Donald Trump

Even before he vowed to unmask the “€œhalf-blood prince“€ pretender to the Resolute Desk, Trump flirted with a presidential run himself, immune to the irony that “€œDonald Trump”€ is no more “€œreal”€ 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, “€œYou”€™re fired!”€ and owns things called beauty pageants.

But in the 1990s, Donald Trump”€””€original intent”€ fetishist and free-market champeen”€”tried to “€œeminent domain”€ an old lady out of her Atlantic City house so his casino would have a contiguous parking lot. What? That’s “€œpublic 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 “€œsuccessful 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 “€œTrump”€ properties. That ubiquity is part of his shockingly lucrative licensing enterprise“€””€shockingly”€ because you”€™d think folks would pay a premium NOT to have “€œTrump”€ 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 “€œautobiography”€ ghostwritten and “€œObamacare”€ survives”€”he”€™ll still have stuck his name on fewer pieces of garbage than his nemesis.

 



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