Congratulations, Trump. Welcome to hell.
By Kathleen Parker Opinion writer (WashingtonPost)
December 20 at 7:33 PM
Dear Mr. Trump,
You won. Welcome to hell.
And to think, I thought you’d become president when hell froze over.
Now that the election is finally behind us, may I ask a tiny question: Why did you want this job? Was it on your bucket list? After so many square miles of golf courses, trophy wives, gilt mirrors and crystal chandeliers, was there nothing left to mess with?
I wasn’t surprised, by the way, when you said you’d spend half your time in New York. I mean, it’s New York! And the White House is a tad bourgeois in an Epcot-y sort of way. All that marble, those heavy drapes and selecting new china. Why do we treat incoming presidents and first ladies like they just got married? And who needs a balcony overlooking the Mall when you’ve got a four-corner office in your tower overlooking Fifth Avenue?
Don’t worry about all the whining from New York Mayor Bill de Blasio about the high cost of security. It’s just like a Democrat to want the feds to pay for it, right? All de Blasio has to do is tax facelifts on the Upper East Side and he can build a Trump Armory.
Anyway, I’m writing to say congrats, despite my having done everything in my limited power to block you. When I wrote column after column about why you were unfit to be president and wouldn’t do half of what you were promising, I was serious. And, of course, I was right.
But being a businessman, you know how we say things. It’s not personal. It’s not like you were waking up to a dead chicken in your bed. Besides,
I’m pretty sure you didn’t care when I (and many others) called you a con man, a carnival barker, a bully and a snake oil salesman. Admit it. You were thinking: So what? I’m winning!
And so you did. Win.
The reason I knew you wouldn’t do most of what you promised is, one, my BS detector is from the same Queens DNA as yours (via my paternal grandmother, who was quite a dame, by the way). Two, you logically or legally can’t do much of it. Three, you’re Donald Trump, which is synonymous with “whatever works.”
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