Pollin’ Out Of Control

My Weekend With Donald Trump

I got a text from Trump at 12:34 PM. “Where are you? Come to the Tower.”

Trump Mood Music

“The Donald” as he was referred to by a few people in the 1980s is having an event. I look outside my window and see the brand-new Rolls Royce Dawn waiting. The car ahead of it moves, allowing it to proceed, and the city bus behind it pulls up to the stop outside my door. I hop on and make my way to the tower.

It’s a big weekend for Donald and for me. He’s polling out of control, and for the next couple days, I’m going to get to see what it’s like to go hard as the big dog in the GOP.

A few transfers and an hour later, I hop off the bus. As I proceed to the front of one of Mr. Trump’s most famous buildings, Donald Trump steps out and embraces me. I inhale, breathing in Trump’s cologne, a rich fragrance that he informs me is made from the musk of a baby saolas, also known as the asian unicorn. Donald admits saolas are an endangered species, but reminds me that an American-made product is also an endangered species in Asia. Hashtag Winning.

Artist’s rendering

Upstairs, just outside the apartment that doubles as his office, he has me put on sunblock before entering. Of course I do, and I see all his boys do it too. And as he opens the door, I see why. It’s like Michael Jackson’s trophy case, gold everywhere and a room full of sunlight bouncing off all of it. I’m certain this is the hidden secret of Donald Trump’s tan. In minutes, we were already deep into our first heart-to-heart.

“The Supreme Court. What a bunch of losers these guys are. Right? Now the Warren Court, that was a great court. These losers we’ve got now have been handed so many losses, it makes me want to puke.”

“I don’t think you can say that.” I’m probably the first person to disagree with Trump in this room in at least a decade.

“Why not?”

“The justices don’t really win or lose cases. If anything, they decide whether the plaintiffs win or lose”.

“Nah, they’ve taken so many losses. You think they wanted Yates v. The US to go that way? C’mon. Losers. And think about this. These are nine or ten of the smartest, allegedly smartest, people in America, and they can’t get the job done. You know who’s coming for their jobs? Mexicans, and if it’s not Mexicans, it’s robots. These are great jobs, and like all of our other jobs, we’re going to lose them.”

We talked a lot about his favorite justices, but what I really wanted to know about was this weekend’s rally in Maine. What’s he planning to do to make it a classic that everyone is talking about on Monday? I don’t get to ask him though because he’s got to go meet with some people about rebooting Trump Ice.

I have to admit I’m a little disappointed I got out of bed for this. Rubio had me and a lot of other guys out late, partying Rubio style. “What’s triller than R-r-r-r-r-rubio?” He kept asking as we kept drinking.

Before I leave, Trump pats me on the butt and tells his chauffeur to give me a ride to the ground floor. And just like that Trump disappears into a golden haze as my eyes readjust to the immediate reduction in lumens outside his office.

I wake up at seven to a piercing tone drilling its way into my skull. I trace the racket to its source. Donald Trump must’ve planted a Skypager beeper on me when he patted my butt yesterday. Retro. Cool. I take down the number and give him a call. An hour later, I’m in a helicopter with him, flying to Maine.

It’s me, one of his advisers, and Melania Trump. The helicopter pilot is bumping some unreleased Michael Buble. We’re rolling like a GOP front-runner is supposed to roll.

“Can we talk about your bankruptcies?” I ask because I feel like the moment is right.
“You know, you say bankruptcy I say potahto.” I get it. Some people see bankruptcies as failures, but businessmen see them as tools, so I press on.
“So, the four bankruptcies…”
“Potato. See, I told ya I’d say potato. I’m a man who keeps his word.” I decide to just sit back and vibe to some soon-to-be adult contemporary classics.

I was supposed to meet Trump for a late dinner in Maine to talk foreign policy, but a friend hit me up and told me about that Ben Carson was about to DJ a friend’s surgery, so we rolled out to that instead. It was kind of what you expect from one of these Beats, Rhymes, and Lifesaving events. The crowd couldn’t have been any less into the music, but boy were they into the transplant.

