“Frankly, I have a lot of compassion for this young woman,” he said on Fox TV.
I bet he has. Gorilla Bananas is no cynic, but even he can detect a possible ulterior motive in Mr Trump’s avuncular concern for a blonde bikini model reputed to have perkiest boobs east of the Rocky Mountains. Miss Conner, of course, was very thankful for her second chance.
“You'll never know how much I appreciate Mr Trump for saving me on this one,” she sobbed at a press conference in New York.
I expect she’s right, although Mr Trump might be lucky enough to find out. The sight of a 60-year-old billionaire with a racoon pelt on his head soliciting the gratitude of a 21-year-old beauty queen will no doubt provoke strong emotions in middle-aged fathers throughout America. “Disgust” would be a possible description of their feelings – “envy” might be a more accurate one.
Human beauty pageants have never captured my imagination. To be honest, I find them degrading. A bunch of girls, most of whom would look attractive enough walking down the street, are forced to wear high-heeled shoes and strut about on a stage like storks. Their smiles are forced, their conversation is inane and their bathing suits might have been designed to show their bottoms to maximum disadvantage. The whole thing is obviously an ordeal for them, which is why they often break down in tears at the end. Even a gorilla knows that the human female will never shine in such a tense and unnatural environment. Women need to be wooed, amused, chased and tickled before they exhibit the most attractive qualities of their gender.
Beauty contests are depressingly trivial. I would much rather see young women competing for a real crown. There are surely nations that have wearied of republicanism and would welcome the idea of a well-spoken lady hosting state banquets, christening gunboats and reminding people of their place. Opinions differ on what the most important regal qualities are – my own view is that a queen should have sufficient presence of mind to make her virtually unshockable. Let us imagine that she is being served breakfast by her butler when a naked man rushes before her while she is munching on her toast.
“Gawd bless yer majesty, may yer reign be longer than me cock!” he shouts.
How should a queen respond? Any woman who screamed, giggled or even blushed could be disqualified immediately. A true queen would say nothing until she had finished swallowing her toast – as queens do not speak with food in their mouths – and then address the man in a calm, measured tone:
“It is most kind of you to say so,” she would say. “Tibbs, would you fetch this gentleman a pair of britches – he seems to have forgotten to put his on.”
After putting on the trousers, the man would be offered a cup of tea in the kitchen and sent on his way with a brace of pheasants and a framed photograph of his sovereign.
A queen does not come cheap, and her toiling subjects would doubtless groan at the taxes required to keep their monarch living in the splendour essential to her role. But wouldn’t that be better than forcing her to earn her lavish stipend by stroking the squirrel on Donald Trump’s head?
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