INT. — Manhattan Trump Manse foyer. Matching suitcases stand near the door.
“Papa, I won’t be humiliated tonight. Not one more time.”
“Of course not, angel.” Donald wasn’t looking at her. “What are these bags doing here? It’s time to put on your pretty pink dress you’re selling.”
“Really? What do you call last night? What do you call me being completely degraded on national television? Do you have any idea that I am the one thin line between you and complete chaos on that floor? Do you think I’m going to dress up like Caitlin Jenner in this godforsaken burg and save your ass again?”
Little Barron walked into the hall and started yanking open a series of Louis IV drawers looking for spare Tubman’s and candy. “Daddy made the bad man fly! Daddy made the Cruz man fly!”
He reached up to Ivanka’s blouse as if there might be something hidden in there, too. She elbowed him and he yelped.
“Papa— get your Mother-of-the-Year in here to collect her insufferable brat!”
Donald bellowed down the gold corridor: “Hey, ‘Michelle Trump,’ would ya get in here and feed our little man? He’s hungry. Princess and I gotta deal to close.”
He peeled Barron a few bills off his wad and gave the boy a scooch out the door. “Go play in your mother’s underwear drawer, will ya?”
Ivanka hadn’t made one move to put on the $138 Macy’s sheath from her own Collection. It was cut a little funny, and Melania had laughed at it— but Donald said Ivanka would be a knock-out in a burlap sack.
Still, her hair looked like straw. Her mascara was smeared from last night’s debacle. And she knew it.
“Look, Papa, I’ve talked to Jared and he said I don’t have to do this.”
“Baby! Tinka! You know I can’t do this without you!” Donald assumed a submissive pose few in public have seen.
“Apparently you can’t do it with me, either. I’ve lost every friend I’ve ever had. While I’m sitting in your VIP fight cage with those morons, Chelsea is drinking with all our old friends and making a life for herself. A life *I* had, exactly one year ago.”
“Whatever you want, princess, sweetheart— you know I’ll do anything— you’re always right.” He reached for Ivanka’s arm but she was more agile than any of his WWE fighters.
She reached into her bag and handed him a neatly-typed speech.
“I’m going to lean in tonight, Papa, and you— you are going to bend over, backwards. You are going to get down on your knees in that fucking Payday Loans Arena and thank our gay friends who make all of this possible— she waved toward the floor-to-ceiling French Baroque.
“Baby, baby, you know I love our fagola friends. Sebastian, Sebastian, what was I sayin’ about him last night, he makes the best calamari—”
Ivanka picked up a half-filled champagne goblet and dashed it to the floor.
“YOU. CANNOT. SAY. FAG. in front of a national TV audience!” She marched up eye-to-eye with her father, her Louboutin heels crushing what remained of the broken crystal.
“Listen to me,” she said, “And repeat: L.G.B.T.Q. LGBTQ! —That is what you’re going to say tonight and you’re going to say it like you mean it. You don’t have fucking cent left in this campaign and I don’t have anyone to do my hair, let alone go out with. —SAY IT! Say it to me now!”
Donald hadn’t seen anything like this before.
“Honey, sweetheart, you’re getting your face all wrinkled. Papa can say it, see, look at me... “L-B-G-F-Fuggedaboutit!”
She stared at him.
“L-B-G-T-Queerzo! —Hey, how come they can say queer and I can’t?
“You think— you think this is another one of your jokes.” Ivanka pulled another piece of paper out of her pantsuit.
Huh, when did she start wearing pantsuits?
“Here’s my plane ticket,” she said, “I’m leaving this Orange Wedding in one hour.” Donald looked at the commercial flight paper, and blanched. “L.G.B.T.Q.” he whispered.
“Louder, Papa. Louder. What are you going to do with all those fundamentalist mouth-breathers you stuck me with last night? Lynne Patton was sitting with a bunch of cowboys who wanted to touch her HAIR!”
“Baby, seat them in Siberia, I don’t care. LGBTQ! LGBTQ!!”
And so it came to pass, that after four days of numbing bigotry and bloodthirsty raving, a five-year-old African-American Girl came out in big white bows and sang, “Let There Be Peace on Earth.”