We stayed out pretty late. At 11:00, we realized we definitely needed to get some sleep. As I headed back to my place, Trump sent me an email and told me to be sure to take in the morning air the next day. I replied “A’ight,” and fell into my unmade bed.

The next morning, I walked out on the balcony of my motel room, and there was an owl from the Wizarding World waiting for me with a note in its beak. At this point, nothing really surprises me, so I take the note, tip the owl, and learn that Trump knows a dope spot for waffles. Fifteen minutes later I’m there, and we’re already deep into his vision for America.

“I just want to make America great, again, and I’m the only one who really knows how to do it.” We’re al fresco at his breakfast spot, and I’m watching the wind tugging at his hair like it’s going to be the one to prove it’s a toupee.

“OK, then, Mr. Trump. Impress me. Tell me how to make America great.”

“Easy, we just add it to the name. It’s branding. Like Trump. Think about this, have you ever questioned whether my name is actually Trump? Maybe you should. You gave into the branding.” He got me. I had definitely just assumed that Donald was being truthful and that his name was Donald Trump. I’d never looked into it. He went on. “You know who else has actually already done this? England. They call themselves Great Britain, and no one has ever stopped to question their greatness. We just accept it. We can learn a lesson from them and from me. As soon as I’m President, we will become The Great States of America.” Whoa.

“What about United?”

“Which would you rather be? United or Great. United is overrated.” I didn’t necessarily agree, but when a rhetorical train is rolling, you don’t jump in front of it and ask it to stop.

“And I’ll tell you something else. We’ve got a lot of duplication. Two Dakotas doing the job of one? We merge ‘em and let go of half the Senators. We’ve got a lot of places we can cut costs. I’m looking at you Carolina. We’ve allowed this country to be big and bloated for two long, and now it’s time to get lean and mean.”

Wow. Donald Trump just hit me with the unreleased shizz. This is economic policy that he hasn’t told anyone yet, and I don’t even have time to take it in because I’ve got two Instagram accounts that need to be fed, and ya boy hasn’t even gotten online and looked through Reddit yet.

I head back to my room and watch Trump play with reporters on TV before giving some classic Trump performances at the campaign stop. He does his “Boop boop beep boop” line, insults several women, and does his Mexico and China bits, which you know kill every single time. When I hear him describe Jeb Bush as low energy, I text Trump “Hey, check out Energy by Drake” and send him a YouTube link.

Next time I see him, he’s practically foaming at the mouth over Drake and Meek Mill.

“Hey, c’mere, have you listened to this? Some guy name Meek Mill from Philadelphia, one of the great, once upon a time, American cities. Apparently, this guy just fought with this Drake guy — who’s from Canada? — and lost. See, this is what I’m talking about. This would’ve been unthinkable, that one of our guys would lose to a Canadian. Imagine Sinatra song-battling some Canadian and losing. Wouldn’t happen. When I’m President, this is the first thing I’m going to address. No more losing to Canadian losers I haven’t even heard of in hip hop rap battles no one’s even paying attention to because they’re not being promoted properly. I get Don King on the phone, and this changes instantly. In an instant. Proper promotion. Pay per view…”

I’m listening to all of this, but I’m also thinking about Donald Trump’s recent comments on his daughter’s hotness. By any measure, she’d definitely be one of the hottest first daughters in history. Would it be bad form to see if I can get her details from Donald? I got a DM about Scott Walker throwing an underground search party to find his missing supporters, and I could use a date.

I think I should ask because, honestly, at this point, I know it doesn’t even make a difference what I think about Donald or what he thinks about me. Whether I write this profile piece or not, he’s like Lady Gaga in ‘08, Charlie Sheen in ‘10, or Jesse Ventura in ‘00. He’s about to spend the rest of this year shutting it down, and there’s nothing we can do about it.

Three days later, I’m playing these conversations back in the Spotify in my head, and I realize Trump in real life is just like the Trump all of you get to see on TV. He’s a man who has loved and lost, run businesses and lost, and may well run this campaign and lose, but what’s real is how much he cares and just wants America to be the hottest trophy wife money and power can buy.

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