I get it, Melania.
You want people to talk about you.
That, or you were experimenting with a cocktail of something stronger than liquor, and hey, who am I to judge?
But when I read New York Times headlines like “Melania Trump, Agent of Coat Chaos,” and see your back plastered in what looks like a painted sign, I can’t help but privately — and by that I mean publicly — chuckle at the shit I am supposed to believe.
When you were picking out your clothes, what kind of look were you going for? Something classy? A pearl-studded polyester blend, page twenty four of Ambassadorial Chic?
I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but you’re beautiful. You could wear a table-cloth and look like the cover of Anthropologie, but instead, you reached for the olive green army ensemble, the one with the words “I REALLY DON’T CARE, DO U?” painted on the back. Not exactly the Audrey Hepburn look.
Well, whatever, because in regards to your wardrobe, you’re right:
NO, I REALLY DON’T.
I enjoy a good publicity stunt, more because I find this sort of spectacle amusing from a historical viewpoint. Think about it: we’re still talking about the wardrobe choices of our royalty figures. Images of the French Revolution come to mind, of Marie Antoinette’s dresses and elaborate wigs, each designed to create a buzz in the papers. The woman wore a wooden, model boat on her head, for fuck’s sake. And it worked like a charm.
Shit, I’m even joining in.
I haven’t even had breakfast yet, because I’m too busy writing a political screed about the jacket of the supermodel wife of the most powerful jack-o-lantern in the world.
Here’s the thing:
I don’t care what you’re wearing.
I care about what you’re doing.
And so far, I haven’t seen you do shit.
You’ve played hostess, visited some hospitals, and have gone through the expected motions of a presidential accessory. It’s not like you chose this gig. Your husband is the president, not you, and so far as anyone can tell, you guys aren’t into the whole tender-hearted affection bit.
But you have the chance to make a difference in the lives of millions — if not billions — of people. People, like you, who are immigrants to the United States of America.
We know startlingly little about you. You have less personality to me than Hillary Clinton, and that’s saying something, considering she’s an opportunistic robot. What do you believe in?
Or, if I may be so bold,