Eligibility is the beautiful magic that fuels the American electoral system. Delivered in a log cabin or to the manor born, all may seek to lead the nation where, as Whitman said, the President takes off his hat to the people instead of they to him. Yet even as the process grows wonderfully more inclusive, flaws emerge. It appears that every 58th Presidential election things can go wrong. Horribly wrong.
As he seemingly sabotages his own campaign, some seek a motive in Mr. Trump’s late altruism. They marvel at the masses who believe that he could become, perhaps already is, “presidential.” Members of both political parties secretly, and not-so-secretly, wish there was a pathway to return him to his businesses and to instate a more seasoned politician in his stead. For these, the worrisome and weary; the pessimistic and the frightened; I have a plan.
The appeal of Mr. Trump is inseparable from his legacy of corporate success and self-proclaimed business acumen. Keeping that unmatched mercantile expertise in mind there is one way to convince him to withdraw from the race: a general boycott of the very things that brought him wealth and fame, those wildly successful, flourishing, profitable businesses.
The idea came to me when a small circle of friends gathered recently for our fortnightly “Trump, the Game” night. Sadly, play had to be halted when we noticed that the deck was not full (no one could find the integrity card) and in the lull that ensued it came to me. We must stop playing; stop buying; stop flying; stop reading. We must boycott the full array of Mr. Trump’s portfolio to convince him to return to the lucrative world that he knows so well.
The game itself, a perennial bestseller I am certain, must account for a sizable portion of his inestimable earnings. Where sits the young Johnny or Sally who has not dreamed of finding one under their tree or in their stocking on Christmas morning, that birthday of one who, like Mr. Trump, sacrificed so much. But, children too must learn the difficult ways of the world and we cannot indulge them this year. With all the courage I could muster I turned to my comrades and told them, “I shall play no more, forever.”
Nor is that the only pain I am willing to endure. Never again, I avow, will I pass a lovely spring day sitting alone in the old Meadowlands Stadium cheering for New York’s own beloved New Jersey Generals. Who, after all, does not agree that spring is the season for football! Who, after watching five months of football does not see the snows melting, the grass sprouting and think, I will stay indoors and watch more! This year, not me. I, like the league’s best players, will hereafter cast my allegiance to that other footballing endeavor.
Travel allegiances too, must change and this includes where to go and how get there. Few airlines have had as much interest paid in them as Mr. Trump’s regal shuttle. Detractors may say that even a business novice could turn a profit if they possessed the lucrative Washington, New York and Boston routes. They are probably right, but only a genius would take a commodity service that no one wants to spend money on and turn it into an upscale service that even fewer people want to spend more money on. Time and again when I need to be someplace fast I find myself thinking, price be damned, what flight has the nicest bathroom that I’m never going to use? But no more; I will turn my back and let the chips fall where they may.
But, never again, will the chips fall for me upon the shimmering tables of those elegant, refined casinos that I have so loved and where the winnings were so grand. The prolonged success of these ventures is an unmitigated mystery given the sheer generosity of a business model that endows to its constituents so much more than they wager. Somehow, and the experts are baffled, he has turned the table on this entire industry. Casino’s making a profit? Impossible, they said, as if the odds favored the house.
This is not all. Pain me though it does, I have cancelled my subscription to the wonderful publication that bears his name. How often during the late recession did I peruse those pages at the unemployment office and think to myself; a yacht, of course, this is what my family needs! Never was a magazine so quarterly and I will miss it sporadically.
Hardest of all, and not only because of the riches that are all but guaranteed upon graduation, I have de-matriculated my enrollment to his grand university. I will forever remember how proud, how moved, my stoic parents were the day the acceptance letter came in the mail. I, humble middle child of a modest, working class household, would be the first in our family to attend a lecture. Mom, in her apron, touched the corner of a towel to her eye and went immediately to write our people in the old country in Queens while Dad took me into his study, which was also the kitchen, and handed me my great grandfather’s Timex watch. “So you won’t miss it,” he said as a single tear rolled slowly down his tired cheek.
This is my sacrifice and I pay it willingly. Indeed, I would gladly do more. If I could find an establishment, any establishment, that sold his steaks or his vodka or his water I would race there immediately and buy none of these items. I do this for my country. I do this to make Donald great again.
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