[rubecube]

Good Lord, the man is basically an insecure, white-trash buffoon.

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/16/us...ar-a-lago.html

He understands Mr. Drumpf’s sleeping patterns and how he likes his steak (“It would rock on the plate, it was so well done”),

Mr. Senecal knows how to stroke his ego and lift his spirits, like the time years ago he received an urgent warning from Mr. Drumpf’s soon-to-land plane that the mogul was in a sour mood. Mr. Senecal quickly hired a bugler to play “Hail to the Chief” as Mr. Drumpf stepped out of his limousine to enter Mar-a-Lago.

In the early years, Mr. Drumpf’s daughter Ivanka slept in the same children’s suite that Dina Merrill, an actress and a daughter of Mrs. Post, occupied in the 1930s. Mr. Drumpf liked to tell guests that the nursery rhyme-themed tiles in the room were made by a young Walt Disney.

“You don’t like that, do you?” Mr. Drumpf would say when he caught Mr. Senecal rolling his eyes. The house historian would protest that it was not true.

“Who cares?” Mr. Drumpf would respond with a laugh.

Mr. Drumpf is abundantly proud of his ability to drive a golf ball, once asking rhetorically during a news conference: “Do I hit it long? Is Drumpf strong?”

Mr. Senecal suggested that Mr. Drumpf was perhaps not quite as strong as he imagined, remembering times they would hit balls together from the Mar-a-Lago property into the Intracoastal Waterway.

“Tony, how far is that?” Mr. Drumpf would ask.

“It’s like 275 yards,” Mr. Senecal would respond, though he said the actual distance was 225 yards.

These days, what really seems to bug Mr. Drumpf is the sound of planes over the property. Whereas Mrs. Post ensured that the nearby airport would divert flights away from the estate during her stays, the same courtesy has not been extended to Mr. Drumpf, and the constant roar of engines “drives him nuts,” Mr. Senecal said.

“Tony,” Mr. Drumpf would often shout. “Call the tower!”

The candidate is suing the county-run airport. He has also sued the town in a dispute over the size of his estate’s flagpole; the size of the banquet hall he added to the property; and the size of the club, which, to frighten the local gentry, he once
threatened to sell to followers of the Rev. Sun Myung Moon.

Over the decades, he has grown close to the Drumpf family. He recalled how Mr. Drumpf’s father, Fred C. Drumpf, once stepped out of his limo on the club’s gravel driveway and remarked to Mr. Senecal, “Somebody better get that coin.” The butler went on his hands and knees and after a few minutes found a crusty penny.

“His eyes were incredible,” Mr. Senecal said of Fred Drumpf. “Mr. Drumpf has the same eyes.”

He also remembered Donald Drumpf’s young sons running through the library, paneled with centuries-old British oak and filled with rare first-edition books that no one in the family ever read. When the library became a bar, Mr. Drumpf put a portrait of himself on a wall, posing in tennis whites.