Sushi Talk About Donald and Women - The American Spectator | USA News and Politics
Sushi Talk About Donald and Women


An interesting evening. Big Wifey wanted me to go out to get her sashimi, and she also wanted to take a long nap. So, I went off to one of my favorite places, Sushiya, on Sunset Plaza and met an incredibly, unbelievably beautiful young friend in the real estate business. When I say this young woman is beautiful, that’s like saying Lake Pendoreille is beautiful. She is staggering, amazingly gorgeous, but not as gorgeous as my wife or my German short-haired pointer, Julie.

She’s also an avid Republican. She was hopping mad about the media coverage of Donald Trump’s faux pas revealed over the weekend. She started right in on it even before the miso arrived.

“First of all,” she said, “I’ve known a lot of rich, famous men, and I mean a lot. We’ve been talking about this for years. And they don’t have to force themselves on a certain type of woman. The women force themselves on the rich, famous men. The women are drawn to the men like that like ants to honey.”

“Really?” I asked. “Surely not women like my wife.”

“Your wife is sixty-nine years old,” she said. “Your wife has a big house in Beverly Hills and a TV star husband. But take your pretty girl who’s just moved to LA and she’s from Dubuque and she’s working as a hostess at a restaurant and she gets maybe twenty dollars an hour and she shares a studio apartment with two other girls and she can barely pay the rent on that.

“And she meets a guy who has a billion dollars or even ten million dollars and she’s seen his face on TV, and she sees him at the restaurant with other pretty girls and they’ve got clothes from Rag and Bone and she’s shopping at Target. And she’s drawn to him. He’s security. He’s status. He’s got what she wants.”

“True enough,” I said. “That’s always been true. But, again, it’s not true for all women even if they’re hard up. I know that.”

“Yes,” she answered. “Not for all women. But for enough that it’s generally true. Women are drawn to power and money in this country is power.”

She started tucking into her yellowtail sashimi and I told her a story. “It’s worldwide. About ten years ago, a close friend and I were in DC over Halloween. And I met two simply stunning Russian women and their husbands as we were watching the costumes on M Street. I offered to take them all for drinks at the Four Seasons. They agreed, rather halfheartedly, and we were sitting in the lounge talking. I had just come back from a trip to Germany and I had about 30 one hundred dollar bills in my pocket. When I took them out to pay the bill, one of the women’s eyes lit up. She had shown no interest in me at all hitherto. But after she saw all the bills, she smiled, asked questions, laughed at everything I said. When we left, she palmed a card with her phone number on it into my hand. And she winked.”

“That’s not even a little bit unusual,” said my sashimi-eating pal.

“I later talked to the Russian woman and she said she was turned on by all of those hundreds, and she said it was the same when she saw Russian rich flashing wads of hundreds in St. Petersburg.”

“Right,” my smart dinner companion said. “I think that’s why all of those self-righteous women in the media got so incensed about the way Trump talked. It’s because they know it’s true, and they know it’s in the basic nature of women.”

Again, I added, “Not all women.”

“That’s so interesting,” she said. “Why do you think I’m drawn to you?”

“But I’m not at all rich,” I answered. “And our relationship is hardly romantic.”

“You’re not rich compared with billionaires,” she replied. “But you’re rich enough and you’re famous and your father was famous. It’s almost like nobility.”

“Nobility? Are you kidding? I get faint when I consider my MasterCard bill or my son’s Visa bill. I spend a lot of the day cleaning up from my wife’s horrible cats.”

“None of that matters,” she said. “You fill the bill.”

“It’s interesting,” I said. “Certain kinds of women like what they think are rich and famous men. But I have almost never in my life met a man who was turned on by a successful woman. Almost never. Yes, respect. Yes, appreciation. But a turn on? Men like attractive but seemingly weak and vulnerable women. Although they rarely turn out to be weak and vulnerable.”

“Yes, of course,” my companion added. “Go to a Lakers game and look at the hot girls with the billionaires. They aren’t investment bankers. They aren’t trial lawyers. They might be on some local TV show, once in a billion years. But men like women who seem to be able to be controlled, who seem to be needy.”

“Well,” I said, “these are generalities. Lots of men marry successful women. I married my wife when she was a rising star as a lawyer and she soon got to be a far more successful lawyer.”

“But you were both so young. I’m talking about older, richer men and younger women. Moths to a flame,” my friend insisted. She had by now moved to the dumplings.

We changed the subject to a documentary I had just seen which included a story about one of Hitler’s court telling him a “joke.” Here’s the joke: The Führer, Göring, and Himmler are all under an umbrella but the umbrella is small. So who gets wet? The Führer apparently scowled (said the documentary) and said, “It’s all ridiculous. All right. Who got wet?”

“No one,” said the joke teller, maybe Reichsleiter Bormann. “It’s not raining.”

“Ridiculous,” said the Führer. And he stormed off.

“Not surprising that Hitler didn’t have much of a sense of humor,” I told my friend. But then again, it’s not that great a joke.

What is a joke is that according to Brent Bozell, the media spent incalculably more time “covering” Trump’s boasting tape in which no one was hurt than it did covering Juanita Broaddrick’s allegations that Bill Clinton had raped her.

One-party media. One-party morality. Dare not say we’re afraid of the Islamists even though they bomb us. Dare not criticize the gangsters because they’re black. All you dare do is shout “Amen” when the media calls a teller of poor jokes a racist and a bully.

Sometimes late at night I start to sing, “O, beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain, for purple mountains’ majesty, above the fruited plain.… America, America, God shed His grace on thee, and crown thy good, with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.”

Can’t sing that in public. “God” might offend atheists. “Brotherhood” offends women. “Grace” implies Godly power and offends evolutionists. And those waves of grain? Genetically modified? Gluten-bearing. It’s all one micro-aggression after another. God help us.

Ben Stein
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Ben Stein is a writer, actor, economist, and lawyer living in Beverly Hills and Malibu. He writes “Ben Stein’s Diary” for every issue of The American Spectator.
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