Then things get gross. The patented Trump Wisdom Title Card this week is "Inspire." Trump tells us the total news of how "leadership is important" and that you have to "inspire your staff." I take a moment to note that shit down in a special steno pad I have for times like this, which on the front I have written in Sharpie "Duh Thoughts For When My Brain Falls Out My Ass." He then demonstrates this Wisdom for us by haranguing some old man about something, then summoning Miss Universe to flirt with the old man. He tells us that people like working for the Trumpanies because "I make it fun." To him, "fun" is hot young ladies that would never fuck you except for your money, not that you can get it up anyway. Fun is trophies. Boobies. Fun is the idea of ass, to guys like Trump, and I don't get it. The guy, Jay, is a lawyer, and he's kind of upset by all this blatant prostitution, and a little confused.
Miss Universe sits there and everyone's uncomfortable and Trump bumbles weirdly about how "where else you gonna get a good time like this," and this kind of thing is always so confusing because...it's so Vegas, like, "Come up to the room and drink some champagne in the hot tub and never ever touch me," and somehow that's fun. I think it has something to do with impressing other men and I don't think it has anything to do with sex. It's certainly not fucking "inspirational," so I don't know what the point of that was except to show Trump to be what we already know he is.
Essay Question: Pretend you're a creepy old fucked-up white man. You've been trained your whole life for a very rigidly defined kind of success, and now you've accomplished pretty much everything you ever needed to in order to please your father, who is now dead. While you've never really taken an interest in women as people, their forms and boobies are pleasing. Too bad your crusty old self needs Viagra to do anything about it, but luckily your cronies in the insurance racket have made that available at cost, while emergency birth control is still some kind of Satanic mystery rite that only happens on full moons. Keeping in mind that you've stashed every emotion or doubt you've ever had so deep down you've given yourself colon cancer and six heart attacks, and that your children hate you, in this essay you're going to ask for a hug -- from a friend, a coworker, even a stranger; be creative! -- because you're desperate to be touched.
Take all the time you need.
In some ugly conference room somewhere, Rebecca tells everyone to sit down and shut up and not discuss anything until they've all put forth their ideas. I'm down with that. She does it in a way that's not exactly packaged with cotton candy and a couple of roses, but it's not really all that bad -- just firm and a little tough. The rest of the team bristles about it, because they're used to being big fish in small ponds. Unfortunately, it also takes us back to this whole "strong women are ballbusters" and "real women hate ball-busting women like that" and "women just can't get along" and all that shit. Back to I Dream of Jen M., who tells us again what the point of this task is. Rebecca makes sure everyone's listening, and then describes their main concepts: there will be a computer station with three computers (the camera lingers on Kristi); a station with a High-Definition TV, the better to watch NBC shows like Jay Leno and ER and whatever else old people like that isn't on CBS (Toral); and the health and fitness corner (Jen M.). Rebecca asks if there are any other ideas -- "just products, not how we're delivering them, the specific products" -- and Alla's none too pleased with the fierce hand-holding that Rebecca's all about. I'm sure it was somewhat annoying, but I bet that meeting stayed on task the whole time, which is a huge pet issue for me personally, so I'm not bothered.