GRAY IN L.A.: The Emperor's Shabby Clothes -- Why Ivanka Must Have A Frank Talk With Daddy

GRAY IN L.A.

We know by now that Ivanka Trump is glued to Daddy's side, has access to everything he owns and does; and nobody should be surprised if she will answer the phone in the White House when Putin calls for a little frank chat with Daddy. Now here comes the puzzling part, and I think it's a real head-scratcher that needs some serious investigation.

How does Ivanka, a fashion plate who is obsessed with looking perfectly dressed, let Daddy Darling get away with his disastrous appearance? Blind adoration? Weakness? Fear?

A quick, unbiased look shows an ungainly, messy and unattractive fat guy whose gut hangs over his belt. His suits look cheap, worn, rumpled; his striped ties are a disaster. He will not just be America's most unfit, but also the most fashionably unfitted President in recent history.

I mean Laura Bush let George leave the house in cowboy boots on weekends, Hillary approved of Bill in a T-shirt, and Nancy allowed an occasional Western shirt on Ronnie -- but other than that they all managed to look put together like average business men. Only Obama, a relatively dapper dresser, looks like a gorgeous GQ model compared to shlubby soon to be "Commander in Chief" Trump.

This is what I imagine goes on every morning in the Trump-household. Ivanka steps into Dad's dressing room where he is busy with hairspray and a four-way mirror. "Dad, can we talk?" "No," he barks, "I'm busy with myself, don't you see?"

"We need to talk about your look, Daddy!" she pleads. "I look great, just great!" he says and looks at her. "Did you gain weight?" Her big round eyes fill with tears, she looks at her hips and thighs, "no, why do you ask that?" she cries. He laughs gleefully, "lay off the donuts, doll face, run along!"

So maybe she did try, maybe she likes ridiculous hair and shiny red faces in men. Maybe she lives by "the Emperor's New Clothes" rule. Maybe she is just the obedient first daughter, raised by a patriarch who is just like "The Godfather," except he's from Queens, not Italy.

If my father would have tried to leave the house with as much as a silly plaid golf-hat or messed-up hair, his daughters would have stopped him by the door, laughing so much, that he would have blushed and put it back on the hat rack! And he wasn't even as much as a senator or a representative of his country!

But back to the future.

Now, how hard can it be? Don't we women always envy men for just having to put on a suit, a shirt and a tie and look OK? So why would we trust a man with world peace and new jobs if he can't even look and dress like a fairly professional and decent looking guy? After all, being President is about making intelligent and reasonable decisions. A man who -- apparently of his own free will -- makes the decision every single morning to leave the house in a dyed, yellowish and buffoonish hair-concoction -- without any resistance from wife and children -- should NOT reside in the White House. And this is only about his appearance!

I can see it coming. At future White House dinner parties he will look like that embarrassing badly dressed loudmouth-uncle who doesn't know how to behave, who smacks, wipes his mouth with his hands, pinches the waitress's ass and cracks cheesy jokes nobody laughs at. And he will be the President of the United States.

Earlier on Huff/Post50:

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