Donald Trump is well-named: The undulating lacquered hair which covers his bald pate mimics the curve of Donald Duck’s bill. “Trump” contains “rump” — a synonym for the three-letter biblical term for donkey.
Oh, the embarrassment! If haute Europeans snicker at the Ugly American tramping through Versailles in Nikes and plaid shorts (and complaining that their steak tartare is under-done), what must they think of this sideshow?
By sideshow, I mean not only The Donald, but the legions propelling him to the head of the pack which numbers — is it 14 Republican presidential hopefuls?
Had he lived, imagine the biopic Phillip Seymour Hoffman could have taken to the Oscars. The life of Donald Trump (Drumpf, when his grandfather emigrated from Germany in 1885) was not a smooth upward climb, according to Wikipedia — which, given the subject, seems a logical source.
Yes, he graduated from Wharton, but only after being dismissed from prep school for behavior problems, which were straightened out at a military academy. Or not. He didn’t walk five miles to school or wear hand-me-downs or earn pocket money bagging groceries. His yellow brick road leading to billionairedom is strewn with corporate corpses.
But who cares about whether his billions, disputed post financial disclosure, approach 4, 7 or 10? According to the Beatles, “money can’t buy me love.” But it sure can buy a political campaign, therefore votes.
Old song, last hummed by Joe Kennedy. Therein lies the problem – an element of the electorate that cannot see beyond the rhetoric, the hoopla. They are the scary ones – the Bachmannites and Palinistas — now praising Trump for “saying it like it is” without considering what he is saying, like “I’d bomb the hell out of oilfields in Iraq” to defeat ISIS.
You can bet that any guy who shouted those words in an airport departure lounge would be denied boarding and dragged off by Homeland Security. Yet a serious (?) POTUS candidate rants the same before cheering multitudes.
Good thing he owns a private 757. Seemingly the worst booboo — the one he can’t wiggle out of — was branding illegal Mexican immigrants, with few exceptions, as rapists, purveyors of crime and drugs. Donnie Dearest, where have you been this past year of racial turmoil? Must you ignite another fire? Didn’t TV stardom teach you instant replay lasts forever?
Or maybe you’re indifferent, since those illegals you mistakenly profiled can’t vote. But, alas, the takeaway turned sour, per reaction from not only fellow-Republicans but beauty pageant lovelies, Latina and otherwise, who have served as arm ornaments and eye candy throughout your reign.
Speaking of the ladies, consider how staunchly conservative, church-going, apple-pie eating Middle Americans will view serial wives and gal pals, none of whom resemble Mamie Eisenhower or Bess Truman.
Chances are that Trump’s closets are well-stocked with skeletons.
Poor Donald. He turns 70 in June. Not even Italy’s finest tailor or Hollywood’s best esthetician can hide the signs. Maybe he heard that 70 is the new 50, excusing a midlife crisis, like fomenting a rebellion against statesmanship, common sense and core values — to the eternal gratitude of “SNL.”
Or, maybe somebody should just tell him that the best thing he can do for the Republican Party — and his country — is toss them a few billion, sit down, and shut up.
Postscript: Since I wrote this last week, Trump has accomplished a feat unique in military history. He planted a land mine, then stomped on it. At a Family Leadership Summit in (crucial) Iowa, during a severe bout of poor judgment compounded by hubris and a bad hair day, Trump debunked John McCain’s six-year imprisonment/torture in Vietnam, denying him the “war hero” title. This, from a guy who beat the draft with a sore foot.
What’s worse, on Monday morning (after being crucified by fellow-Republicans all weekend), he denied his words on a clip that NBC’s Matt Lauer had just played — then blamed Savannah Guthrie for the whole palaver. Is this the man anybody wants in charge of pushing the panic button?
Wild-eyed, shouting, irrational, practically foaming at the mouth —- somebody please call the paddy wagon before this presidential hopeful implodes, explodes or busts a gut.