I had such high hopes for you, dear Ivanka, I’ve always said that. Fashion was your strong suit, wasn’t it, dear? I sold your dresses at Lord & Taylor, I wore your dresses (at Lord & Taylor), they were a perfect fit, I loved them. And I always thought you had some smarts. I don’t think any Trump qualifies as “the brains of the family,” but you had your own path, your own vision, right? And then, I don’t know what you were up to after I left the department store (not a big enough fan to be a follower, although I did see you on Apprentice a couple of times), but the next thing I hear about Ivanka is that you married that weasel-ass, crooked, little man. Was it an arranged marriage, dear? Probably so. You really could have done so much better. Anyway…what happens next?…history is made and you’re in the White House, girl! Holy cow, how did that happen?! My, my, such a rise in stature, in responsibility. And are you still working on Pennsylvania Avenue and could you please tell me WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON OVER THERE? Daddy’s got dementia, darlin’, could you please get him some meds or put a muzzle on the bastard? YOU, girl! Step in there, sister, DO SOMETHING. He listens to you, right? Save the fucking world, Ivanka, you could be the first female president (screw Hope Hicks), get the old man outta there! You could have a big-ass resignation parade, all the bells and whistles. Tell your idiot father it’s the military hoopla he always wanted–and in his honor! The crowd would be huge! I’m serious, they will name holidays after you, build statues, take the reins, baby, DO SOMETHING! He’s losing it, honey, probably your only chance to save the family name (hmmm) is now.
And ditch the skinny husband (ew) .… And get a decent speech writer … And manufacture your clothes in the USA, you dumb ass.
The Women of the World (and KC)