Ambassador Gordon Sondland. It has a nice ring to it.
But only if you’re Gordon Sondland. The poor fellow no doubt had this ring in mind when he shelled out $1 million toward the president’s cheerless inauguration festival, hoping against hope that he would get something in return. And this being the Age of Quid Pro Quo, he got his quo—an ambassadorship. I imagine his tiny heart danced a jaunty tarantella. Granted, it is a largely ceremonial post—to the European bureaucratic starship in Brussels. But still. To his friends in Portland, Oregon, where he was heretofore known as the hairless and somewhat chinless builder of midsize, mid-priced hotels, it would give him a certain je ne sais quoi. Henceforth, he would be referred to as the Honorable Gordon Sondland, ambassador to the European Union. “Mr. Ambassador” to those around him.