It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a thrice-married man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of attention. 

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a presidential race, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of pundits, and yet overlooked by the surrounding electorate, that he is considered the rightful champion of some one or other of their key demos. 

“My dear Mr. Romney,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that the campaign has a frontrunner at last?”

Mr. Romney replied that he had not.

“But it is,” returned she; “for Megyn Kelly has just been on the television, and she told me all about it.”

Mr. Romney made no answer.

“Do you not want to know who has taken the lead?” cried his wife impatiently.

 “You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”

This was invitation enough.

“Why, my dear, you must know, Ms. Kelly says that much airtime is taken by an aging man of large fortune from the north of Queens; that he came down an escalator in Manhattan, and said that Mexican immigrants are rapists; and that he is to build a border wall before Michaelmas, and Mexico will pay for it.”

“What is his name?”

“Trump.”

“Is he Democrat or Republican?”

“Oh! Republican, my dear, to be sure! A successful man of large fortune: ten billion, he says, though he withholds the tax filings that would confirm it. What a fine thing for the working class!”

“How so? How can it affect them?”

“My dear Mr. Romney,” replied his wife, “how can you be so tiresome! You must know that they are thinking of voting for him."

* * *

“I raised the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Trump, looking at the eldest Miss Trump. “I’ve often said if Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.”

“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!” said Mr. Scarborough. “But there is one of your competitors sitting down just behind you, who is very conservative, and I dare say very opposed to abortion. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”

“Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at Ms. Fiorina, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said: “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me – look at that face! Would anyone vote for that? You had better return to your partner and enjoy her persona, for you are wasting your time with me.”

Mr. Scarborough followed his advice. Mr. Trump walked off; and Carly remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story, however, with great spirit among her supporters; for she had a lively, if modest, Twitter following, which took umbrage at anything misogynist.

“I refuse to call Megyn Kelly a bimbo,” Mr. Trump tweeted, awaiting his carriage. “That would not be politically correct!”

* * *

“Let me thank you again and again,” Mr. Christie cried, “in the name of all my donors, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much airtime, and produce so many mortifications, for the sake of leading the Republican Party to victory in November, over Hillary Clinton, which is the single most important thing we can do.”

“If you will endorse me,” Trump replied, “let it be for yourself alone. That the implicit strategy of promising a cabinet post to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your constituents owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of the Muslims I saw celebrating on 9/11, which is why I’m calling for a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States until our country’s representatives can figure out what is going on.”

Mr. Christie was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, his companion added, “Your career is too vulnerable to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last February, when you said my campaign was nothing but “make-believe,” tell me so at once. My ambitions and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject until my next nationally televised press conference.”

Christie, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced himself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave Trump to understand that his sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make Trump receive with vanity and disdain his present assurances. The smugness which this reply produced, was such as Trump had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as churlishly and as giddily as a man violently subduing protesters can be supposed to do. Had Christie been able to encounter his eye, he might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt self-regard, diffused over his face, distorted him; but, though he could not look, he could listen, and Trump told him of winning, so much winning if he gets elected, that the country may soon get bored with winning.

Also by Donald Trump:

The Art of the Deal

Sense and Insensitivity