If my maternal grandfather were still alive today and someone asked him what he thought of Donald Trump he’d likely respond, “I’d like to buy him for what I think he’s worth and sell him for what he thinks he’s worth.”
Thinking about Mr. Trump reminds me that the older I get the more I realize how little I understand about much of what takes place in our everyday lives.
For example, last week President Barack Obama released a detailed copy of his birth certificate, verifying once again that he was born in the United States. I cannot fathom why he did this. Most of us learned as children that if we didn’t want the two strange kids who spent recess on the playground’s edge to yell at us we simply ignored them until the noise they were making abated. Under no circumstances would we have ever dignified their senseless rantings with a response. Being universally shunned has silenced people a lot nuttier than Mr. Trump.
But the ethically challenged star of “The Apprentice” is crazy like a fox. Eight-year-old weirdos on the playground usually possess either a conscience or the capacity to be embarrassed, two inconveniences with which America’s most egotistical billionaire apparently isn’t burdened. Mr. Obama’s stated reason for publicly displaying his birth certificate was to quiet the increasingly shrill members of the lunatic fringe (many of whom are a little too eager to assure us they’re not racists) who continue to insist he was actually born outside of the United States and is thus ineligible to serve as America’s chief executive.
These “birthers” (a Latin term, which literally translated means “loud morons”) have been stirred up most recently by Mr. Trump, a self-aggrandizing publicity hound with a rich history of foolish pontification. The attention-addicted real estate magnate’s crass and opportunistic behavior began long before he became a reality show star who decided he might like to be president himself someday.
The current commander in chief’s posting of his actual birth certificate accomplished little other than giving The Donald an opportunity to hold yet another press conference at which he could exaggerate his own significance. Rational people concluded long ago that Mr. Obama’s birthplace was not an issue, but the troglodytes (who remind us that they are not in any way, shape or form racist) still giving Mr. Trump’s foolish “quest for the truth” credence predictably remain unconvinced of the president’s legitimacy.
It’s been apparent for some time that were Mr. Obama to personally discover a cure for cancer, his increasingly determined and irrational critics would undoubtedly claim: a) He did it for personal gain; b) Cancer had actually already been cured by Wisconsin representative Paul Ryan; c) Obama’s selfish, irresponsible actions were ultimately responsible for legions of jobless oncologists, nurses, and former American Cancer Society employees; d) Obama was born in Kenya and raised by Muslim socialists who had programmed him to bring down the U.S. government; and e) By the way, none of Mr. Obama’s critics are racists.
I also don’t understand all the scrutiny given to the wealthy and attractive British couple who got hitched last Friday. Tracking the doings of famous people isn’t exactly a passion of mine; when I first heard there was going to be a royal wedding I found myself trying to figure out which member of Kansas City’s major league baseball team was tying the knot, particularly since those Royals haven’t had a bachelor player of note since George Brett got married back in 1992.
But it turned out the Royal groom in question was England’s Prince William. He and the former Kate Middleton appear wholesome enough, or at least as worthy of admiration as Lindsay Lohan, Charlie Sheen, Snooki, and/or whichever other professional celebrities are this week’s tabloid fodder. But if the royal couple is indeed as inherently decent as they seem, wouldn’t it be more appropriate to call off the paparazzi, leave them alone and let them go about living their lives? I’m no more interested in the weddings of the rich and famous than I am in marriages involving people of more modest means who I don’t know, and I’m not sure why anyone else should be, either.
So to review: I don’t get why the president showed his birth certificate, why anyone takes publicity-seeking conspiracy theorists seriously, or why there’s so much national fascination with celebrity. But I do appreciate the irony in the fact that two of Donald Trump’s three wives (including the current one) can’t produce birth certificates that show they were born in the United States. I also know that I’d like to buy Mr. Trump for what I think Snooki is worth and sell him for what I think my grandfather was worth.
— Andy Young teaches in Kennebunk, and lives in Cumberland.
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