92nd Street YMCA, New York City, August 20, 2015
Before I begin, let me give you a moment to adjust to my new appearance. You weren't expecting this and it may come as a shock. Yes, I am, in fact, bald. Please let this sink in, if you can, before we continue.
(Pause)
My Fellow Americans. The world's most spectacular combover is gone. This is fitting as it represents what brings me here tonight. The masquerade is over. I stand before you now as my authentic self, without pretense and without malice, and with only good cause. I stand before you as both a bald and honest man.
My fellow Americans, the last thing in the world I want, or ever wanted, is to be is President of the United States. Well, I guess that's not completely true. When I was in fifth grade, my classmates and I had to give an oral report on what we wanted to become when we grew up. My first sentence was, "I want to be President of the United States." It was not meant as a joke, but there was such an immediate eruption of hysteria that I couldn't continue. Even my teacher, Mr. Shonkweiler, was dabbing his eyes with Kleenex. The humiliation was intense and I vowed over the next months, as the recess bullying continued, to exact revenge on all who doubted me. That I went on to ruthlessly amass a filthy fortune in real estate is traceable, one hundred percent traceable, to that anguish born in fifth grade.
But I was not a man without conscience. As the millions rolled in, I became aware of a sick self, the glamorous persona of Trump, who became an expert at playing the game. More and more, I despised that self, but also felt entrapped in that robotic, ego-driven drive for business success. I mowed down competitors, obsessed about my net worth, but felt like hell. I rode in limousines and a private jet, starred in my own TV show, but still felt like hell. I was so angry, and deep-down, I guess I was afraid, afraid that my driving fear would show.
The final straw happened last year on the 18th hole at Trump National. Fifty thousand dollars was riding on a four-foot putt that I made a thousand times before with my eyes closed. I had my opponent by the throat. But when my putt lipped out, I convulsed like an epileptic and hurled my putter twenty yards up in the air before it nearly landed on a Mexican maintenance worker standing nearby. He sheepishly brought me the club which I snapped in two over my knee and threw both pieces into the greenside pond.
Then the worker, "Ezekiel" according to his unform, started to laugh. I turned on him glaring, and even though he tried to stifle, Ezekiel collapsed right there on the green and doubled up with great bellows of laughter. "You're fired!" I screamed, but he could not contain himself. On and on he howled. I kicked him in the gut where he lay, but still he laughed. "You're fired!" I screamed again. Ezekiel finally whimpered to silence and brought himself to his feet, clutching his stomach.
"Don't you know who I am!" I demanded.
Ezekiel looked down at my feet and said in a soft voice, "Oh yes, sir. You are a crazy, crazy man. Would it help, sir, if you would kill me?" And he turned and headed slowly to the maintenance barn, and I could hear him laughing to himself as he walked away with a limp.
I felt defeated to the core, like I was in fifth grade again, but this time I had no taste for revenge, only a need for salvation. I had been brutalizing Ezekiel and countless others one way or another for years. Millions despised me, perhaps thousands admired me, but all that mattered was that everyone bow down to me. Was I the embodiment of American success? Was mine an American persona to be worshipped? I was ashamed that my false self not only bought into the madness but that I had let it get this far.
Now at the turning point, I asked myself how I could best serve my country by righting these wrongs? How could I best use my experience and expertise? Then it dawned on me: for the good of the nation, I would trumpet my Trump megalomania to expose the whacked values that drive too many relationships and too many leaders. Greed at the expense of justice. Egomania at the expense of peace. Privilege at the expense of equality.
There was no better arena to get this done than performing in the Republican presidential campaign. A million free sound bytes and wall-to-wall news coverage with all the bright lights of planet Earth bearing down. It was perfect. And so I unleashed a non-stop torrent of low-minded absurdity, racism, and bloated ego. My growing celebrity was assured as long as I held to this one common theme: "Just look at who I am!"
My friends, I spoke not a word about policy, but spewed endless insults and posed like Mussolini on a Roman balcony. You heard me. You saw me. I tried with all my might to be my former imbecile. I proposed to build a Great Wall of the Rio Grande to thwart a horde of Mexican rapists. And then I went down to the Mexican border wearing my golf shoes, for crying out loud. Could it have been more obvious? I tried to arouse such massive outrage at my ignorance and whacked values that a coming together would happen. Right wing and left wing. Rich and poor. White and non-white. I hoped a popular sentiment would proclaim, "We refuse to listen to Trump and all that he stands for! We're damn mad and we're not going to take it anymore!"
But in spite of it all, support for The Donald only grew. At this, my fellow Americans, I am utterly astounded. I expected so much more, but got far, far less. My God, what would it have taken to get you to turn against me? A demonstrated compassion for others?
This is why I appear before you tonight. The gig is up. The charade is over. The emperor wears no clothes or a hairpiece. I come to you now as I truly am: bald and honest.
I was a bullied boy, but today I am no longer that boy. I became a career bully, but that career is over. Please, please, please, my fellow Americans, I implore you: reject those that beat their chests. Fall in line behind true peacemakers.
I would take your questions, but I have an overdue appointment to keep with Ezekiel and his family.
