By David Glenn Cox
Donald Trump Jr. or best known to his friends by his street name, Eight-ball or Snow man or Dumb ass. But let’s not kid ourselves; he has no friends. Every one of you out there knew someone like this in high school. And if you didn’t, well, there might be a reason that I don’t want to get into. Churchill was accused of being a braggart on the stump answering, “My opponent is a humble man. He is a man with much to be humble about.” That’s our Don, a man with much to be humble about. Strip away the family name and make him Albert Q. Turdkicker III and he’s just another droid from sector 7G. A community college dropout working his way up from the mailroom and DJ’ing on the weekends.
A guy who never went to summer camp or toured Europe after high school. A guy who learned auto mechanics trying to keep an old car running. A guy that knew how far you could go after the gas gauge read, “E.” Cutting grass in the summer and shoveling snow in the winter and delivering newspapers in between. “If you think that tire’s bald, you should see the spare!”
In many ways it’s not Don-Don’s fault, he was born into this way into a life. But like Star Wars you either embrace the force or you go over to the dark side. There’s nothing wrong with being born rich, but it comes with a special obligation to dig who you are. You cannot go through life not knowing you’re Little Lord Fauntleroy. You can’t ride in your new Mercedes and bitch about the city bus you can’t get around. Everybody on the bus would rather have themselves a new Mercedes too. You got the best of the best and bitch about it. How dare we invade your world.
I had a friend who came from a dysfunctional family. His father an alcoholic state’s attorney with a violent temper. His mother, a traumatized victim, his brother arrested three or four times and eventually murdered. His sister fled the home immediately after high school putting herself through college becoming a high-powered New York City attorney. She dug who they wanted her to be. This was the Addams family, and she didn’t want to be Wednesday. She knew for any chance at a successful life she must flee the family and that takes courage. It takes significantly more courage when the family has hundreds of millions of dollars and celebrity.
Celebrity is wearing a coat that’s not yours, but after a while it feels like yours and when it disappears you ask, “where’s my coat?”
He’s Don Jr. and just can’t help it that he’s treated like a celebrity. If your Father were Godzilla it’s only natural, you’d seek out downtown Tokyo and wreak havoc on the commuter trains. If raised by vultures, you’d learn to circle the garbage dump cursing your affluenza and birth on the right side of the tracks. Number one son, numero uno, raised at the feet of the master. “Hi, I’m Charles Manson Jr., and I’m selling magazine subscriptions.”
Blessed by the ether and bitch slapped by reality, born the mirror opposite of the poor black child in the ghetto, it is as difficult for him to fail as it is for the other to succeed. But as a failure Don Jr. is a success, a chip off the old block. He’s Wrenfield to Trump’s Dracula, a Hot Wheels set to be pulled out and played with and then put away as needed. Only the Texas Chain Saw Massacre family has a weirder family dynamic. “I bring you flies’ master. Flies, I bring you flies!”
One can only imagine what it was like growing up inside the spider’s web. Feed the narcissist or be pushed from the nest. “Over here daddy, over here. Look, look daddy! Daddy, look at me!” The children must feed the father and never outshine him. “I got a “B” on my paper daddy; I know you would have gotten an “A.”
To quote the late Texas Governor, Ann Richards, “He was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple.” Science must now investigate if delusions of grandeur are hereditary. Don Junior has announced he is considering a run for the Presidency himself in 2024. Other than genetic material he has no connection with the White House whatsoever. He has no experience in politics or in anything other than being a Trump son. A position he earned by falling out of the correct uterus. In a family of grifters he grifts off the family. The original Ner do well. Or as the British say, a public-school failure. Given every advantage he let the side down.
Recently, he said deaths were way down from Covid-19 as they rose to record levels. Casual, callous and unconcerned, “I just make them up as I go” a chip off the old block. “Oh, that! Are you still talking about that?” In the book of dreams if you wish really hard everything bad goes away. There is no monster under your bed unless you test for it.
In an amusing bit of irony that makes life worth living, that which enables Junior also dooms him. The sword which cuts his path cuts him as well. The forces which ejected Donald Trump onto the world stage are about to gobble him back up. Leaving junior as the guy who needs a ride home, “Am I gonna work at the Death Star daddy?” The dauphin robbed of his throne by,,, wait for it, Republicans. After reducing an ailing Republican Party down to a fine ash, the Trump name will be poison in the Republican party. Junior’s only hope would be running as a turd Party candidate.