Ivanka Trump appeared in her modest blush gown and gave a speech right out Betty Friedan’s Feminine Mystique.
Little Barron was prodded into the VIP cage and cuddled with Tiffany before he slouched and stuffed his hands in his pockets. There was no more candy— Mom was such a bitch.
Ivanka nailed it. Papa knew she wouldn’t let him down. The Donald had triumphed. He strode on stage to embrace his Favorite, the one little girl he respected in the whole wide world. He’d even let her have her Chelsea Clinton tea parties after this whole thing was all over.
He whispered how proud he was, in her pearled ear. Ivanka’s eyes were far away but they just needed a little work and she’d look like a Millennial again.
With one last burst of proprietary devotion, he reached his hand around her little pink number and squeezed her ass. This was going to be a great Presidency—believe me.
More Rogues Gallery from Night 4 of the GOP Convention:
Ted Cruz, channeling that crazy nastyass Honey Badger, ripped Trump a “constitutional conscience” right up his diaper-soft Pence-poof posterior.
Teddy Cruz don’t care. He’ll take Donald the King’s Cobra poisonous stings, retreat for a snooze— then come right back and EAT DONALD ALIVE like it was nothing.
You go ahead and watch that great gay animal video again— I promise, you’re watching the film of the future.
This was supposed to be Happy Loser Night. Newt Gingrich wanted to sign you up for one of his Great Mansplaining Courses. Scott Walker shouted at the wind. Marco phoned in his “Hey Girl!” via video. Why wasn’t Rubio there in person? Something came up!” There’s a Marcia Brady in every GOP presidential race, and Marco has her nailed.
Aside from Cruz, all the action was in the Royal Box last night, where the Trump Dynasty is seated on velvet cushions in order of favor.
The expressions on their faces throughout the evening more riveting than anything on stage. Watch Donnie Jr. scowl and pout through his little brother Eric’s “Ode To Daddy.” No one’s going to accuse Baby E of plagiarism, because his entire homage consisted of, “I love you, I love you, so, so, so, so much!”
Tiffany squirmed like a gassy kitten, her face a putty of teenage alienation. She sat next to implacable Ivanka who spoke volumes to her half-sister with one cold shoulder: “If you pick your nose in front of the cameras I will kill you where you lie.”
Ivanka had a cell phone she used with diamond precision. When Cruz made it clear he wasn’t going to kiss the ring, she made one call— and the mini-riot on the convention floor was the next thing we viewed on-camera.
The Donald charged into the fray, urging on the maddened crowd, giving both thumbs up, the louder the Coliseum roared for Ted’s head. All that was missing was gladiator sandals — Charlton Heston’s disappeared in Pam Bondi’s gift bag.
Viewers at home didn’t even see the end of Cruz’s speech because the wrestling arena turned all cameras to Donald the Hulk. His Stepfordreceiving line rose to greet him again. Trump WILL dominate you! He has blonde dragons!
Trump was supposedly on hand Night 3 to introduce his vice-presidential running mate... What’s his name again? Gov. Mike Pence, how could we forget!
Back when Mike Pence was trying to take AIDS funds and allocate them to gay conversion therapy, he WAS somebody. Back when Pence told Indiana women they’d never escape forced birth as long as he was around to inspect their sinful vaginas, Pence actually made the news. He had dreams, he had delusions of God’s Chosen People— his wife and family.
Well, that is OVER.
There’s no one like Trump to perform Il bacio della morte, reducing his victims to a state of panic while they do anything to save their lives. God will have little to do with it.
Donald interrupted Pence last night to put his hands on the grey man’s shoulders, tower over him in height, and give him the biggest Roman Air Kiss of the Damned that we’ve seen since I, Claudius. “See what I did to Ted Cruz tonight? I could do that to you in my sleep.”
But Honey Badger don’t give a shit. It won’t be the last we see of Mr. Cruz.
Susie Bright will be tweeting for Towleroad @TLRD all week in prime time during the GOP Convention.
Illustrations— More below— by Jon Bailiff
Ted Says, Vote Your Conscience --Honey Badger Don't Give a Shit!
