Donald Trump

As befits a passel of aesthetes and poetasters, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” love to claim that we don’t watch television. For pretty much everyone who’s anyone has realized that, in intellectual circles, admitting that you watch the boob tube is tantamount to saying that you molest children.

Or, worse yet, vote Republican.

Anyway, dear reader, we collectively delight in pretending that, for us, television is a mysterious device of which we have no experience. Kind of like the laundry machine. When friends discuss, say, “Trading Spaces,” we like to pretend we haven’t a clue what they’re talking about; as far as we know, we bray, “Trading Spaces” is some kind of homosexual pornography. (Well, that’s pretty much accurate, but we digress.)

Still, even we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must drop our flawless display of studied ignorance in order to excoriate a fellow who really has it coming. We refer, of course, to Donald Trump.

Since Donald Trump (or “The Donald,” as nobody calls him) is a particularly juicy topic for our evisceration, we feel that it is necessary to set some ground rules.

First, we shall not make fun of his coiffure. Sure, he’s got the worst comb-over (or, we should say, comb-back) in the history of hair-care. Yet a few male members of the crack young staff—and one female member—have their own tonsorial issues, and thus we consider it ungentlemanly to blast a fellow human being for his sub-par locks. Even if they’re as patently ridiculous as Donald Trump’s.

Second, we aren’t going to make fun of Mr. Trump’s longstanding feud with Merv Griffin. Although we’d like to say that there was some high-minded reason behind this, in reality, it’s because we couldn’t think of anything humorous to say about it.

So, dear reader, with the ground rules established, we shall begin our critique.

Fan(s) of Donald Trump no doubt watch(es) his hit reality show, “The Apprentice.” Even the most dimwitted of viewers must recognize that Mr. Trump uses this show as an exercise in self-celebration.

After all, Mr. Trump incessantly offers viewers his déclassé take on the so-called good life. He’s always prattling on about his fleet of helicopters, his meretricious real estate, and his celebrity hobnobbing. This from a guy who has declared bankruptcy more times than a tenured radical has screamed “hegemony”! What a boob!

Doesn’t he realize that he’s unwittingly making himself the butt of many a joke? We mean, come on, Donald: Prancing around like a billion bucks—that’s so ‘80s.

In addition, dear reader, Mr. Trump loves to offer television viewers the impression that he has uncanny business acumen. Nothing could be further from the truth: His decisions to fire his hopeful apprentices on his television broadcasts are entirely irrational.

And yet somehow this sordid slime-ball has managed to land himself fetching woman after fetching woman. (Well, at least they used to be fetching: Ivanna has pretty much fetched for the last time.)

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” wonder how Donald Trump does it. How can he, as our feminist friends put it, score with the babes?

Perhaps he has a really good sense of humor?