Unless you’re a ’60s James Bond villain, when it comes to gold appointments a little goes a long way. Unfortunately, Donald Trump’s apartment is to gold what Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust Pizza is to cheese. It’s just too much — making the final product nauseating, crass, and something your typical Trump supporter might cite as rock-solid proof of God’s blessings.
Seriously, take a moment to Google “Trump’s apartment.” Now slowly drink it in with the molting orbs of humiliated flesh you once called eyeballs. Your sympathetic nervous system should be entering fight-or-flight mode right about now as your pupils contract to the size of gravitational singularities and every ribbon of DNA in your body struggles mightily against an unslakeable urge to rip itself asunder.
Now slowly return to the safety of your reading room. Horrific, right? It’s impossible to stare at his living room for more than a few seconds without imagining Liberace gliding past supine on a white grand piano in a forty-foot ermine cape. It looks like King Midas had a grand mal seizure in his bathroom.
And in the Trump family picture (which you’ll almost immediately see — lucky you), why did he dress his son as Agent Smith from The Matrix and pose him on a large toy lion with toy limos strewn at its feet — as he sits in a literal tower? What exactly is he trying to teach his kid about the world and the people in it? Did Trump run for president simply to keep Child Protective Services at bay?
It’s a shame, of course. He lives in the heart of Manhattan, near Central Park, so this should be difficult to screw up, but there’s simply no end to what Donald Trump can ruin. Trump has always loved the over-the-top glitz and glamour of Hollywood, and his garish villain’s lair proves it. That said, it’s a good thing he went into real estate development instead of film production, or Schindler’s List would have been an IMAX 3D movie with a wacky blooper reel at the end.