Let's be Trump Tower

I'm the idea that if you get rid of loudmouth Trump, you get the Fundamentalist VP, Pence!

I'll be the Gucci store...

I'm the underage whores-uh-*niece*.

I’m the lack of sufficient fire safety features, including sprinklers...

“China, if....”

I’m the faint yet persistent smell of taco bowls.

I’m the 9” hung repairman who always seems to be summoned to “fix de pipes” when Melania is alone in the PH.

I'm the subcontractors who worked on this project and didn't get paid and can't talk about this massive theft due to NDAs and who don't have the money to endlessly fight the good Christian Trump's masses of lawyers in court.

I’m the 1980s-chic rust colored marble adorning the walls of the lobby. I’m just as moderne as the brass handrails throughout the building that are strangely reminiscent of the gold package option on a 1983 Cadillac Sedan de Ville.

I'm the Renoir imposter hanging in King Dingus Drumpf's "library". Library is in quotes, because all the books are fake as well, mere spines purchased by the metre.

I'm the magnificent Art Deco Bonwitt Teller building, pulled down to erect this thing.

I'm the bronze grills and sculptured panels of the Bonwitt Teller Building, which Trump promised to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in order to get permission to demolish the store. Instead he ordered the panels smashed and sold the bronze for scrap.

I'm the ghost of Bonwit Teller.

I'm the dark maroon velvet that covers the hallway walls in the apartment floors.

I'm...moist.

I'm Vairst Leddy taking incalls.

I'm the low ceilings.

R15 I'm the faux frescoes covering every inch of you in the Presidential Penthouse.

I'm the ghosts of all the dead hookers Trump smothered because he had to be on top

I'm the prison-level extra security that has closed off the block between Fifth and Madison and reduces traffic to a standstill whenever Traitor Tot is in residence. He loves me and everyone else does not. To put it mildly.

I’m the new name this building will have in the future. You don’t see many Hitler Hotels or Qaddafi Quarters ... Trump Tower will become ________

[R19] ....a prime site cleared for new development, if we're lucky.

I'm the roof covered with bird shit.

I'm the weird little forest of trees that used to hang out on the multiple setbacks. I'm the one oddly graceful architectural note.

I'm the original penthouse grand staircase. I was too tacky even for Trump, as I've been replaced.

I’m the idiot MAGA tourists posing for selfies in front of the building.

I’m the glass coffee table that will slice your leg open if you brush up against me.

Purita Fleschhut says:

[quote]Die Frau is not pretty at all. Imagine how she looks sans make-up?

Purita fucking Fleschhut? Which one of you bitches left that nasty comment?

I'm the gold commode .

I'm the multiple lawsuits against Trump that will eventually become its sinkhole.

I'm the new and improved(?) penthouse staircase.

I'm the 7 billion individual hives created by me, the Trump Tower, on anyone with a brain and a modicum of taste who ever came in contact with me.

I’m the cum on the carpets because Melania couldn’t swallow it all

I'm the plate glass windows. I keep every Trump other than Donald from jumping.

I'm Obama Way in front of Trump Tower if NYers get their way.

I’m the first floor Russian Laundry Service that specializes in bucks, notes, bullion, all forms of dough.

I am the Putin Shrine, which consists of a box with a crank that, when churned, plays "Pop! Goes the Weasel". At the end, Putin’s head pops out feverishly laughing about his fortunes.

I am the Food Court that occupies the entire first floor. There’s a delivery tube connected to the Penthouse—which we call the greased poop chute.

R29 The previous staircase was unable to accommodate an Acorn stairlift.

ore ida french fries

I am the Crystal...

the powder crystal meth

because

trump was too cheap to serve the real thing.

We are the separate bedroom for the wife and separate apartment for the kids.

I am the cell phone connecting him to the twitter, that is his one true love.

I'm Ivanka's bedroom. I've been perfectly preserved since the day she moved out.

Rust-colored? That marble is Vomit pink.

I’m the unintended irony of palatial decor in 9 feet high rooms.

I am the fact that the original staircase was actually better.

I am the hope of being "The Towering Inferno/2020" breaking box office records.

I'm a toadstool.

But the Vairst Leddy has to sit on me, too!

I’m the low 9 foot ceilings, r44. Just like tiny little fingers. And 9 is being generous. 8’4” on a good day

I’m the missing 10 floors that don’t exist so it sounds like I am much taller than I really am.

[quote]I’m the faint yet persistent smell of taco bowls.

I’m the faint yet persistent smell of taco bowels.

Fixed it for you.

I'm the increasingly downscale shops as white-trash Trump supporter supplant the Eurotrash who were the original target market. Soon I will be a Hooters, six tattoo parlors and a shop selling edible underwear.

I am the NYC Landmarks Commission. In a word, no.

I am Der Scutt, architect of this thing. I actually designed some good buildings, but the client basically fucked with all the details of this project and this became my least favorite commission. In case you're wondering, he stiffed me too.

I'm the tacky fountain in the lobby with the cheaply installed plumbing I'm about to burst a pipe and flood the lobby.

i am the lead based gold paint.

I am the smell of fried foods from the classy, classy restaurants.

I am the White House. Evidently, compared with this place I am "a real dump."

I am another Der Scutt abomination, but thankfully I was a pipe dream.

I'm Donny Jrs receding hairline

I'm the unrelenting ELEGANCE

I’m the Head of Tiffany security buying condoms for my cinq a sept with the Third Lady. She doesn’t charge me full prices.

That’s love.

I'm the complete lack of any work of art in the penthouse.

I'm the air rights to the landmarked Tiffany's Building next door, which Trump could not acquire and demolish. He used me to make Trump Tower taller. Then he named his daughter after me.

I'm 30-year-old industrial hotel room upholstery freshener spay. There are cartons of me in a grim basement storage room and I permeate the gypsy Rococo furnishings in every Trump living space, including, now, the cooter-juice smeared sofas in the Oval Office.

I'm the hordes of fat deplorables stomping through, dazzled at the thought of being in the vicinity of Trump's puckered lips.

I'm the toilet paper. Whenever I am used, a maid folds my next sheet into a little triangular point, just like they do in the hotels.

I'm the former nose of Ivana Trump. I was forgotten and left behind after the divorce. I'm in a velvet ring box behind the gold bidet (never used) in the master bedroom.

I am SOLID GLOD!!1!111!!!! IAM EVERYWERE BOW DWN BEFORE MY MAGESTY

I'm Liberace, feeling right at home, because I am home.

I'm the soon-to-be-seized assets.

I'm the big brass colored letters on the soon to be sized asset that will end up in a landfill in queens.