Laura Ingraham Has HAD IT with "male egos!" Your bitter ex-boyfriend better vote Trump!
The Casino Guy Whose Made So Many “Incredible Deals” with our Donnie
Pam Bondi Will Bite Down HARD
Poor Little Deluded Astronaut Eileen Collins
Cape-let Circus: Michelle Van Etten Wins Best Drugged Contestant
Rep. Alvarado Hated Trump Until He Loved Him. Can never again go home to Costa Rica or Argentina now.
Darrell Scott, Rock Star Pastor with a red shirt open collar! He and Pam were definitely the foxes of the evening.
Scott Walker Will Scream At You Now
Everything WE Learn About this Family Is Scary: Lynne Patton seems to have raised the Trump Family. Her touching loyalty to them was like Jeeves and Bertie Wooster.
Eric Shows His Dad True Love. By not saying a word about himself or his own thoughts, he made Dad happier than Don Sr., who had the nerve to be his own person the night before.
Professor Newt Couldn't Clean Up Ted's Bloodbath. Cruz-splaining is useless.
Trump accepted his party’s nomination last night— but it was as if he were never there.
Even his children, who resemble nothing so much as Stockholm Syndrome victims, paled in comparison to the real star: That Damned Woman. I mean, Hillary.
Women in Chains
Governor Chris Christie led a dyspeptic GOP crowd in a chant of “LOCK HER UP!” as he goose-stepped his way through a mock trial of Clinton’s crimes against humanity— pretty nervy, considering Christie’s Bridgegate criminal exposé is far from over.
Donald himself has been sued by more Americans, over fraud and unpaid bills, that perhaps any man in the world and certainly any candidate— 1300+ cases since 2000.
It’s is a grisly bit of sexism to consider, but GOP revanchists have a habit of wishing death upon their male enemies— while for women, they want humiliated prisoners, locked down. You see this in their fascination with restricted birth control, forced-birth, purity ball echo chambers.
Tiffany is 22. Donnie Jr. is 38. But Tiff seemed closer to thumb-sucking as she unwittingly described her Great Father’s neglect of her entire childhood.
One time— like this one time at Trump Camp, when a close friend of hers died?— Dad phoned her.
What distinguishes Tiffany from Donnie Junior, as in all Trump Patriarchal spectacles, is that the female figures are infantilized— barely crawling out of their eggs— while the male figures in the family are full-grown chain-rattlers.
The Plagiarism Count for GOP Primetime: 2 For 2
Last night, Donnie Jr. hired a speechwriter who recycled some hack piece the same man had published in The New Conservative a few months ago. Weak tea, sir.
The pressure is now ON for Daddy himself to plagiarize something REALLY epic. Churchill’s "We Shall Fight on the Beaches”? Hamilton?
Who ISN’T On the Podium
Interesting to consider that while the GOP specializes in locating lunatic apologists: Clarence Thomas Wanna-Be’s, “Muslims for Trump,” and other miscellaneous shonda for the goyim— they have boxed themselves into a closet when it comes to Trumptastic Homosexuals.
After all, the last homocon in the building has just been permanently expelled from Twitter.
Quaint Dr. Ben Carson went full-Salem-Witch-Trial, linking Hillary directly to the Dark Forces.
“Let me tell you something about Saul Alinsky,” Carson bellowed at the crowd, who seriously did not give a crap.
“He wrote a book called Rules for Radicals. On the dedication page, it acknowledges Lucifer, the original radical who gained his own kingdom. —Are we willing to elect someone as President who has as their role model someone who acknowledges Lucifer?”
Less flashy last night— also less laughable— was the strange priest who gave the invocation, Monsignor Kieran Harrington from the Brooklyn Diocese. Unlike previous Dem/GOP contests, American Catholics are largely backing Hillary — or abstaining from the voting booth altogether.
But what of our exceptional man of cloth? Harrington is a man whose career is flush in crushing The Child Victim’s Act from passing the New York state legislature, proclaiming on Holy Week: “There is no one doing more to protect children than the Catholic Church today.”
A pox on both their houses.
