During his thirty years on the public stage, Donald Trump has been a living embodiment of the old chestnut, “Money can’t buy class.” His buildings look like something a 1970s Saudi playboy would design, or the architectural equivalent of a 16-year-old finding a bag of money and blowing it all on a metal-flake gold 1981 Pontiac Firebird. None of his various wives would look out of place in a miniskirt outside a truck stop on the Czech-German border. And his suits look like something you’d see in a Century 21 real estate office about fifteen years ago. The man defines “tacky.”
This is a guy who has defaulted on hundreds of millions of dollars of loans, a fly-by-night scam artist who skims enough off the top to keep himself in giant gemstone pinky rings and, we assume, rotating mattresses with gold-flecked mirrors on the ceiling. Imagine Elvis Presley with no talent, no looks and even less taste — that’s Donald Trump, a junk-bond gnome so gauche that he makes the cast of Jersey Shore seem genteel...
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