The TRUMP National Doral Golf Club looked like a postcard from your Aunt who fled to Florida for the sunshine and bugs as the thief came through her front window. "IT'S CALLED THE TRUMP DORAL NATIONAL GOLF CLUB, YOU F--KING IDIOT!..... YOU'RE FIRED!" yelled that voice that killed a thousand checking accounts. The poor man in long sleeves, long khaki pants and a hat fit for a bee keeper just smiled. The voice from Hell continued, "YOU, YOU, YOU F--KING WETBACK! GET THE FUCK OFF THIS GOLF COURSE!" The man in overalls just kept smiling. The entourage surrounding the great fire breather was in stoned and petrified silence as they squirmed in their Gucci shoes and Prada designs. They were hand-picked clothing for them to wear by the dragon himself. Why not?! They were his kids. He could dress them anyway his money could buy. The groundskeeper just kept smiling. And the anger seethed through the makeup, false tan spray paint and toupee of orange... of course being the new Black. It reminded his kids of the great inferno and volcano that they had been forced to adapt to over their four decades of his tortuous narcissistic rage. The pay was always good. But the hours were hellacious, especially when Dad went into a fit. And we were about to see one of those in a minute. "AND IT IS NOT A GOD DAMN HAIR PIECE YOU JACKASS!" was his common refrain.