One bit player, Doctor Quack Z. Runningmouth—
"It never occurred to me that he was the oldest president, not for a second," Bornstein, 69, said in his Upper East Side office of the 70-year-old Trump. He said that "there's nothing to share" on a regular basis about a president's health. "Ronald Reagan had pre-senile dementia. I mean, seriously, did they share that one with you, or did Nancy just cover it up?"Weeellll... okey-dokey, then...
"If something happens to him, then it happens to him," Bornstein said. "It's like all the rest of us, no? That's why we have a vice president and a speaker of the House and a whole line of people. They can just keep dying."Smart, keeping the business in the family. Why even his wife appears to be impersonating a doctor...
... his great-aunt, who is also a patient of his, was headed to the emergency room across the street from his office. He and his wife put on their matching white doctors coats and headed to the hospital, to see how she was doing and make sure she got the best possible care.Rounding out the cast... Though they may not be ready for prime time, the private security goons were a big hit with fans during rallies, as they roughed up whoever The Boss fingered. Now, they're ejecting journalists. Unaccountable to only one man, they appear poised to supercede the Secret Service.
And for some really small bit players... Jes' folks: hangin' at home with the kids, lettin' their hoods down...
A&E's newest series does something worse than just provide a platform for the KKK: It employs the formal format and devices of the channel's other hits (Hoarders, Intervention) to transform its bigots into colorful characters, thereby placing them on the same plane as the rest of cable TV's freaky reality stars. By situating them in a familiar faux-verité package, Generation KKK makes clear that these rancid people are just as suitable subjects for our entertainment as anyone else. In short: It legitimizes them.Well the format has worked quite well for a certain rancid, orange-hued star.
That structure will be recognizable to anyone who's watched a reality-TV program over the course of the past decade—and it's Generation KKK's most reprehensible aspect. By having its subjects constantly restate the same soundbites (Daryle is going to "put boots on the ground"; Cody views Richard as a "father figure"), and by repeatedly manufacturing a sense of impending doom—through interview snippets, and ominous music—that never materializes, the show feels like just another small-screen effort aimed at drumming up spectacle through staged scenarios and manipulative aesthetics. It's akin to a multi-episode KKK variation on Teen Mom or My 600 Lb. Life, except with more go-nowhere handwringing by hatemongers who aren't committed to (or interested in) changing.
Generation KKK seems to believe it's exposing these cretins for who they truly are (and what they stand for). However, by using a standard-issue TV template to let them prattle on about race-mixing and white power, about their oh-so-sacred "naturalization" ceremonies performed next to dirt road shacks, about their "religious" "cross-lighting" rituals, and about the color-coded ranks of their hate group, the show treats them no differently than any of its other reality TV oddballs. That includes the bearded hillbillies of Duck Dynasty, whose hit A&E show is, coincidentally, going off the air shortly after Generation KKK—another program courting rural white viewers—premieres. The network's apparent underlying business model isn't difficult to decipher. But it's certainly something to condemn.
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