Melissa McCarthy as Spicer, each press briefing descending into slapstick chaos as she deployed the lectern as a battering ram. It became as instantly defining a shtick as Chevy Chase’s pratfalls as President Ford back in the Iron Age of S.N.L., and Spicer himself contributed to his madcap mad-dog caricature when he was spotted hiding in the bushes from reporters after the firing of F.B.I. director James Comey, which was later clarified as not hiding in the bushes but among the bushes, which did nothing to dispel the GIFs of Homer Simpson back-fading into the hedges.

After initially praising Spicer for bringing in boffo ratings, a consideration past press secretaries never had to factor into their performance reviews, Trump began to grumble and carp, practicing that time-honored art of blame shifting, as if the P.R. problem were with those delivering the president’s message rather than with the beautiful agenda he’s laid out on the banquet table. Bottom line, Spicer lost the confidence of the president, and, lo, the leaks began that Spicer’s role might be reduced, a replacement might be wafting in from the wings (Fox News’s Kimberly Guilfoyle flaunted her name for consideration), or, perhaps, an understudy could be promoted to the starring role (Sarah Huckabee Sanders, whose sound bites are finger-lickin’ good) . . . the classic Washington drip-drip-drip ritual of public emasculation.