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By John Walters
Senior Sports Writer
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Once, we were relatively safe. Oh, sure, we all recognized that Donald Trump was out there, lurking...on championship golf courses that sported his name...inside glass-walled skyscrapers that sported his name...rushing to and from helicopters that sported his name...attending beauty pageants that sported his name....
We understood that Donald Trump was a top-of-the-food-chain predator, capable of bombastic and repugnant outbursts of self-approbation at any moment. Our trepidation was assuaged, however, by the knowledge that Trump only struck from inside his own garishly decorated, gold-plated habitat. The Trump was lethal, true, but could be found only in Manhattan, the counties of Westchester and Palm Beach, and cities that smiled on legalized gambling and/or May-December connubial arrangements.
And so, those primal paroxysms of fear that overcame us were, we knew, irrational. We would joke with our friends ("Is it safe to go back in the boardroom?") to acknowledge the silliness of it all. Or the best man would mention that the only available hotel property on Priceline.com for the Atlantic City bachelor party weekend was Trump Taj Mahal, to which we would all giddily unleash invectives like "You're fired!"
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The terror was voyeuristic. You, me and Manuel were all immune to his ravenous appetite. We knotted our Trump ties, the best-selling ties at Macy's (until Macy's cut ties with him, no pun intended), in faux homage to his untamable narcissism. Sure, you might have known someone who knew someone who auditioned to be on The Apprentice. Or you may have had an ex-girlfriend who was exposed to a sexist remark intended as a compliment…or a racist remark intended as a compliment…or a homophobic remark intended as a compliment.
It doesn't matter. The point is, most of us who did not aspire to reside in Nebuchadnezzarian high-rises along the West Side Highway or to host our own programs on MSNBC were immune to his bite. Our modest, unspectacular lives were our own Trump cages.
Until now. Until the summer of 2015. The summer of...Trumpnado.
On June 16, Trump announced his presidential candidacy as a Republican candidate. Unlike some of his counterparts, Trump did not tiptoe into the race. No, he jumped in with a splash—The New Yorker imagined it as a belly flop, although I saw it as more of a cannonball. Trump emerged from the pool of baitfish that is the remainder of the GOP hopefuls and took off running with both feet, although he likely favored that one foot with the bone spurs that prevented him from serving in Vietnam. Which foot? I don't know. Check the records. It's in the records.
Trumpnado is a swirling, ginger-topped force of nature. His origin is undetermined, although he very well could be the spawn of two beloved, departed New Yorkers: George Steinbrenner and Archie Bunker. Mix one part King George's insatiable megalomania with one part Archie's abrasive xenophobia—and perhaps add dashes of Regis Philbin's indomitable bluster and Howard Stern's jarring candor—and you have Trumpnado.
Trumpnado is less a meteorological anomaly than he is a wildfire, the flames growing bigger and brighter with each successive attack. And with each strike—be it against Mexicans in Phoenix, or POWs in Iowa, or Lindsey Graham's privacy in South Carolina—the Trumpnado consumes more oxygen.
Trumpnado is Kardashian'ing not only the GOP race but the news cycle itself. Two weeks ago he capsized Shark Week—did you even remember to DVR it? Last weekend, when an actual great white shark attacked pro surfer Mick Fanning in South Africa, that footage got second billing to Trumpnado's attack on the legacy of former GOP presidential candidate John McCain. And why not? Trumpnado's attack—"He's not a war hero...he's a war hero 'cause he got captured"—had more bite.
None of us are safe from Trumpnado, and the truth is, for varying reasons, many of us prefer not to be. Some of us find it wholly refreshing to hear a presidential candidate oppose gay marriage by proclaiming, "I'm for traditional marriage," fully cognizant that critics will point out that he has personally been for "traditional marriage" on three separate occasions.
You see, Trumpnado may be a tempest, but he is also shrewd. He understands that his political base is as blithely unconcerned with his personal foibles as he is. Hypocrisy? Who cares? Trumpnado may be a blowhard, but he is also a breath of fresh air, a candidate who loathes the same things (and types of people) that they do and will never apologize for it. Trumpnado is the Charles Barkley of 21st-century political rhetoric.
Last week, The Huffington Post opted to censure Trumpnado and his churlish views by relegating its coverage of him to its entertainment section. This despite the fact that Trumpnado has a 10-point lead (23 percent to 13 percent) over his closest GOP rival, Jeb Bush, in the latest Washington Post-ABC News poll. Doesn't HuffPo realize that all politics is entertainment these days?
Trumpnado does. Mock him all you want. This predator is not attracted to blood. He's attracted to headlines in need of being written.
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