In case you haven’t read this already, you should. Carl Bernstein, one of the Watergate guys, just concluded four months of reporting, and his sources told us what you were probably already assuming: Donald Trump isn’t much different in private than he is in public. He’s a fucking idiot, and the only person he cares about is himself. He doesn’t read. He doesn’t listen to anyone around him. He thinks he’s some brilliant judge of character. He lies compulsively. More than anything else, he grossly overestimates his capabilities, and tends to get outmatched by anyone smarter than a can of collard greens.
Essentially, if you removed Donald Trump from the money he inherited, and stuck him into middle America, he would have amounted to being (at best) a sleazy, two-bit car dealership manager. If you don’t know the car business, there’s a type of person who does exceedingly well at selling cars, — someone who lies by default, and their backup plan is to just boast about themselves and their accomplishments.
Donald Trump would have been perfect at Crystal Lake Hyundai of Scottsdale. Every day, he’d wake up, put on his company polo shirt, and the Rolex Submariner he was gifted after he sold his 500th car. He wouldn’t iron his khakis; just a steam would do. Then, he’d roll through a McDonalds, eat this terrible breakfast on the go, spilling a little cheese on the front of his shirt.
Once he arrived, he’d crush up a few Sudafed so he’d be “up”, and have his morning sales meeting where he talked about how great he was at sales, and how everyone else sucked. “If you need to close a deal, you bring me in. I’m a closer.”
If an unlucky customer showed up, he’d do the standard shit, lying about their trade in value, lying about their credit application, and then four-square them into a bad loan. Along the way, while talking to the customers, he’d talk about his boat. It’s a 19 foot boat, but he tells people it’s a 31 footer. These constant little boasts make him feel better, because he’s always desperate for approval.
At the end of the day, he heads home to his loveless marriage. After two failed marriages and several children who hate him, he decided to try out a foreign dating website. In a purely transactional marriage, he found a wife 25 years younger than him, who hates him, but needed him to exist to escape whatever decrepit Eastern Bloc country she was from.
$6,500 in legal fees later, they don’t even eat meals together. She sits in the bedroom, drinking red wine, and Skyping with her friends back home, straight up trashing her overweight, ignorant husband. “You’ll never guess what he did today,” she gleefully says in her native Russian, “He sat on a used McMuffin wrapper, and it stuck to the back of his pants. I let him go to work that way, and he didn’t know for hours. He has this huge cheese stain on his pants.”
Her penance is giving him a blowjob every two weeks, but she’s fully clothed, and won’t let him touch her.
On Sunday, he plays golf, boasting with other guys in the car business about how great he is, how many cars he’s selling, and how “they’re thinking about making him the Regional Manager of Star Valley Autmotive” — the dealer network of 21 Hyundai stores he works for. He’s been in it for 35 years, and still believes he’s going to become regional manager. It’s all happy talk, and he truly believes it’s going to happen.
Sunday evening, he sinks into his chair to watch football, where he berates the guys kneeling during the anthem. He uses the n-word openly, saying that he’s tired of “thugs” like that — he’s talking to his wife, who is scrolling through her phone, not listening to a goddamn thing he’s saying.
Then, Monday morning arrives, and he heads back to his kingdom; 4,500 square feet of cheap, scuffed tile, and processing credit applications for “challenged” customers. In any other world, Donald Trump never gets further than this, and his name doesn’t ring out in history. But his dad happened to be a slumlord, and Vladimir Putin has a sense of humor, so instead of moving metal, he’s destroying an entire country.
He hands you his business card, and tells you to “call his personal cell phone” if you ever want to play a round of golf. He’s lonely. He just wants friends. But he’s so utterly repulsive in every way, no one ever calls. He’s sad, pathetic, and alone.