Trump asked for the kind of guy that would start crying when they sang the company song, and ended up with a fifteen-year-old boy. (Putting Trump in the position of being the Fiona Apple-listening fifteen-year-old girl with body image issues waiting for him to stop playing Zelda and kiss her. Mistake! MISTAKE!) You can't be in love with anybody but Trump, he actually said it out loud this time. The only thing that matters is Trump's on top, and James just let the cat out of the bag, that he's got a little bit of Michelle in there. A little bit of sensitivity to the Emperor's New Clothes, to the sand on which Trump and all the bastards just like him built their castles a long time ago. Maybe that Trump racism, in fact, set him up for disappointment, like with Heidi or the incredible beauty and Mensa-ness of Tarek, and this is just rage: you are not who I thought you were. So I blame the video on the James-con side, and Stefani's towering boardroom performance on the pro-Stefani side. Plus, you know, the Law Of Averages, or the million monkey typewriter scenario, or something, states that Trump had to pick the right person eventually. So there's a sax that sounds like a banjo, and the Year of the Woman having a big old hug onstage, and the cameras run from that like they're on fire, over to her parents weeping, and Frank hugging her, and Ivanka and Don leaning against the back of their dad's chair. That shot was awesome, just hanging with the Trump like that. Nice. Stefani kisses a scary man and Trump smiles sweetly at us and says goodnight; he thanks us with his thumbs in the air, indecisive: up, down, up, down, like an emperor. The fireworks go absolutely nuts, fanning out in a rainbow, in the rain. The crush of people onstage is impressive, until we pan back, and see how small the whole affair really is, and how sad. Angela's beautiful, and Ivanka's legs are lovely, and she stands heel-toe-cross, like a model, and he waves goodbye again. All the candidates hug each other, except for Michelle and Derek and Jenn, who the cameras must've been like sanctioned from showing, because this show holds a grudge. Because they were the first ones to start laughing. Which kind of makes them the heroes of this piece, doesn't it?
So. I'm sad. Final Exam. Thanks for everything, and all your kind notes over the years; I'm very fond of you and I hope you've had half the amount of fun I have. I certainly didn't expect to be sad right now; the second I got the assignment I wondered what the hell I would find to talk about. I dealt with it, clearly: we've got pages upon pages as proof. But something we haven't talked about in a while is why. The appeal of this show has always been really simple: Everybody thinks they can do better. I love writing about this show, because it gives me an opportunity to show that I could do better, by analyzing what they did wrong, and increasingly by demonstrating what pricks they all are. For a person whose break with the corporate world came dramatically, that's a serious balm: I could lead better than you, if given the chance. Anybody that ever watched this show and enjoyed it, once upon a time, lived off this: Everybody thinks they can do better. Better business, better manipulation, better boardroom, better clothes, better hair, better body, better ass-kissing, better focus. Whatever that thing is, that separates winners from losers, you could pull it out of this show somehow, and improve on it, if you just paid attention.