You know this show well enough to know that they always edit in whatever they have to, in order to build a convincing and interesting story that logically ends in Trump's wild-ass decisions. So the fact that this (702) number is typed in by an unknown personage is interesting: in order to support the ending of the episode -- considering how off-the-wall absurd it is -- you can bet your ass they'd use any footage they had of Kristine putting those numbers in herself. They didn't. I presume then that this was the graphic designer putting them in, firstly. Secondly, NICOLE is SLEEPING. Of the people in the final boardroom, the only one besides us that knows what really happened -- and we're just guessing, but we don't really have an agenda, which is more than we can say about Nicole -- is Kristine. So I went to the Trump Vegas website and two clicks in, there's a Contact Us link which lists two numbers: the TILV Sales Office (877) and the offices of Trump International's PR firm, The Firm. The latter is a (702) number, which I called, and you'll never guess who answered: Trump's Vegas PR firm, The Firm. Duh. But here, see, this is how the automated system answers: "Thank you for calling The Firm public relations... " Now, if you were to cunningly edit out the company name from that soundbite, you'd get: "Thank you for calling [slight pause] Public Relations... " Which just might give you the viewer the wrong idea about where they were calling, when in fact it's one of only two contact numbers, on the website, for a building that doesn't yet exist. Do you understand what I'm saying? And we're not even halfway down the rabbit hole yet, with this bullshit episode. This is like the graduate-level application of all that stuff I lecture you about every week, not trusting Burger King or freaking out about gay black dick or whatever it is. And I failed it! So then who am I? Just a humble man. Who hates Nicole.
The sun comes up on a Latino gardener mowing a California lawn; elsewhere, Frank's editing video with an ridiculously hipster youth of the sort you see in movies about middle-aged men getting edged out of the business world. Meanwhile, Heidi's working on the brochure part, pulling together all the possible text: available amenities, structural details and facts and figures, descriptive paragraphs of all kinds. She's sitting in the middle of a wild tangle of paper, all sizes and shapes and colors, desperately trying to pull together some copy, reading it aloud to herself, trying to chop words out of everything and get it all into a manageable pile. As one does, when creating copy. Now, Frank is literate. I'm not saying the bitch can't read. He can't read well, but I'm not saying that either. What I am saying is that all jobs have skills and protocols, and all parts of a task require you to perform those jobs according to some sort of protocol. I will now make a startling admission to you, as a friend: I can be wordy. I am a wordy writer.