Melania at the Met Gala
Last night, We the People received sad news. News that means the First Monday in May will never be the same. News that came from Anna Wintour herself on The Late Late Show with James Corden, when Corden and Wintour played a game where they took turns asking controversial questions. Anna was asked who she would never invite back to the Met Gala. Her answer was simple: Donald Trump.
Now, Donald hasn’t been in a few years. But he’s long been a staple of Fashion’s Biggest Night, and there will now be one less asshole on that famed red carpet.
After reading this news, I took a look at pictures of the Trumps at Met Galas past. And in 2004, a new face came onto the scene. She was smoldering, she was sexy, and she was smizing: she was Melania Trump. For the next 8 years, she would stroll the carpet on Donald’s arm, her Blue Steel never wavering. It’s been a truly iconic run, and it is one that may now end all too soon.
Therefore, in light of this blow to the fashion world, I present: “Melania at the Met Gala: An In-Depth Look at the Future First Lady’s Red Carpet Experience.”
It’s Melania’s first Met Gala, so she opts for black to be safe. The jewelry on her wrists is worth more than her entire apartment, and she’s a bit worried that Donald might get confused and try to eat it. He does that sometimes. But it’s fine! Because here she is: the new Mrs. Trump. Raven hair, onyx dress, sultry stare, priceless jewelry. Yes, Donald looks a little doughy. And his bowtie is weirdly flaccid. But it’s okay! He’s…he’s kissing his daughter a little too tenderly, but that’s just how he is! And yes, maybe Ivanka did lean over earlier in the limo and hiss, “I will fucking bury you,” but Melania tells herself she could’ve just imagined that. After all, she has had a few glasses of wine.
Melania knows that this is her night. She straightens up, approaching Donald for a photo opp at the insistence of an especially loud photographer. Donald’s arm slithers around her waist, and he pulls her close. She can feel the humidity radiating from his torso, the result of all the sweat trapped under his tuxedo. It’s okay, she thinks, one picture and we can move along. And then his other arm snakes out, grabbing his daughter. God DAMN it. He pulls Ivanka in closer — like, copping-a-feel closer — and presses his moist caterpillar lips into his daughter’s cheek, mugging for the camera. Deep down inside of her, for the very first time, Melania feels something die.
Donald detaches himself from Ivanka’s face with a loud SQUELCH. Saliva drips down her cheek, but her smile remains in place as she delicately wipes her father’s drool away. Melania smirks. And then Donald throws his arms up, bellowing, “Two beautiful women on my arm — the MOST beautiful women! IT’S THE MET GALA BABY. IT’S UUUUGE.”
Melania’s nails dig into her palm.
Melania is back. And this time, Donald has infiltrated her uterus. His “superior seed,” as he calls it, has successfully become a fetus. Melania is not exactly happy about this — they’ve had marital relations exactly one time, and now she’s carrying his baby. A baby that will, apparently, be named “Donald Trump XIXX,” despite the clear rules around naming children after parents. Donald doesn’t care — “Boy or girl, Melania. Boy or girl — it’ll be Donald. Nobody has a better name than that. And it better be a boy.”
But, on the bright side, Donald doesn’t really touch her anymore. And the photo opps this year have been less demanding so far — mostly just the two of them, her in front of him, in rigid poses, looking in different directions. Ivanka was left behind this year, something about the “optics” of a man “grabbing” his daughter while next to his pregnant wife. Donald has been ranting about this for the past month, using air quotes around “optics” and “grabbing” to illustrate his disdain for the situation. (Editor’s note: this will be the last known time that Donald Trump uses air quotes correctly.)
Melania feels herself relax a little as the camera shutters click away. She’s still Mrs. Trump, the best-looking pregnant woman in Manhattan, and she has a delicious bowl of diamonds to eat when she gets home — Donald’s idea, he maintains that it’s good for the baby. She takes a deep breath and smiles for the cameras. And then Donald’s right hand slides up her leg and he pinches a handful of her ass. “Whoa, little more there than before!” He guffaws. “She loves it when I do that. Loves it. I’m the best.”
Melania screams internally. No one can hear her.
