![]() ![]() He is, quite possibly, the biggest crybaby ever to toddle across history’s stage, from his inaugural-crowd hemorrhage on day one right down to his bitter, ketchup-flinging end. But on top of that, he is a uniquely tiresome individual, easily the sorest loser, the most prodigious liar, and the most interminable victim ever to occupy the White House. Trump said and did obviously awful and dangerous things-racist and cruel and achingly dumb and downright evil things. Nancy Pelosi promised to “drain the swamp” in 2006, just as the Reagan-Bush campaign had vowed to “Make America Great Again” in 1980. His promise to “drain the swamp” was treated as some genius coinage, though in fact the platitude had been worn out for decades by both parties. He’d been around forever and his political act was largely derivative. ![]() I never found Donald Trump to be remotely captivating as a stand-alone figure. Surely, I must have been thrilled to have such a ridiculous piece of work at the center of it all, right? I have been covering Washington for many years I’ve been accused of being a “keen observer” of the capital. I will admit I never loved the Trump story. “You know what I liked about Trump?” Graham asked last month during a speech at a Faith and Freedom Coalition conference in Nashville. He might now have to testify about what exactly he was trying to do when he called Georgia’s secretary of state wondering whether he really needed to count all those mail-in votes. This week, he was subpoenaed as part of an investigation into election meddling. Graham remains perhaps Trump’s closest collaborator in the Senate, a frequent golf partner and nuanced handler of the presidential ego. McCarthy is a good bet to become the next speaker of the House in the likely event that Republicans win a majority in November. Graham: Kevin McCarthy’s sloppy, artless lie They had long been among the most supplicant super-careerists ever to play in a city known for the breed, and proved themselves to be essential lapdogs in Trump’s kennel.ĭavid A. I would sometimes see them around the lobby or steakhouse or function rooms, skipping from table to table and getting thanked for all the wonderful things they were doing to help our president. Or see Trump’s favorite pillowy-haired congressmen-fresh off their Fox “hits”-greeting the various Spicers, Kellyannes, and other C-listers who were bumped temporarily up to B-list status by their White House entrée.īut the guests who stood out for me most were Republican House Leader Kevin McCarthy and the busybody senator from South Carolina, Lindsey Graham. You might catch Rudy rushing out to smoke a cigar, red wine staining his unbuttoned tuxedo shirt (that was the night of the Mnuchin wedding, I think). The place was crawling with them, these hollowed-out men and women who knew better. We could always pick up dirt that Trump and his groveling legions tracked in. Lots of Washington reporters would hang around the establishment, too. The hotel gave every impression of being a tight and well-managed operation, in contrast to the proprietor’s side hustle down the street. Each night, assorted MAGA tourists and administration bootlickers would descend on the atrium bar on the small chance they’d get to glimpse Trump himself in his abundant flesh-like catching Cinderella at the castle, or Hefner at the mansion. For Trump, a big, applauded entrance was as essential to the experience as the shrimp cocktail, fries, and 40-ounce steak. Unlike the Obamas, who would sneak out for date nights at trendy restaurants, Trump was hardly discreet when he went out to dinner. W hen he wasn’t melting down over how “very badly” he was treated or acting like a seditious lunatic, Donald Trump could be downright serene in certain Washington settings-and never more so than when he would swan in for dinner at the Trump International Hotel, a few blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House and the only other place where he would ever agree to eat. ![]()
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