I like billionaires. I can safely say, that I know two billionaires, one is a Chicago real estate developer ( as is Trump) and the other makes plush toys. The two billionaires that I know are gentlemen to the backbone, witty, kind, hard-working and very generous.
Then there is Donald Trump.
I first became Trump conscious in 1988, while teaching at La Lumiere School in LaPorte, Indiana. My wife and I ran a dorm called Becket House on the heart-breakingly beautiful campus hugging a spring fed lake. We had twenty three young gents of the junior class in our charge and one of them was Murph. Murph was a delight. He has a Fred Flintstone mug attached to a head that was the size of a boulder in a Gene Autry western, to paraphrase Skinny Sheahan. Murph wanted to be a billionaire. He was a rock-ribbed David Stockman/Ronald Reagan/Russell Kirk Republican from the far western suburbs of Chicago. Murph was built like a bull and owned a generous, merry-hearted savagery that was delight to watch from the sidelines of Laker football. He loved combat and dominated at middle linebacker, but was a sucker for the draw play. Murph!!!!!!!! Don't Blitz on Every GD Play!!!!!!
I had Murph in English class and he constantly topped off his armful of books with Trump: The Art of the Deal. I caught the lad yellow marking this flabby tome, when he should have been reading Billy Budd, during each day's mandatory two and 1/2 hour silent study in the dorm. I was perched at my desk in the common room situated between our living quarters and ten double occupant rooms of my charges and did my work as well as hush up the lads, look for and confiscate walk-men buzzing with Dead Head tapes, wake up sleepers and generally maintain the sanctity of study. This required that I get off my broad manly ass and manage by walking around.
Murph was an incorrigible. Sleep? You bet. Eat his Korean dormy's candy? Check! Read the Art of the Deal? Only when not sleeping, or eating imported Haitai Cherry Marus from the Heedon's round metal candy box. More than the Asian confections, Murph stuffed himself with The Art of Deal.
" Murph! Eighty Six that idiot's tripe!"
" Mr. Hickey, Trump's a genius and you're just a Thackeray geek."
"Notwithstanding. Get to work on your weekly essay. It is Thursday and you have yet to write alick."
" I'm on it. Hey what is Mary making us? Damn she can cook, Hick Old Man."
I read the book. It is crap-doodle, ghosted by the guy who says that high energy is counter productive. Really? Relax and make millions?
I could never get Murph to abandon Trump. I admire that in a man - fierce loyalty. I am pretty much like that myself. Hell, I'm still a Democrat. Don't look like one, but I am. Loyalty is vital. Bad people manage to win the loyalty of good people.
There is nothing about Donald Trump, that could induce me to walk across a small carpet to meet him. Not interested. I know hustlers and users. I have been in education since 1975 and that industry is jam-packed with creeps, grifters and protected incompetents. Donald Trump might have made splendid member of the Obama Administration had he not gone on his four decades of gilted national hustle. He just might become President.
Donald Trump is backed by the Eugene Robinson, Chris Matthews, CBS, New York Times, Washington Post, Obama's Jornolistseses, Rachel ( "I'm Backin' Ya, Butch!") Maddow George Soros, Planned Parenthood, the League of Progressives, Rahm Emanuel, and millions of Howard Beal Tea Party Libertarian Pro-Lifers.
After the debate Trump's fans went NYC wilding on Megyn Kelly, who gave Mr. Hair Club for Men a kick in the nuts unparalleled since the fight between Butch Cassidy and Harvey Logan
Me? I like Megyn Kelly and she has Trump on the ropes.
I wonder how Murph is doing? God, I loved that kid!