Donald Trump’s RNC was an orgy of nepotism and white panic

President Trump delivered a campaign speech on Aug. 27, 2020, to close four days of activities around the Republican National Convention, Source: Screengrab

A Whiter Shade of Pale: On Day One of the Republican National Convention, Charlie Kirk called Donald Trump “the bodyguard of Western Civilization.”

Kirk, a pasty youth not to be confused with that smirking MAGA hat brat from Kentucky (the kid railed against the media on the second night) or the equally pasty blonde owner of 11 coffee shops in Montana (the one who kept looking up like she expected to see Jesus clinging to the ceiling of the Andrew W. Mellon Auditorium), defended Confederate monuments and assured us, “Trump was elected to protect our families from the vengeful mob that seeks to destroy our way of life, our neighborhoods, schools, churches, and values.”

Yep, the dark hordes are coming to shut down your segregation academy, steal your golf clubs, and your pimped-up Toyota Tundra, and cancel Christmas — the vengeful mob really hates Christmas.

Dropping dodgy acid or watching all four nights of the Republican National Convention?

The reality-shredding effect on a normal human brain is pretty much the same.

Trump gave his first acceptance speech on Monday, bellowing about Democrats using COVID-19 to steal the election, then, in a display of epic obliviousness, he and V.P. Mike Pence walked off to the Village People’s gay anthem “YMCA.”

Sing it with me, now: “You can stay there, and I’m sure you will find/Many ways to HAVE A GOOD TIME!”

Let’s not forget Don Jr., though, judging by his undisguised neediness, his daddy often does.

During his speech the poor fellow appeared to be, as the kids say, lit AF, eyes red and watery, fists clenched.

Don Jr.’s anti-immigration argument was a trifle shy of sense, and he was breathtakingly shouty, but he was as nothing to his main squeeze Kimberly Guilfoyle, who turned it up to 11 and broke off the knob.

Dressed in arterial red, she hollered as if she were auditioning for a hog-calling contest, warning that if Joe Biden and Kamala Harris get in office, the whole country will resemble California, “a land of discarded heroin needles in parks, riots in streets, and blackouts in homes.”

Or riots in homes, needles in streets, and blackouts in parks, but let’s not be harsh: Who among us has not slammed four or five Long Island Iced Teas and decided to yell at the ex-husband in front of a national audience?

The ex in question is Gov. Gavin Newsom, D-California.

Despite Jr.’s twitchy xenophobic rant, and Guilfoyle’s demonic tantrum, the undisputed winners of the evening were Patty and Mark McCloskey, the ambulance-chasing lawyers who barreled barefoot out of their pretend-palazzo brandishing guns because they saw, you know, a bunch of those people marching toward the mayor’s house down their exclusive St. Louis boulevard.

Parked on a velvet sofa in what they probably call “the drawing room,” the couple looked like what you’d get if Thurston Howell III and Lovey were possessed by the Evil Dead.

Sounded like it, too, claiming that Democrats want to “abolish the suburbs” and invite “Marxist revolutionaries” to invade the mansions of upstanding, law-abiding Caucasians.

The McCloskeys have each been charged with a felony count of unlawful use of a weapon.

Trouble in the Gold-Plated Stalls of Power: Let us pause and acknowledge that Donald Trump has been having a lousy time.

Unemployment’s up; the Senate released its damning Russia report (short answer: Putin helped get him elected); his niece has his sister on tape calling him a “liar” with “no principles;” former top aide Stephen Bannon has been arrested for bilking border wall supporters; a federal judge says he will have to turn his tax returns over to Manhattan D.A. Cyrus Vance; the New York attorney general is suing the Trump organization to force Eric Trump (supposedly the smart one) to comply with a subpoena; and now Trump inauguration event planner Stephanie Winston Wolkoff claims she has a recording of Melania trashing “Princess” Ivanka and even Donald Trump himself.

Wolkoff’s book, “Melania and Me,” comes out next week.

As if this isn’t sufficiently horrid, one of Trump’s biggest cheerleaders, Jerry Falwell Jr., has had to leave the family cash cow we know as Liberty “University” after news that he and the wife had some kind of weird three-way with a pool boy.

