Tiffany Trump has been viewed as the least known of Donald Trump’s children. The 23-year-old, who was raised separately from her siblings and made a late appearance on the presidential campaign trail, has been dubbed the “forgotten” Trump.

All the same, this has not made her exempt from the fury of her father’s detractors. This could be most clearly glimpsed during New York Fashion Week where there were reports the President’s second youngest child had been snubbed by fashion writers.

Former Wall Street Journal style columnist Christina Binkley shared a photo of Ms Trump sitting with two empty seats beside her, saying: "Nobody wants to sit next to Tiffany Trump at Philipp Plein, so they moved and the seats by her are empty”.

Fortunately for Ms Trump, who is the billionaire developer’s only daughter from his second marriage to Marla Maples, Whoopi Goldberg swooped in to save the day.

Despite the fact Goldberg has been an outspoken critic of Mr Trump, she suggested it was unfair for anger at his policies to be directed at Ms Trump given she was simply there to enjoy the catwalk.

"You know what Tiffany? I'm supposed to go to a couple more shows. ... I'm coming to sit with you," Goldberg said on The Viewwhich she hosts on ABC on Wednesday.

"Because nobody is talking politics at the [shows], you're looking at fashion! She doesn't want to talk about her dad. She's looking at the fashion!"

Goldberg, who previously said she would leave America if Mr Trump became President, argued the incident was "mean”, saying: "Girl, I will sit next to you because I've been there where people say, 'Ooh, we're not going to sit next to you. I'll find your a*se and sit next to you."

Fashion writer, Binkley, has now said Ms Trump was not actually snubbed at the show. She said the seats remained unoccupied for two minutes or less and the first daughter seemed unaware of what was going on.

Nevertheless, Nikki Ogunnaike, senior fashion editor at Elle, said the actual show started late due to frenzied last minute seating change, with editors at the show “fleeing” so they would not have to sit around Ms Trump. The tweets made headlines, with fashion designer, Plein, even weighing in to defend her by saying she is not a “politician” and merely a “teenager”.

Ms Trump, who thanked Goldberg for her show of support on Twitter, was raised separately from the other Trump siblings. She moved to California at the age of five and was brought up by her mother, Ms Maples, while her father and siblings were based in New York.

In a 2015 interview, Ms Trump said of her father: “I don’t know what it’s like to have a typical father figure. He’s not the dad who’s going to take me to the beach and go swimming, but he’s such a motivational person.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

Here's a few legitimate refugees:
political, poverty, drought, war, and religious.
They're right in the top drawer zone,
But who gives a flying Whoopi
That Miley will claim assylum in Bali Bali;
Or Rosie will fly over camps on her way to Switzerland.
I hope Cher,
Doesn't apply for residence on Cape Breton Island:
We don't want you, Babe.
These are the celebrity refugees,
Bailing out on the touted
Greatest Democracy on the planet.
****, if you don't like what you elect,
Look to history,
Stove pipe hats,
And the wonders to be achieved
Before the end of this decade.
They got enough cash for space,
For Mars!

My daughter will not crawl from crib to tanning bed.

She will learn
the terms “unnattainable beauty standards” before she learns the alphabet.

She will never compare herself
to anyone.

She will never compare herself to Britney, Christina, Selena.

She will never compare herself to Cinderella, Ariel, Belle,
Hell. No.

She will never aspire to be the sultry *** kitten taking seductive showers in shampoo commercials.
No.

My daughter will be named Venus.
The goddess of love, beauty, fertility,

The most beautiful woman I ever saw.
She is plump, fullfigured barebreasted wide hipped with curly hair covered mons

Goddess.

My daughter will grow up to be ******, poisonously beautiful

With long locks of goldenrodred hair, like her mother.
Greyblueblack eyes and shoulder freckles, like her father.

And if I can never become pregnant,
my sisters daughters will be my daughters
skin the color of cinnamon or chocolate, or vanilla ice cream
and just as sweet.

Men, women, boys, girls will pine over her, fall in love with her radiating skin
that will never look photoshopped, but always real.

As if the sun came down from the sky to give her the glow of all the light in the universe.

She will love her body the way that my mother taught me to love mine.
I will show her pictures of Whoopi Goldberg and America Ferrera and Margaret Cho and Marilyn Monroe

And she will know that beauty
is not a synonym
for skinny.

Beauty
is not a synonym for
****.

Beauty is not defined by size
or color
or texture, no.

It is defined by how she distributes
her love
and light
to everyone she meets.
no exceptions.



and she will never doubt that she is lovely.

hey me, constructible me



ya see i am sick of my house being messy
so i cleaned my oven, whoopi whoopi foo
but i cleaned my shower, oh yeah bully for you
yeah i believe in things looking clean
rather than going out making people mean
ya know i got rid of mould in my shower, yeah
i know i get cleaners, but work protocol is the thing
ya see you childlike adults, i like being clean
in opposed to being an old misery guts man
ya see, i know i was messy, but i had schizophrenia
and also my mind wasn’t quite in it yeah
but today, yeah i cleaned my joint
and it looks creatively clean
and that hopefully will get artists around viewing my art, oh yeah
hey me constructible me, i like the place
looking creative, man can’t ya see
yeah mate yeah, i want people  to like  me yeah
but i am doing it for myself
people who tease this are old misery gutses
living in any part of the past
oh yeah, my place looks creatively clean bow bow
i am not old, neh neh, i am creative

