October 30, 2012
Even before he vowed to unmask the “half-blood prince“ pretender to the Resolute Desk, Trump flirted with a presidential run himself, immune to the irony that “Donald Trump” is no more “real” than Barack Obama.
Trump’s skeletons aren”t even in the closet. We”re talking Santa Maria della Concezione here.
He’s reinvented himself as the mostly harmless, oddly coiffed, somewhat philanthropic blowhard who bellows, “You”re fired!” and owns things called beauty pageants.
But in the 1990s, Donald Trump””original intent” fetishist and free-market champeen”tried to “eminent domain” an old lady out of her Atlantic City house so his casino would have a contiguous parking lot. What? That’s “public use,” too, no? Isn”t a parking lot just a highway in really slow motion? (Especially if you live in Toronto?)
Trump is a big Kelo fan. The Tea Partiers who comprise his imaginary voting base are decidedly not. They also don”t support lax abortion laws, gay marriage, and gun control. Nor do they admire “successful businessmen” who veer in and out of bankruptcy. And they generally frown upon guys who gained national fame after dumping their (frankly more impressive) wife for a newer model (who was subsequently dumped, too.)
Donald Trump, real-estate mogul, doesn”t even own many of those “Trump” properties. That ubiquity is part of his shockingly lucrative licensing enterprise“”shockingly” because you”d think folks would pay a premium NOT to have “Trump” stamped on everything from condos to cologne (in that pretentious cod medieval font that also bears his name.)
And that might turn out to be the ultimate punch line: If Obama’s birth certificate turns out to be fake”and his “autobiography” ghostwritten and “Obamacare” survives”he”ll still have stuck his name on fewer pieces of garbage than his nemesis.