But never mind all that! On Night 2 in the empty auditorium, Florida’s own Pam Bondi, pink-suited and patently absurd, delivered a foot-stamping, pouty indictment of what she thought was the Biden family’s sneaky use of public service to enrich themselves, especially that Hunter Biden guy, who obviously got lucrative jobs only because of who he’s related to.

Shocking! You mean there are elected officials who profit off their position and help get their children jobs those same children are completely unqualified for?

Tiffany Trump and Eric Trump echoed Bondi’s full-throated condemnation of the nepotism.

The RNC event was then to have been enlivened by remarks from a bat-crap crazy board member of Women For Trump, but after she retweeted a “Protocols of the Elders of Zion”-style nugget of QAnon anti-semitism, the RNC deep-sixed her.

Still, we had Melania in the Rose Garden — what’s left of it — assuring us that her husband is a total prince, a pussycat, a sweetheart.

Her belted military green Alexander MacQueen ensemble, reminiscent of that style icon Fidel Castro, will surely drive this fall’s hottest trend: Fascist chic.

Wednesday and It’s Still On, Hurricane Be Damned: Lou Holtz, ex-football coach, denture model, and living fossil, questioned Joe Biden’s Catholic faith — because nothing says godliness like Lou Holtz.

Lou disapproves of women controlling their own bodies, because why should that zygote be terminated when it might grow up to be a 300-pound defensive back who can die at 40 from degenerative brain disease?

Later, Mike Pence said something about bombs bursting in air, but nobody can recall exactly what.

Joe Biden, Destroyer of Worlds: Anyone else been wondering why both Don Jr. and Eric are sporting scraggy chin dusters?

Zit epidemic? Show of election-season testosterone?

Or, as one writer speculated, “about setting up a little border between their milky flesh and the world?”

I think we should be told.

You’ll never find any fur on Donald Trump’s face. Indeed, at the finale of his four-night festival of rage and racism, he appeared as smooth as a greased pumpkin, beaming out over the South Lawn of the White House against a Mussolini-style backdrop of flags, as his cabinet, staff, and assorted minions violated the Hatch Act en masse.

As the family — Jr., Eric, Tiffany (whose hair seems to have turned completely white from the stress), Ivanka, and the blow-up doll she’s married to — looked on with nearly 2,000 others crammed into chairs that were at least 3 inches apart, Trump prophesied that if the Democrats get elected, every village and ’burb in America will burn as Antifa-BLM fiends run rampant in the streets burning American flags, led by AOC in black beret brandishing a machine gun and Nancy Pelosi in kente cloth riding one of the Horses of the Apocalypse.

Only Trump can save you from angry black and the brown folks — never mind that it was a white cop who killed George Floyd and a white teenaged Trump fan who killed two people in Kenosha.

Only Trump can save you from the coronavirus — never mind that almost none of his White House audience wore masks (that’s going to be a hell of a disease vector right there, Dr. Fauci!).

Joe Biden is a scheming leftist who is also so clueless he doesn’t know what day it is.

Joe Biden hates America so much he wants to give people health care, keep Iran from getting nuclear weapons, and help slow down the climate catastrophe.

Joe Biden is scary — especially to Donald Trump.

Diane Roberts
Diane Roberts is an 8th-generation Floridian, born and bred in Tallahassee, which probably explains her unhealthy fascination with Florida politics. Educated at Florida State University and Oxford University in England, she has been writing for newspapers since 1983, when she began producing columns on the legislature for the Florida Flambeau. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, the Times of London, the Guardian, the Washington Post, the Oxford American, and Flamingo. She has been a member of the Editorial Board of the St. Petersburg Times–back when that was the Tampa Bay Times’s name–and a long-time columnist for the paper in both its iterations. She was a commentator on NPR for 22 years and continues to contribute radio essays and opinion pieces to the BBC. Roberts is also the author of four books, most recently Dream State, an historical memoir of her Florida family, and Tribal: College Football and the Secret Heart of America. She lives in Tallahassee, except for the times she runs off to Great Britain, desperate for a different government to satirize.