Why in the Hell Can’t Donald Trump Dress Himself?

Update 1.21.17: Yeah, he even taped his tie together for his inauguration. Because, class.

Last night, Saturday Night Live deliberately, expertly trolled Donald Trump and, as everyone involved in the troll job no doubt intended, it took all of 20 minutes or so for Trump to petulantly react. The show opened with Alec Baldwin’s pitch-perfect impression of Trump — an ongoing thorn in the real Trump’s side — mocking Trump’s tendency to lash out against his enemies on Twitter (even going so far last week to retweet a 16-year-old boy who defended him). Well, Trump, an easily baited man-child, of course responded with, what else, a tweet. He dubbed the show “totally biased, not funny,” and said, “The Baldwin impersonation just can’t get any worse. Sad.” 

So there’s your president-elect, folks. A raving lunatic who can’t help but watch Saturday Night Live because he knows he’ll in some way be a part of it but who then also can’t help but lash out like a pissy kid on Twitter. What’s more, this latest embarrassment for the presidency and our country caps off a week in which Trump also bribed a company to keep a handful of jobs in the U.S. then boasted about it while kicking off a Mussolini-like “victory rally” tour of the country, and basically screwed up decades of diplomacy and rankled nuclear powers and U.S. debt-holders alike by deciding to have friendly telephone chats with Taiwan and Pakistan. If you don’t see that we’re utterly fucked as a nation, you have your head so far up your ass at this point that you’re your own human centipede. 

With all of this in mind, maybe it’s silly to be bothered by something as meaningless as aesthetics, but when it comes to Trump, those aesthetics maybe aren’t so meaningless. Everything about the outward appearance Trump presents shouts, not speaks, to the world just who he is as a person. And, befitting the grotesquely unsubtle bull in the proverbial china shop that he is, everything Trump projects is thoroughly devoid of class or good taste. Reflecting his dictatorial Weltanschauung, his penthouse apartment looks like it was decorated via a Vegas flea market; it’s a wonder there’s any garish gold left anywhere else in the world. He emblazons everything with his name, like an elementary school kid might do with his cool toys so everyone knows they’re his. He eats both pizza and fried chicken with a knife and fork and unthinkably orders his steaks well-done. 

And, yes, he can’t dress himself to save his life.

A couple of days ago, Esquire ran an amusing little item titled “This Is Embarrassing, Donald Trump.” Granted, with a headline like that the story could’ve been about anything involving a buffoon like Trump, but specifically what Esquire was talking about is the revelation that Donald Trump tapes his tie together. While getting off his plane in Indiana the other day, Trump had a picture of him snapped by Getty that shows him being buffeted by a sudden gust of wind. Now typically when something like this happens the highlight is his ridiculous Rube Goldbergian combover suddenly falling apart, and that’s definitely the thing your eye is drawn to first. But look closer and you can see that on the back of his necktie, there are two pieces of what appears to be Scotch tape. It’s securing the thin end of the tie to the back of thick end.

Now if you’re wondering why he might do something like this — taping his tie — Esquire guesses two things. The first is that, since Trump wears his ties at an absurd length — well past the waistline where it’s supposed to stop — it’s probably difficult for the skinny end of the tie to even reach the loop in the back that’s supposed to keep it in place. The second is that the tape may be double-sided in an effort to keep it attached to his shirt. There’s of course an easier and infinitely more tasteful way to achieve this goal — a tie bar — but why do that when you a) have no fucking taste to speak of, and b) insist on jury-rigging everything in your life because you’re a lazy asshole?

The taped tie epiphany is the latest bit of Trumpian sartorial shame to be publicly commented on. The reality is that, again befitting his personality — in this case that of a child — he always looks like his mother dressed him against his will for an event he doesn’t want to go to. Trump’s suits don’t fit properly. His tie hangs down to his dick. He’s consistently swimming in his overcoat. Granted, Trump’s body is basically just a bunch of differently sized lumps piled on top of each other, as if somebody just took a giant ice-cream scoop of flesh and dropped it onto a flat surface. It’s tough to imagine anything making him look good. But it’s astonishing what a good tailor can do — and apparently Trump’s tailor is as reputable as his doctor. 

Last month, Jezebel put the question of Trump’s terrible taste in fashion to Dominic Sebag-Montefiore, the creative director at Savile Row’s iconic Edward Sexton tailors. He points out the obvious: that Trump’s suits are way too big for him, surmising that it’s probably more important for Trump to be completely comfortable than to actually look good. (Rodney Dangerfield took this ethos to its logical conclusion with the “Regular Guy” look in Easy Money.) He notes that with Trump’s suits, the pants are too wide and the hem droops too far, the shoulders are too soft, the finish is usually a little shiny — predictably — and of course, there’s that issue with the tie. Sebag-Montefiore goes so far as to wonder whether Trump has a tailor at all or whether he just buys his clothes off-the-peg. 

All of this — the garish decor, the ill-fitting clothes, the desperate need to flaunt his wealth and the name attached to it — all of it points to Donald Trump as having the taste of the nouveau riche. It’s the overall style of someone who just won the lottery rather than someone who was actually born into money. Put simply, Donald Trump is nothing more than rich white trash. Everything about him, down to the way he presents himself — the visual he gives the world before he even opens the puckered sphincter in the center of his orange face — is an insult to good taste. He’s the living embodiment of offense and vulgarity. He’s an ugly person and does himself no favors by his choices of clothing and surroundings, almost certainly because he’s incapable of hiding who he is. He’s staggeringly vainglorious about the very qualities that it’s laughable for him to be vainglorious about. He has no class and no taste. None.

In Trump’s “autobiographical” 2007 book, “Trump 101: The Way To Success,” he says through his ghostwriter, “Beauty and elegance are products of personal style that come from deep within. No matter how hard you try, you cannot buy style.” 

Yeah, no shit.    

 

             

Chez Pazienza was the beating heart of The Daily Banter, sadly passing away on February 25, 2017. His voice remains ever present at the Banter, and his influence as powerful as ever.