Westerhout, among other things, shot off her inebriated mouth about Trump not wanting to be photographed with his daughter Tiffany because he feels Tiffany is “fat.” He apparently feels that unless he’s standing next to another person who is overweight, nobody will notice that he could stand to shed about sixty pounds himself. Westerhout also mentioned that Trump routinely eats double Quarter Pounders on the toilet while holding his fries between his knees.
In her most revealing chunk of shitfaced gossip, Westerout claimed to have a better relationship with Trump than any of his children. Whether an attractive twenty-eight-year-old woman who routinely wears tight dresses could achieve this level of easy comfort with Trump without at least occasionally tending to his mushroom was not something Westerhout was sufficiently buzzed to discuss, apparently, but she blathered heedlessly on about how much his kids can’t stand the Tangerine Turdbite, much like the rest of us.
Imagine, if you will, an alternate universe in which Fred Trump, instead of leaving his boy Donald nearly half a billion dollars, had sunk his fortune into Fotomat or a company that made pagers instead. If Trump hadn't inherited a big chunk of change, and held on to at least some of it, none of his kids would have anything to do with him, like the children of any ordinary, dead-broke malignant narcissist.
Trump himself would be living in a mobile home park in Florida, because he would need to maintain his pockmarked tan naturally, which wouldn’t happen in New York. Most days he would be wearing a nothing but a bathrobe that too-often flapped open in front of his neighbors, necessitating yet another visit by the cops. He wouldn’t have been able to spend much money to maintain a head of hair, so a baseball cap would be permanently glued to his skull. His sole indulgence would be having a fifteen-year-old car, an ATV that won't start and a boat with two flat tires on the trailer, all with the vanity license plate “TRUMP” attached to them. He would constantly complain about his kids not sending him money.
The only one who could afford to would be Ivanka. She wouldn’t be married to the scion of a real-estate baron, of course, but she could find herself a guy with some cheese, like maybe the chubby bald owner of a Southern California plumbing company who appears in his own TV commercials, so she would constantly be reminded of her soulless marriage. She would spend most of his money getting plastic surgery so she could appear on a reality TV show and to make herself more attractive to the personal trainers and hot yoga instructors that she is having affairs with. She blames the time difference for the fact that she never returns her dad’s phone calls.
Donald Jr., after a couple of convictions for poaching deer in his adopted state of Pennsylvania, had been unable to get any work other than installing Dish antennas out near Altoona. He finally lucked out by falling off a roof. He collects permanent disability and gets a hundred bucks a week under the table for keeping an eye on his neighbor’s grow house.
Eric was killed in an auto-pedestrian collision because he didn’t have a personal attendant to remind him to look both ways before he crossed the street.
Barron doesn't exist. Even in this alternate universe, Melania wouldn't have any trouble finding a rich guy to marry.
Tiffany really would be fat. She would have moved to Florida to be closer to her dad and blossomed into obesity as some Southern girls are prone to do. All them hurricane snacks, I guess. She lives in the trailer park next to Trump's. Every birthday, holiday and whenever she gets a new iPhone, she comes over and insists on taking selfies with him.
Trump can't stand that.