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Is he an American icon
or can he be stopped?
of TheColumnists.com
Numbers don’t lie. According to the latest statistics
compiled by a national board of media censors who monitor public
saturation, disgruntled American viewers are reaching critical
mass.
They’ve been bombarded by self-appointed celebs-du-jour
who bombard the news, press and other forms of media marketing
with continuing adventures of their boring selves. These antics
have gone beyond mere infiltration of the media and are approaching
elevated levels of entertainment terrorism. After careful analysis
of this data, the governing board of W.A.T.C.H.M.E. (Watchdogs
Assessing Talentless Celebrities Hogging Media Exposure) called
an emergency meeting to devise a plan of action. Board members
agreed that the worst media offenders should be cited for their
infractions and ordered to appear before them in private hearings.
That’s when things got ugly.
Oblivious to the appearance date on his citation, the American
media’s worst offender stormed the private offices of W.A.T.C.H.M.E.,
clearly ready to rumble.
“You guys are saying I’ve hogged the spotlight too
much this year?” Donald Trump demanded. “Get a clue!
I’m an American icon!”
But board director Archie Wurtz was prepared to stand firm. As
an appointed protector of American sensibilities, he was ready
to play hardball if necessary.
“Be reasonable, Mr. Trump. According to our statistics,
in the last month alone you’ve been on television more than
Janet Jackson’s nipple, all three of Britney’s chins,
and the entire legal counsel of the last four kindergarten classes
to win summer camp scholarships at Jacko’s house. There’s
such a thing as overkill, y’know. Give the public a break.”
The Donald flipped his hair back, a trick he’d learned from
his first wife and perfected with his second. An arrogant gesture
that tended to lose impact when the hair involved was a comb-over,
sprayed with more shellac than the L.A. Coliseum’s center
court.
“You guys don’t know what you’re talking about.
Haven’t you read my book, THE ART OF THE DEAL? Good business
requires a certain media presence.”
Board V.P. Ramona Igby managed a tepid smile.
“When you were a rising young real estate czar, it was one
thing. And hey, that divorce business with Marla and the pre-nup
was unfortunate, so we were willing to overlook a few months’
extended media blitz. But now you’ve gone overboard. You
were in more movies last year than Paris Hilton on Spanish Fly,
and to be perfectly candid, Mr. Trump, you playing you is not
exactly quality entertainment.”
Clearing her throat politely, Ramona consulted a sheaf of letters.
“This is not only our subjective opinion, of course. Thousands
of viewers have written in with their comments. Quite a few of
them have mentioned the hair thing. Specifically, why a billionaire
can’t afford a new ‘do, or at least one that doesn’t
make you look like Liberace on steroids. And your movie co-stars
don’t enjoy working with an amateur who has no acting ability
whatsoever but insists on hot-and-cold running super models to
fan you with palm fronds after every scene. And for the record,
Hugh Grant was not happy that your trailer was bigger than his
on your last two movies. Not to mention that we’ve gotten
numerous calls from Simon Cowell who’s pretty ticked that
you’ve stolen his ‘most obnoxious judge on reality
TV’ title.
“The bastard deserved to lose it. All he’s got is a
porky body, five o’clock shadow and attitude. What kind
of class act is that?” Trump snorted.
“An interesting observation from someone who’s been
nominated as the poster boy for facial liposuction.”
“Hey, what can I say? I’m popular in the medical community,
too. It was a brilliant move to buy up all the hospitals. That
paid for itself, just from my wives’ cosmetic surgeries
alone. Anytime I need a doctor, there’s a whole team of
them that’ll jet off to wherever I am.”
“And speaking of wives, Mr. Trump, there are also some concerns
about how you publicize your domestic arrangements.” Archie
lowered his voice discreetly. “Naturally we’re all
aware of the May-December relationships often seen in second
marriages, and specifically among those of your financial stature.”
“You’re saying I use my money to troll for pubescent
bimbos?” Trump scowled. “What’s wrong with that?”
“We’re not about to legislate morals,” Ramona
told him. “The issue here is one of too much information.
The American public doesn’t need to know every detail of
your personal life. We don’t care that your latest fiancee
got her engagement ring before her high school ring, or that
your next wedding reception’s menu was printed by Fun With
Phonics so the blushing bride could read it. And your last interview
in People Magazine about how you bought Mayor Guiliani a state-of-the-art
Pasta Machine so he’d lift curfew so your wife could stay
up for your wedding? A bit much, don’t you think?”
“It wasn’t a pasta machine,” Trump corrected.
“Hell, I bought him Italy. It was a lot easier than hunting
down a small appliance.”
“Well, here’s the bad news, Mr. Trump. By unanimous
vote, you’re hereby banned from all future media exposure,
including reality shows, movies, magazine interviews.....and
don’t think you’re going to slip any of your other
tricks past us. That Japanese toothpaste commercial you just
finished is beyond tasteless.”
Trump nodded.
“You’re not kidding.
Who’d ever believe there’d be a market for sashimi-flavored
toothpaste? But I thought the slogan was kinda catchy. “For
a million dollar smile like the Donald-san, make chop chop on
the choppers.”
“It’s over, Mr. Trump. Stay out of the entertainment
industry. You’re a business man. In the future, conduct
your business in the appropriate venues and give the American
public a break. We’ve had enough.”
“So you’re saying I’m FIRED?” The Donald
only snickered. “Now I know you’re nuts. I can ruin
you and your home. I can have you tossed in the street like garbage.
I own your building!”
“My home is a private estate on Long Island,” Archie
corrected.
“I own Long Island!” Trump sneered. “In fact,
I own the entire East Coast, including Jersey. And that’s
only because I needed Springsteen on call. My fiancee is getting
into the E Street Band lately since my daughter’s been teaching
her about vintage rock.”
“Mr. Trump, I’m warning you. Failure to comply would
mean further legal action.
We’ll have to contact the authorities and --"
”Like I care? Get over yourself. And hey, Arch, I’d
love to stay and chat, but I’m late for my next appointment.
Got a poker game with that little computer geek from the West
Coast.”
“You mean - ?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. I figured I’ll give him
a chance to blow some of his chump change in a few hands of cards.
The kid may know apples from oranges about computers, but he
doesn’t have a clue about big business.”
“But you’re talking about--"
"Trust me. The kid is strictly small potatoes. Yeah, so
he built a computer empire.
Big deal. But has he ever done any of the important stuff? Have
they filmed him leaving his sequined jock strap over the bar
at Hogs ‘n Heifers? No. Has he produced enough kids by various
blondes to film a remake of 'Children of the Corn?' Not even
close. Has he even tried to get his own reality show where ambitious
little power groupies understand the boardroom table is the casting
couch of the new millennium? Not a chance. I tell you, this kid’s
a slug. But he’s jetting in this afternoon so I gotta run.
There’s gonna be film crews from all the major networks
doing live coverage of the event.”
“They’re covering a poker game of you and Bill--"
"I’m calling it another Trump philanthropy, you dummy.
The kid’s got--what? Only a few hundred billion? As a titan
of industry, it’s my responsibility to support the underprivileged.
Not to mention that it makes great press. A hell of a lot better
than doing those spots for the fish-flavored toothpaste!”
©2005 by Gina Gallo. The illustration is composed of elements
from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E.,
San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This column was first posted
Jan. 10, 2005.
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can comment on this column online. Please address your message
to either "The Editors" or Gina Gallo. To send an email,
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