Anne Palumbo: Donald Trump wants ME!
Dear Donald,
May I first say how surprised I was to see you in a recent Macy's ad. What courage that must have taken to blow-dry your hair on national TV. You! Of all people!
I nearly lost my Cheetos when I saw what you had in your hand. Too bad I don't know how to record anything on TV or I would have committed to DVD the nanosecond your swami-wrap wafted to the north. Goofy as it sounds, I could've then replayed the scene over and over, searching for concrete evidence of what's really going on in the world's most famous comb-over.
Trust me, Mr. Trump, it keeps more people up at night than you know.
But that's not why I'm writing.
I'm writing because you seem to think I could benefit by enrolling in Trump University.
For the past month, you have flooded my e-mail inbox with information about your prestigious university … the management courses ... the Las Vegas retreats with knee-socked showgirls … the dazzling professors with more degrees than a Richter scale.
Let me start off by saying that I am first and foremost flattered. I sense you detect a financial spark in me that has yet to be ignited. Donald, you are so on the money. Indeed, I have not sewn my financial oats - literally. Did I mention that the paper I write for pays me in feed corn?
But that small issue aside, I must take exception with your assumption that I am fiscally ignorant and in need of further academic assistance. Hello! You are dealing with someone who is best friends with Sallie Mae!
Nonetheless, Donald, I did take a glance at your course catalog, curious to see if you offered a class that could answer the $64 Million Dollar Question that has dogged me since baby-sitting days: Where does all my money go?
It's truly a conundrum because, unlike your wives (whose names all curiously end in "a": Ivana, Marla and Melania), I am not a high-maintenance woman. In other words, you cannot purse your pouty lips and advise me to scale back on Botox or waxing or anything of that nature.
What's more, I'm not a certified shoe-hound, owning a paltry six pairs compared to the average woman's collection of 20. Twenty! How many does Melania own? Enough to rival Imelda Marcos's closet of 3000? I'd wager a bushel of my salary on it.
It's baffling, really, my disappearing money. I stash some of it in my underwear drawer, I stuff some in my pockets, I toss a little in my purse - and poof! - it's never there when I need it to, you know, buy pork bellies or something.
Did you like that? I intentionally threw that in to alert you to my financial prowess. You see, Donald, I know all about pork bellies and raucous trading and the high-pitched squeal that's released from an investor's mouth when no one wants to buy his 20 tons of piggy meat. What I don't know is why the bellies are still being traded. Aren't we all too fat-conscious to be wolfing down bacon like Roman soldiers?
I guess what I'm trying to say is: What's a Big Shot like you doing in a girly catfight with Rosie O'Donnell? No, that's not my point. My point is, I don't need your help. But, Donald? Someday you may need mine, and I want you to remember something very, very important: The correct spelling of my name on my birth certificate is "Anna" with an "a." Yours truly, Anna Anne Palumbo writes this weekly column for Messenger Post Newspapers. E-mail: avpalumbo@aol.com.