Season Finale

Episode Report Card
Jacob Clifton: A | Grade It Now!
Lesson Thirteen: People Aren't Metaphors
In a hurry? Read the recaplet for a nutshell description!

Lest we forget the real star and the only true winner here, we begin with Trump exiting his titular Tower, Viceroys in tow, to instant screaming from whatever the hell kind of people hang around outside Trump Tower, waiting to scream their stupid asses off in the frozen cold for a toadlike man whose multimillionaire status is somewhat belied by the fact that he commits ritual bankruptcy more times per fiscal year than you just tried to diagram this sentence. To be fair, he has a lovely Mystic happening in his maxillofacial area, and looks nearly presentable. He tells us how excited he -- and by extension we -- are, and reminds us that he -- and by extension we -- thinks Rebecca is smart, tough and loyal, while Randal is "just Randal," meaning that he's "just exceptional." That awful face he makes issues commands to the limo driver like the guy's never been to Lincoln Center, orders Carolyn and George to "Come on, folks, let's go," and walks with that damned swagger he has, like he's in a movie with a totally kick-ass soundtrack, the foot from the curb, then stands at the door ushering his Viceroys into the building, somehow standing with a swagger, and we're off to a very fucking irritating start. Yes?

In Lincoln Center, everybody is screaming, and we look at thousands of uninteresting people, wearing fewer shrugs but more coats than you might think, and Trump jumps up on stage and does this way dorky move with his arms out -- the main event has arrived, and he's yooge! -- and people kind of scream. It's a polite kind of scream. Everybody looks pretty bored. Trump introduces "the lovely Robin," then throws his big fluffy coat directly in her face, and she fucking giggles, and runs offstage, covered and I mean smothered in overcoat, and I...sort of don't like Robin anymore. The three cross stage left to the ghetto fake Boardroom and we see in the audience Ms. Singer from Autism Speaks, sans daughter. The Hair, it looks nice. It's got that ham-fisted finger-combed look it gets, but it's going straight back and is less unruly than normal. The only troubling thing is that you can't really tell where his hairline is, because his hair kind of matches his face.

Trump blathers on at the tippity-top of his amphibious lungs about shit you already know -- Randal is "threatened" by rain, Rebecca is threatened by Piscopine flakery -- and the camera refuses to see anyone cheering for Randal except for black people. Don't email, there's a point to noting that beyond the fact that it's weird. Cheering for Rebecca are...old people. And an Indian family. "Believe it or not," intones Trump, "I haven't made up my mind yet. Hit the lights! Let's get going!"

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