The baby weight is OFF and Melania is DELIGHTED. Who cares if fatherhood (again) has made her husband age 10 years in 12 months? She’s back at the Met Gala, and she’s showing some major leg. After the Great Ass Grab of 2005, Donald doesn’t stand behind her on the red carpet anymore. Granted, he won’t stop looking down her dress, but it’s a trade she’ll take any day. As long as he doesn’t say anything about her “new mom jugs,” as he’s taken to calling them. And as long as he doesn’t ask her for milk, which he thinks is hilarious. The louder the funnier. Melania knows it’s in her pre-nup that she has to laugh at 75% of his jokes, but her resolve is starting to crack and it’s been increasingly difficult for her to keep up with the math on the fly.
She pauses on the carpet, slipping an arm around Donald’s ample waist to pose for a photo. She smiles brightly, feeling free and unencumbered for the first time in months. And then, Donald lets out a fart — a loud, wet fart. She knows she’ll have to take care of that later. And it’ll be a mess — somehow, in all the baby ruckus, she forgot that a newborn meant she’d now have two male asses to wipe on a daily basis.
Bile rises in her throat, but her smile hardly wavers. Nothing — she grits her teeth — nothing will bring her down tonight.
Donald is in a Mood, and Melania knows it. He says it’s nothing, but it’s obvious that something is eating at him — his chins have gotten heavier in the past year, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult for him to keep his head up. Being in public is exhausting for him. Maybe that’s the problem. But Melania insisted on going to the Met Gala this year — she’s now at one year post baby, and she feels great. Sure, she spends an hour a day looking at pictures of puppies just to muster up the will to smile, but lately Donald has also been disappearing for a few hours a day with a recently-rediscovered porn stash. Life at the Trumps has never been better.
Donald pulls her in for a picture, more gently than he normally does. Melania dutifully places a hand on her hip, smizing for the camera. The cameras click away and Donald says nothing, grabs nothing, makes no stupid faces — Melania is amazed. This…this behavior might warrant a make-out session later, she thinks — and she’s shocked to discover that the idea doesn’t fill her with complete revulsion.
And then it happens, almost in slow motion — Donald raises his right hand. Melania watches in horror. His hand keeps going, up…up…into a peace sign. NO. WHY?!?! Melania forces her grin to stay put, but she can feel her long dead soul dying a little more. He leans over, pressing his lips against her ear. His breath is hot and wet. “The Donald is back, baby,” he murmurs.
In the last year, Melania has forgotten how to smile. Her face remains frozen in a smolder as Donald pulls her onto the red carpet. She just doesn’t care. She knows she’ll look good in photos no matter what. And she can feel Donald smiling next to her — the more cleavage she shows, the happier he is. And boy, is he happy. They arrived in separate limos, but Donald texted her the whole way. Melania runs through the texts in her mind to distract herself from the camera flashes:
“Luv ur rac xoxxo”
“U r butiful & mine”
“lov yr B0Obs!”
“u have 2 answr me it’s in r prenup.”
Melania had texted him back then: “tx.” As she thinks about this, she makes a mental note to “accidentally” lose her phone. She needs to do it soon. She can get at least two days of peace if she does. And oh, the pleasure of two text-free days! Donald typically spends a combined 5 hours a day in his bathroom, on his golden toilet. Without a phone, he can’t reach her. A plan begins to form in her mind.
Suddenly, she’s jolted from her reverie as Donald’s fingers creep further around her waist. He smirks at the camera, pulling her closer. Melania fingers the diamond on her ring finger and feels herself begin to relax. Slightly. Smolder until it is over, she thinks, repeating a mantra she’s picked up in the last year. Just smolder until it is over.
Melania stands next to her husband and places a well-practiced hand on her hip. A team of highly trained makeup artists glued Donald’s face into a smile tonight, so she doesn’t need to worry about him for once. She poses. Camera shutters click. Donald farts. It is wet. Again. This stopped phasing Melania years ago. She turns to pose for another picture. Vaguely, she realizes she’s hungry. She poses again. Donald wiggles his fingers against her back. She knows he wants attention. She doesn’t react. She just poses.
Editor’s Note: unfortunately, there is no further inside info from Melania’s 2009 Met Gala experience, nor for any of the years following, as this is the year the light finally left her eyes.