Some of my best friends are “birthers.” So far I’ve resisted the temptation to sign up with them, although I loved that bit about the signature on that Hawaiian “Certificate of Live Birth” possibly reading “U. K. L. Lee.” (Get it? “Ukulele”?)
I wasted a brief long-ago interval mired in JFK buffdom and must manfully resist the temptation to tumble back through the looking glass. That rarefied region is an ever-so-cozy womb that’s saturated with thalidomide. The conspiracy theory “community” is so seductive in part because it provides the illusion that one is engaged in vital, high-risk “work” when you’re only mentally masturbating within a “safe room” while hiding from “authorities” who wouldn’t give a crap about you even if they knew you existed.
Yes, it matters who killed President Kennedy. (Psst: The commie did it.) The assassination of America’s commander in chief doesn’t stop being a historical event just because some goofball autodidactic basement dwellers also think it is.
Same with Obama’s citizenship. The Founding Fathers wanted Americans to care about where the president was born. The Constitution is admirably clear in Article Two, Section 1. Conveniently, a commonplace document was invented long ago to provide this exact information: a birth certificate.
Trump began openly asking questions about Obama’s citizenship in April, 2011, joining the chorus demanding that the president show the world his long-form Certificate of Live Birth.
Incredibly, the White House then released the document. Was it authentic? What did it say? All I remember is Trump trumpeting his victory, which reinforced his image as A Powerful Man Who Gets Things Done. But so did Obama when NBC interrupted The Celebrity Apprentice to announce that Osama bin Laden had been killed.
Last week, Trump challenged Obama to unseal even more “secret” documents. Sophisticates on all sides feigned disgust, but much as I hate to say it, Trump is the busted Rolex again here. Everyone would love to peek at the president’s college records. But since “the Donald” is the one doing the asking, that makes it uncool.
Even before he vowed to unmask the “half-blood prince” pretender to the Resolute Desk, Trump flirted with a presidential run himself, immune to the irony that “Donald Trump” is no more “real” than Barack Obama.
Trump’s skeletons aren’t even in the closet. We’re talking Santa Maria della Concezione here.
He’s reinvented himself as the mostly harmless, oddly coiffed, somewhat philanthropic blowhard who bellows, “You’re fired!” and owns things called beauty pageants.
But in the 1990s, Donald Trump—”original intent” fetishist and free-market champeen—tried to “eminent domain” an old lady out of her Atlantic City house so his casino would have a contiguous parking lot. What? That’s “public use,” too, no? Isn’t a parking lot just a highway in really slow motion? (Especially if you live in Toronto?)
Trump is a big Kelo fan. The Tea Partiers who comprise his imaginary voting base are decidedly not. They also don’t support lax abortion laws, gay marriage, and gun control. Nor do they admire “successful businessmen” who veer in and out of bankruptcy. And they generally frown upon guys who gained national fame after dumping their (frankly more impressive) wife for a newer model (who was subsequently dumped, too.)
Donald Trump, real-estate mogul, doesn’t even own many of those “Trump” properties. That ubiquity is part of his shockingly lucrative licensing enterprise—”shockingly” because you’d think folks would pay a premium NOT to have “Trump” stamped on everything from condos to cologne (in that pretentious cod medieval font that also bears his name.)
And that might turn out to be the ultimate punch line: If Obama’s birth certificate turns out to be fake—and his “autobiography” ghostwritten and “Obamacare” survives—he’ll still have stuck his name on fewer pieces of garbage than his nemesis.
Copyright 2015 TakiMag.com and the author. This copy is for your personal, noncommercial use only. You can order reprints for distribution by contacting us at email@example.com.