18 Reasons New Yorkers Hated Donald Trump Long Before The Rest of The World
For years before he became the so-called President of the United States, Donald Trump was more of a local embarrassment — another obnoxious rich jerk in the city, the original Dork Of New York.
There are so many reasons why we can’t stand him, they couldn’t all be listed here. Suffice to say, it’s no accident that not one single registered voter in the entire city voted for Donald Trump.
If only the nation had asked us before it walked into the voting booth on November 8th; America might still have a future to look forward to. Oh, well. C’est la vie.
Here, then, in no particular order, are all the reasons we’ve been calling him Donnie The Douchebag since time immemorial:
He always carries the biggest fucking umbrella. There’s a sudden downpour, you don’t have your umbrella, you’re dashing down the sidewalk trying to get to some cover at the next awning, and there’s big ass Donald Trump blocking the way with an umbrella the size of a circus tent. You can’t go under, you can’t go around, you can’t zigzag, you just have to shuffle behind him, getting totally soaked as he strolls along nice and dry under his monogrammed golf umbrella with the 8-ft. wing span.
He jaywalks. That’s right, can you believe it? The Donald thinks there’s no need to walk to the corner — instead, he crosses in the middle of the block. His recklessness causes a couple near-fatal automobile accidents a day. He’s a road hazard.
He cuts in front of people at Zabar’s. This Upper West Side gourmet emporium is famous throughout the city. And it has rules. Like you NEVER cut the line on Sunday morning when people are getting their bagels and smoked fish. But Donnie always does it, because he thinks he’s entitled and he has no manners.
He checks his phone, and tweets, in dark movie theaters. You think his phone obsession started last year? Oh, no, he’s been distracting moviegoers for years with that bullshit. In fact, it’s an understood rule in NYC that if you enter a movie theater and you see The Yellow Haystack sitting anywhere near you, you just head back out to the ticket counter, ask for a refund, and leave.
He takes sidewalk surveys. We’re New Yorkers, we’re always in a rush. Which is why it is so friggin’ irritating when we’re half-walking, half-jogging down the sidewalk and we see Donald up ahead with his hand outstretched, “Hi, do you have a minute for Donald Trump?” And then it’s always the same damn follow-up question, “How much do you like me?” Sad.
He’s always ready to tell you how big his apartment is compared to yours. Want to piss off a New Yorker? Brag about the size and fantastic-ness of your apartment: the sunlight you get, the terrace you have, the 360º exposures, the 24-hour doorman, a washer/dryer right on your floor, a gym in the basement, super close to all subways, lots of restaurants in the neighborhood, blah, blah, blah. Yeah, Donald, we get it…you have a nice penthouse apartment. Fuck you.
He dominates the Starbucks condiment counter like you’ve got all day. How much fucking shit can one person put in his coffee?! He tries a little sugar, dicks around with the soy milk, then the half-and-half, adds a little skim, back to the sugar, tastes, repeats. We’ve been petitioning Starbucks for a Donnie ban for years — no luck yet.
He eats pizza with a knife and fork. This is New York. When you get a slice, you pick it up, you slide it into your mouth, you let the cheese drip off your chin. Not negotiable. But Donald uses utensils. Utensils for pizza. That would make him a weasel in almost any city in the country — here, it makes him King of the Vulgarians.
He was born in Queens, but roots for the Red Sox. Not the Brooklyn Dodgers, not the New York Yankees and not, since the 1960's, for the Queens-based New York Mets…but for those cock-sucking, mother-fucking Boston Red Sox! New York’s archrival! This man is not a New Yorker. He is a turncoat.
He double parks his limo. You’re riding your Citi Bike in the painted, protected bike lane, minding your own business, and suddenly, there it is, The Donald’s limousine blocking the bike lane. Fucking happens all the time. He’s completely oblivious to cyclists.
He hogs hair products. Can’t find your favorite gel, wax, or pomade at the local Duane Reade? That’s because Donnie has cleaned out the shelves again. New Yorkers don’t care that he can’t get his toupee just right, we want access to some decent hair styling products once in awhile.
He keeps library books out way too long. You’re waiting for the latest Ken Follett book and it takes not days, not weeks, but months before it’s available. Why? Because Donald J. Trump is creating a library logjam again. In fact, the New York Public Library reports that Trump is its biggest book borrowing delinquent. And, worse, now we find out that he’s not even reading the latest bestsellers he withdraws, because he can’t read! What a dickwad.
He brings thousands of loose pennies to the bank. Your plan is to rush in, make a deposit, and rush out. Then you see Don in there at the teller window with the plastic bags full of pennies and you know it’s going to be like a 30-minute wait. Always with the pennies this guy. Ridiculous.
He rips the coat off your back to throw over a slush puddle. No way would Donald ever get his Ferragamo loafers wet. Instead — and this has happened to every New Yorker at least a dozen times — when you’re standing next to Donald Trump at a flooded street corner, he deftly grabs the coat you’re wearing and uses it to cover a puddle of any depth. It is so annoying. Worst part, he almost never says “thank you.”
He upstreams you for a cab. It’s considered one of the most obnoxious offenses of New York life — upstreaming someone for a taxi. Ask any New Yorker and they’ll tell you that they have been waiting with their arm in the air, flagging a yellow cab, when Donald suddenly sprints past headed upstream to grab a cab before they do. The sense of entitlement on this guy is utterly mind-boggling.
He’s a close talker. Not only does he get in your personal space when he talks, but then he yells. What is that?
He doesn’t take his backpack off on the subway: Whenever he’s on the #6 line, you can see Don wearing his bigass Tumi backpack, barging onto the car, knocking people out of the way with that overstuffed, shoulder-mounted bulldozer. What does he carry in there anyway, party-sized bags of Cheetos? Really, like the worst subway etiquette ever.
He sticks his stupid name on everything. Trump Tower, Trump International Hotel, Trump Empire State Building, Trump George Washington Bridge, Trump McDonald’s Time Square, Trump Multiplex Theater, Trump University(ish), Trump Central Park Carousel, Trump 79th St. Boat Basin, Trump Kimchi Heaven, Trump $20 Massage, Trump this, Trump that. Who’s ego is so big that they have to see their name in gold leaf every time they turn a corner? Yeah, you got it.
Thanks to all the many readers, fans, followers, and even my frenemies, for reading and commenting on my posts throughout the year as I continue my commitment to post every day, 7-days-a-week until the Orange Accident is no more.
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