So now we know why Donald Trump didn’t want his tax information in the public domain. The whole caper reflects either a colossal commercial car crash or some egregious, cynical loss generation in order to avoid IRS liability.
If he’s gone cap in hand for bailouts, I wonder who would be propping him up? I cannot see any commercial investors backing such a prodigious sandcastle.
The salient point won’t relate to the interest on the loan, but to the interest in the loan.
Either way, for the ordinary man on the street, this would all end in either going bust or getting busted.
For Trump, the outward blasts herald business as usual, but this has got to be maleficent for his re-election hopes.
Most snigger-inducing of all was the hair-raising $70,000 he reportedly spends on his rambunctious rug. You can only imagine that he had to issue an executive order to compel cosmetologists to create such a preposterous postiche.
The reluctant coiffeurs charged with the assembly of that wicker basket barnet for the wicked basket-case would likely have required assistance from a learned physicist who could calculate the relevant forces, structures and phenomena that would maintain the cranial merkin atop that seething, knotted, clinch of hate spasms that is the Commander-in-Chief.
That pointless peruke is an abject monstrosity that far outweighs any of his grim pronouncements, but its mystique continues to intrigue and baffle barbers on every continent. It has no clear direction. It goes from one side to the other, backwards, and forwards. It defies precedent and convention.
It remains loyal to no specific era, but together with some deft 1970s multi-directional, cumulative layering, there is a nod to that old 1980s standby, the mullet. But while back-length aficionados would grow their tail-ends out, Trump’s spurts in the opposite direction in a down-and-up reverse flip. It’s like his syrup is guided by an internal sat nav that is stuck in a re-calculation loop.
Bafflingly, some of his palooka pelt doesn’t even appear to have any rooted strands beneath it. It defies all our hitherto acquired biological knowledge of protein filaments that grow from follicles in the dermis. It is, for want of a more salient expression, partly unhinged.
It is in fact a metaphor for his presidency.
While the current debate centres on his taxes, you have to wonder whether investigators will ever unravel his fiscal web if his hair – while in plain sight – remains so confounding.
The answer is that they won’t, and they won’t need to.
It will all now hinge on how this fiscal foolery goes down across blue-collar America. Trump was only ever going to be beaten through losing face because the rump of support that put him there values local prosperity above all else, while gorging on the feelgood MAGA soundbites that rail against a world in which they have little stake and even less interest.
$750 a year in taxes, and for 10 years jack-all, might just in itself do a job on him. They might knock back bleach in Hicksville, but they are unlikely to swallow that.
It may now take more than a few jumbo cans of hairspray to keep the Presidency in place.
After all, he’s now either a crap businessman and a fake, or he’s a tax fiddler.
This might be the ‘big bag of shit’ that his opponents have been waiting for.