Apparently, part of Donald J. Trump’s appeal is the implied poppycock promise that, moments after being sworn in, he will sprinkle some magic fairy dust on the economy and great swaths of hardworking Joe Sixpacks will finally be able to trade in their ailing rusty subcompacts for monstrous new mobile homes, large enough for the extended family and powerful enough to haul the new yacht. No money down, of course – just sign here and don’t worry about that fine print.

Even if there were a scintilla of a chance of that happening, our planet is hard-pressed to support the lifestyle of one megamansion-mothballing, multiple supermodel-marrying, jumbo jet-junketing kajillionaire, let alone 350 million more.

People, puh-lease. Open your eyes. This pied piper of Ponziesque prosperity, this false prophet of profits, this would-be king, is as naked as his ambition.

King Donald has no clothes. Let’s let him peddle his fear, hatred and greed somewhere else.

Our country needs uniting, not dividing; real leadership, not reality show rhetoric.

Lee M. Foster