Thank you and God bless you.
Before I begin, let me give you a moment to adjust to my new appearance. You weren't expecting this and it may come as a shock. Yes, I am, in fact, bald. Please let this sink in, if you can, before we continue.
(Pause)
My Fellow Americans. The world's most spectacular combover is gone. This is fitting as it represents what brings me here tonight. The masquerade is over. I stand before you now as my authentic self, without pretense and without malice, and with only good cause. I stand before you as both a bald and honest man.
My fellow Americans, the last thing in the world I want, or ever wanted, is to be is President of the United States. Well, I guess that's not completely true. When I was in fifth grade, my classmates and I had to give an oral report on what we wanted to become when we grew up. My first sentence was, "I want to be President of the United States." It was not meant as a joke, but there was such an immediate eruption of hysteria that I couldn't continue. Even my teacher, Mr. Shonkweiler, was dabbing his eyes with Kleenex. The humiliation was intense and I vowed over the next months, as the recess bullying continued, to exact revenge on all who doubted me. That I went on to ruthlessly amass a filthy fortune in real estate is traceable, one hundred percent traceable, to that anguish born in fifth grade.
But I was not a man without conscience. As the millions rolled in, I became aware of a sick self, the glamorous persona of Trump, who became an expert at playing the game. More and more, I despised that self, but also felt entrapped in that robotic, ego-driven drive for business success. I mowed down competitors, obsessed about my net worth, but felt like hell. I rode in limousines and a private jet, starred in my own TV show, but still felt like hell. I was so angry, and deep-down, I guess I was afraid, afraid that my driving fear would show.
The final straw happened last year on the 18th hole at Trump National. Fifty thousand dollars was riding on a four-foot putt that I made a thousand times before with my eyes closed. I had my opponent by the throat. But when my putt lipped out, I convulsed like an epileptic and hurled my putter twenty yards up in the air before it nearly landed on a Mexican maintenance worker standing nearby. He sheepishly brought me the club which I snapped in two over my knee and threw both pieces into the greenside pond.
Then the worker, "Ezekiel" according to his unform, started to laugh. I turned on him glaring, and even though he tried to stifle, Ezekiel collapsed right there on the green and doubled up with great bellows of laughter. "You're fired!" I screamed, but he could not contain himself. On and on he howled. I kicked him in the gut where he lay, but still he laughed. "You're fired!" I screamed again. Ezekiel finally whimpered to silence and brought himself to his feet, clutching his stomach.
"Don't you know who I am!" I demanded.
Ezekiel looked down at my feet and said in a soft voice, "Oh yes, sir. You are a crazy, crazy man. Would it help, sir, if you would kill me?" And he turned and headed slowly to the maintenance barn, and I could hear him laughing to himself as he walked away with a limp.
I felt defeated to the core, like I was in fifth grade again, but this time I had no taste for revenge, only a need for salvation. I had been brutalizing Ezekiel and countless others one way or another for years. Millions despised me, perhaps thousands admired me, but all that mattered was that everyone bow down to me. Was I the embodiment of American success? Was mine an American persona to be worshipped? I was ashamed that my false self not only bought into the madness but that I had let it get this far.
Now at the turning point, I asked myself how I could best serve my country by righting these wrongs? How could I best use my experience and expertise? Then it dawned on me: for the good of the nation, I would trumpet my Trump megalomania to expose the whacked values that drive too many relationships and too many leaders. Greed at the expense of justice. Egomania at the expense of peace. Privilege at the expense of equality.
There was no better arena to get this done than performing in the Republican presidential campaign. A million free sound bytes and wall-to-wall news coverage with all the bright lights of planet Earth bearing down. It was perfect. And so I unleashed a non-stop torrent of low-minded absurdity, racism, and bloated ego. My growing celebrity was assured as long as I held to this one common theme: "Just look at who I am!"
My friends, I spoke not a word about policy, but spewed endless insults and posed like Mussolini on a Roman balcony. You heard me. You saw me. I tried with all my might to be my former imbecile. I proposed to build a Great Wall of the Rio Grande to thwart a horde of Mexican rapists. And then I went down to the Mexican border wearing my golf shoes, for crying out loud. Could it have been more obvious? I tried to arouse such massive outrage at my ignorance and whacked values that a coming together would happen. Right wing and left wing. Rich and poor. White and non-white. I hoped a popular sentiment would proclaim, "We refuse to listen to Trump and all that he stands for! We're damn mad and we're not going to take it anymore!"
But in spite of it all, support for The Donald only grew. At this, my fellow Americans, I am utterly astounded. I expected so much more, but got far, far less. My God, what would it have taken to get you to turn against me? A demonstrated compassion for others?
This is why I appear before you tonight. The gig is up. The charade is over. The emperor wears no clothes or a hairpiece. I come to you now as I truly am: bald and honest.
I was a bullied boy, but today I am no longer that boy. I became a career bully, but that career is over. Please, please, please, my fellow Americans, I implore you: reject those that beat their chests. Fall in line behind true peacemakers.
I would take your questions, but I have an overdue appointment to keep with Ezekiel and his family.
Thank you and God bless you.
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