On June 17, Donald Trump will slip into San Antonio, vacuum up a bunch of campaign contributions, and dash out, with no public appearances. And who can blame him? If a Mexican-American judge born in Indiana can’t fairly try the Trump University lawsuits, what kind of chance would Trump the candidate stand in a city where more than 63 percent of the population is Hispanic? And in Texas no less? The Lone Star State is notorious for having Mexico cooties all over it.
The San Antonio Express-News broke the news Wednesday that only donors who RSVP will be told the fundraiser’s location. Smart. If you want to win the presidency, the best thing is to avoid a public like ours. The header on page six of Trump’s campaign playbook reads, “Never, under any circumstance, give San Antonio your real number.”
Trump is nothing if not shrewd.
But his San Antonio donors… my God, they’re the opposite of shrewd. They’re downright heroic, in that crazy-bold, all-in kind of way. Think of the guts it’ll take to scribble those checks. They live either in or close to a minority-majority city, and many of them lead or help manage businesses that probably rely on at least a few minority customers. Nevertheless, these local titans will not be tyrannized by political correctness. They will muster the courage to donate to Trump’s campaign, knowing full well that their names and how much they gave will be a matter of public record with the next Federal Election Commission filing. Impact to the bottom line? Psst. Whatever.
Anyway, since we’re likely to be denied a real “Trump’s day in SA,” below are a few snippets of a fantasy tour of SA for the Donald.
Motorcade pulls up in front of the Alamo. Jumps out, waits for MSM douche bags to catch up. Aide hands him two signs that he waves giddily in front of the cameras, one in each hand. Left hand: “#RememberTheAlamoAgainin2016.” Right hand: “#ButReallyILoveThe HispanicsandTheyLoveMeBack.”
“You people are taller than I imagined.”
Rubs his hands together, gets a scary, hungry look, and says, “Now, where’s this Boys Town I’ve heard so much about?”
Rubs his hands together, gets a scary, hungry look, and says, “Now, where’s this Donkey Lady I’ve heard so much about?”
“Driving in, we saw an old Mexican lady walking her dog and carrying a club. You people have the craziest gang rituals! Crazy!”
Mistakes the Mexican Consulate on Navarro Street for San Antonio City Hall.
“So, where do all the thugs live around here?” Raises an eyebrow. “You know — thugs.” Winks a sly wink.
Experiences racial profiling firsthand. Orders chilaquiles (pronounces “Shill-lack-quil-ees) and server leans in and says, “You know that’s spicy, right?” But rather than taking offense, he’s grateful for the warning. Orders three bean-and-cheese tacos that he devours with a fork and knife, no salsa.
On his way out of town, turns to a flunky and barks, “Write this down — Make San Antone Mexico Again. Red baseball caps. Two-thousand gross. $15 each.”