Some said Trump Wineries took the Gold. After all, wine critics say: “I actively dislike this wine.You know when you walk through the department store and they’re spraying perfume and you accidentally walk through it?”
Yes, we do.
But for sheer D-List Gas, I’m crowning Mystery Meat Presenter Kimberlin Brown, who closed out the evening with this:
“Hi! Many of you know me from one of your favorite soap operas, The Young and the Restless... I’m now an avocado farmer… yay, Guacamole!…my husband and I also run a sport fishing business and assorted other enterprises—I’m not even going to begin to tell you about the red tape…”
Thank goodness for that small favor.
The Serious Men
Not-so-secret Trump Despisers Paul Ryan and Mitch McConnell did a bang-up job of avoiding The Pretender’s name or record. They pled with the faithful to vote the straight GOP ticket, but with Barbara Bush leaving the building, who’s left? They ask the assembled to hold our noses for the the better good of their 2020 prophecies. Were they listening?
Susie Bright will be tweeting for Towleroad @TLRD all week in prime time during the GOP Convention.
She alone, the Queen of Tiffany’s, was allowed to be beautiful, an angel on the mike. No one else even had a pro make-up job except Rick Perry.
St. Melania all but asked to suffer the little children, her speech so kind and charitable. And when her proud Pygmalion came out, to applaud his creation, Donald pointed at his wife's chest, as if to say, “Look at what I did!”
Yet no one told The Donald, or his Bride, that words matter. The happy couple think their voters are illiterate, so why does it matter if they rewrite Michelle Obama’s speech with a Slavic accent? Can’t Melania say it prettier, and in all-white?
Not so fast, Squirrel!
The Trumps truly believe you can dog whistle until your collagen falls out. If the occasional awkward or plagiarized phrase drops from your lips, who cares? Who’s listening? The only words that matter are “God Bless America!”— “All Racist Lives Matter!”— and “Kill! — Kill! —Winning!”
It turns out that not only did the Trump/Pence campaign fail to hire a professional logo designer—what self-respecting (all LGBT) designer would ever work for them? — they sabotaged the Queen’s speech as well.
The morning after, Melania’s pretty ivory frock has a big ugly stain on it— she obviously can’t write, she doesn’t know anything about politics, and “smiling with your eyes” is not her forté. She could be shilling for any Soviet CP Village mayor, with her pleas for a motherland’s love.
Rudy Wants to Do to US What He Did to NYC
Let’s get to the meat of last night: bloody and rare. The specter of the wounded but valiant, ancient white unicorn was in play. Little ‘Corn wants to ram everyone else with his cuckolded boner ONE MORE TIME.
Who among the so-called white voters of America, identifies with this boot-strapped, lily straight, pink whale that floats above the plain like a cloud inside a heavily-armed gated community? Who among the military community, any veteran you know, is as naive as Trump’s Psychotic Mothers’ Brigade?
Veterans do know that when Trump says he’s sending you a check, don't bank on it.
The idea that Trump is going to help anyone, when he’s stiffed everyone he ever hired, sued any one who demanded back wages, judges the worth of people the way he judged his Miss Universe contestants on their ability to give him an erection on command— is ludicrous.
The evening was bloodlust, race war, Charlie-Sheen-level-winning, and a seemingly endless parade of infomercials. The only Republican who would’ve actually helped the Party on stage was Senator Joni Ernst, and they shunted her ’til after Melania, after the arena emptied. Bye, Joni-kins!
Instead, we endured—How long was it? Interminable!— a forced reading of veterans “Derrick and Hansel” recounting their 13-hour Benghazi battle which turned what could’ve been trenchant analysis into total sludge. Dork Hawk Down.
War is Not About Bathrooms!
I didn’t think anyone could follow Melania, so I began to pack up my pen and pad. But no, there was one last Jurassic shriek: “War is Not About Bathrooms!” Or so says sweaty General Michael Flynn.
The General meant it as a unicorn stick jab right into the Transgender feminist commie underbelly. Oh well! It actually sounded pretty right-on, the way he muffed it.
War isn’t about bathrooms at all. It’s about obscene profiteering and the idea that poor men and women should die for imperial might and ego. I’d flush that any day of the week.