Tarek tells us that "This is what you're working for, this is what the Trump dynasty is all about: wealth, success" and that you "couldn't leave without being motivated to be the last guy standing on that podium." So I guess the voodoo worked on Tarek, but now's a good a time as any to lay out the ground rules of Tarek anyway. He grew up poor. Like, bad poor, development poor, in New Bedford Mass, and this was so shameful for him that his entire "adult" life has been a rocket ship away from the drudgery and squalor of Massachusetts and into the klassy high life: he went to "elite" boarding schools, and then after St. Anselm's and the Catholic University of America, he played rugby and rowed crew. None of these, taken alone, is a sign of being the particular thing that he is, which is overcompensating worse than Donald Trump, but taken together? You bet your ass. He joined Mensa, which he always writes "MENSA," as though it were an acronym. As though it meant anything. I can't even tell you how sad it is to write this paragraph for you. This is limousine classy, this is sevruga classy, this is the symbolism of conspicuous wealth, this is exactly what Trump feeds on, and what feeds on Trump, but...for somebody who's smarter than Trump, and more beautiful than 99% of all human beings, it's depressing as hell, because none of that matters, because all that matters is: propaganda. Hot people that don't know they're hot, are even hotter. Hot people that don't notice they're hot because they're busy trying to sell a pack of lies to themselves? Not hot. He cannot even taste the caviar on which he sups, unless you're there to see him do it. Which is why he cannot cover a single one of the checks his depressing ass regularly writes for your benefit.
And the king of that, Donald "Little Blue Pill" Trump himself, is now going to give a practical demonstration of why that sucks. Standing at the top of the jetway, gusty winds blowing his fake hair -- all in one piece -- to and fro, he yells down to the candidates at the top of his lungs that George and Carolyn are two very special people in his life, and acts like he's just as sad that this had to happen on the tarmac as they are. Except he calls the shots, so fuck him. He then commands them to shout their credentials up the jetway at him, screaming why they're important into the careless winds, while he looks on toadishly and without listening. This might be worse than the golf course thing last year: "Tell me why you matter! What? I can't hear you! Scream louder, little trolls!"
Lee is 22, graduated with a B.A. and a 4.0 from Cornell. How cute are they when they tell you their GPA? Stacy is the criminal defense lawyer, who works for the public defense office in New York City. Michael is a mergers and acquisitions consultant. Roxanne graduated from Baylor and her law degree is from the University of Michigan. Summer owns a restaurant in Huntington Beach and a truly terrible case of crabs. Leslie went to the University of Mississippi on a volleyball scholarship, which is fine -- get there any way you can, that's awesome -- except for how inordinately proud she still seems to be about that fact, ten years later. Brent is an insurance defense (like my dad!) and real estate attorney, and "created his own diet" and lost 110 pounds, at which point apparently the diet failed him, but also: I created my own diet just today! It was called The What-A-Burger and Fries Diet, and it was delicious to put it into effect. And then yesterday, I created the Taco Bell for Lunch and Some Homemade Pesto Chicken For Dinner Diet, and that was awesome too! Where's my patent attorney?