Let's be the little moments that shaped Donald Trump into the seething asshole he is today.

"Donald, you will no longer be living in the family home. You are to attend the New York Military Academy from now until your 18th birthday. After that, you may do what you wish. Please gather your things, a car will collect you shortly. Do you have any questions? Fine, you are dismissed."

I’m Donnie’s pediatrician

“I’m sorry Frau Trump. That’s as big as his little mushroom will grow. And millions will someday pay the price for his feelings of inferiority.”

I'm Mary Anne McLeod Trump's averted head when she is asked to look at "puir wee" Donald after he emerged screaming from "doon there."

I’m Maryanne, the older sister who was the real man of the family.

I'm Father's capacious closet, where inquisitive little Donnie found hanging under cellophane wrap a mysterious but exciting big white pointed hood, and cloak to match. Father later sat Donnie down to tell him some serious things about that special private garb. Since that formative time, Donnie has maintained his reverence for some 'very fine people.'

I'm the sticky pages in his copy of Mein Kampf.

I'm the neighbor baby across the yard. I finally awakened the miniscule maternal instincts that were snuffed out when Mary Anne nearly died in childbirth with Robert. Her innocent comment of "Have you ever seen a more beautiful boy?" led little Donnie to chuck rocks at my head. Luckily he's uncoordinated and wasn't a kiddie diddler quite yet.

I'm Roy Cohen. The reasons are well known to you all

I'm a 6th grade girl whose name Donnie can't even remember. One day at Kew- Forest School he barged into the girls bathroom and cornered me in the bathroom, right between the sink and the pull towels and grabbed me by the pussy. I wish I'd bashed his head in with a toilet lid. Instead, 60 years later, I've been slowly feeding my husband, who worships him, ground glass

I's his second grade class. No one gave him a card on Valentine's Day

Cohn.

Shaped? Some kids are simply born of a bad seed. Nothing a mother can do but protect herself and society at large. Sadly, few have the character to handle things properly.

[quote] Some kids are simply born of a bad seed.

GIVE ME BACK MY SHOES!

I'm the exctasy tabs of the 90's. Trump heard that I caused erectile dysfunction, but made women crave sex. So he passed them out like Halloween candy, yet never partook. Such a shame. I was his one shot at empathy

I’m Brian Epstein. Donnie wanted to join the Beatles, but I told him that he had no talent and that he should fuck off.

I'm the WW2 vet turned teacher at Trump's reform school. I saw right through little Donnie and called him Low IQ when he lied about reading A Separate Peace. This kid is destined for the gutter

I’m the doc who craftily sewed his scalp reduction stitches into a 666.

I go by the name Cherry. I ran away from Cleveland and ended up in Times Square. My one little bit of defense against these tricks is a raging case of syphilis. Looks like Donald had that treated as well as he treated me. No tip. Which is ironic because a tip is all he has

I'm his 1987 trip to Russia. Oh the komproment. Nobody is this dumb are they? The cameras are as big as his bald spot.

I'm Ivanka's bleached hair. Is her mom dyeing my trying to keep that old pervert home? Jesus. I think she is

I'm the first diaper. So much relief after a year of loudly shitting his pants in public

I'm the highlighter powder next to the bronzer in his Orange Miami pallette. At first used tentatively, but now I'm out like a drag queen on her first Halloween. Sparkle bitches!

I'm Sarah Jessica Parker. Is this dickhead really making a cameo on my show? Why? Oh owns this building? Stick him with Kim.

I'm little mushrooms and locker room cruelty.

I'm that one Italian mobster with the oversized necktie that he's been emulating since 1982

I'm eating pizza with a fork

I'm Obama's voice, ringing in his head

I'm Ivana. Crying out from the bottom of the stairs

I'm that one time Elon shared his ketamine. Damn those 12 seconds of brain death will be uncomfortable

I’m the ringer who took the SATs for him. He still couldn’t manage any better than Fordham until a family friend let him transfer to Penn.

I'm cosy Saturday nights at the kitchen table in Queens, eating Klondike bars and listening to family folklore about Papa Frederick's whoremongering days in the Yukon.

I'm the mashed potatoes that got poured over his head. Hot as hell, big Bush supporter

I'm the addiction gene

I'm that one he was booed at a football game

I'm his yeti pubes

I'm the Adderall and the idea to crush it up