i want this as ideas for new tv shows

look at this kid
named khalid tryna put in little bids
ya weight too small
you aint got enough *****
punch  ya in ya jaw
naw ya gotta permenant awe
muted ya maw
*******
how could this boy yosef slam
ya with the grammer
got ya vocals locked like a slamma
cocked the hammer
say ya prayers
here comes deaths anthem
so many couldnt phantom
my rhymes
i got got more styles
than the stylistics full of mystics
when ya hear my ****
emcees  go ballastic
bullets dumpin' in yo chest
lets be realistic
ya meet ya maker real quick
maggots devour ya body like triscuits
never been checked toe to toe
down from the gitty go
got you chopped up
like u in slow mo
htowns dont ya know
love them pretty hoes
cant stand ***** *** foes
keep snow white on my nose
got ya stiff n froze
like ya in a penitentiary pose
ya know what it is
how get around like tupac
or better birdie
stay above the rims
rock 90s fashions
a machete long tshirt overalls
and black timbs
i dont need to fight back
i go youngin to sick em
this lil kid named khalid
is a ******* child with ***** ****
and no dad
i keep fresh braid stocked by du rags
fool!! i could trade in my rhymes
in return it will
amount to about
the price of four jags

already three up on you
so what ya wanna do?
i got my gs thugs and damu
ridahs with me
dangerous i be you a newbie
wipe that sticky goey
off ya face i beat any case
turn tough guys into cherry pies
blow out ya head then nods
rollin' with tha trillest hogs
swing on swag jackers
like wade boggs
take a whiff of the smog
i can still through the fog
im iz God
none surpasin ask ya mama
im probably daddy???
rock her with a tko call me teddy
****** through emcees nightmares
like freddie
***** u sweet whoopi
on Eddie toasters steady ready
hold ya heart steady
i can hear ya beats jumpin
from all of ya adrenaline rushin'
u just a nut bush a ***** n diguise
i know yous trick
i see the string between ya thighs
period get it nothings followed
behind it like a sentence
thedots ends ****
like when my guns lite
get ya whole body
and soul split
makin death biz a number one
profit
in cash goes to my pockets
then ya mama i knock quick
pull out my snake from the pits
she loves me more than raymond
u just a botti man while i gotta audi man
18 inches of wheels hoppin in mud rubs
put wings on death cherubs
hit the curb to the get the scoup
we broke out the loot
transfered the boot
murdered body thrown in the trash chutes
dug out the evil roots
whippin' yo *** with a lash
of lyrics til it sparks fire
makin' galore soots

J. Alfred, I'm sick of your whining --
get off your **** and do something!
Yes, I know life is meaningless.
I know you've got a lot of time on your hands.
Of course, tea parties can be boring.
But let me just ask here: "Is someone making you do this?
Is someone making you hang out with these cold, scornful
   women?"
Surely a guy like you could find someone to relate to. It's
    not that hard.

No, you're not Prince Hamlet --
and you're not an attendant lord either.
You're J. Alfred Prufrock!
Eat a peach, for-God's-sake!
Talk to the mermaids!
Just do it!

<Note: It's useful to think of Whoopi Goldberg as the speaker.>

By: Cedric McClester

It don’t look like he’ll escape this
He’ll forever be known as a ******
He’s lucky that they didn’t tape it
Which is why he continues to fake it
Now it looks like he’s going down
Even Whoopi had to come around
‘Cos the evidence is so profound
It’s enough to make a swimmer drown

Once known as America’s dad
He’s lost the reputation that he had
And the whole situation is sad
Now that the good is overshadowed by the bad
‘Cos despite a family and a lovely wife
He chose to live a more risqué life
Guess he loved an element of strife
And the examples are clearly rife

It’s a never ending parade
Of the various women he’s laid
Did I mention they never got paid
Despite all the money he’s made
An unapologetic *** offender
Made ‘em feel like they were on a ******
After drugging them into surrender
Then sexing them rough or tender

Now that his reputation is in tatters
Hope he’s discovered what really matters
More than the accolades that only flatters
His ego as his friends and fans scatter
Seen him lately he’s looking so old
How many more times will the story be told
See it doesn’t seem to be getting cold
Looks like his tent is about to fold

He ain’t that funny anymore
‘Cos he’s rotten right to the core
And past supporters aren’t even sure
He’s not guilty like they were before
They used to be so confident
But they no longer share that sentiment
See they wonder where the luster went
They understand that the women weren’t sent

Copyright ©, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

At one.forty-five, anti meridiem
I blink, half-sit-half-lie and squirm
in a cartel of intricate inquiry.

He must be hurting inordinately
to wish me death and calamity.

Who and where is he?
How and why does he?

Simple five-word questions
seeking conclusive resolutions
for well over a millennium.

Frazzled and woefully sapped
from this anarchic, chaotic task
I turn for the promising refuge
of my orderly book-rack.

❋

Over and over again,
I read the masterly treatise
and really try to take it as a guide.

❋

The book has foresight.

It says there is no death

which my friend has wittingly wished me
in his anguished wrath.

Life is eternal, infinite.

Only the spirit changes over
to some other wardrobe
or maybe transitions
to another dimension
purgatory or paradise.

❋

We never really die and likewise
the loved and the not so loved
also survive.

❋

But life often defies explanations
not to mention all expert expositions.

I feel sadly feeble and disillusioned
to see

an orphan having the nose
hard against the grindstone

a spouse lonely and forlorn
fighting it out all alone

a disconsolate father
devastated by the departure
of a youthful son......
or a blooming daughter.

a dashing soldier
who somberly carries the cadaver
....the cold inert clay of a dead comrade

a pining sibling.........
a friend irredeemably lost.........
the poor dead without
and ****** with the ***......
a zealot who lost the plot
or martyrs who bravely fought.....

❉

The book says they are all here
and we still find them nowhere
at least not as companions
in our worldly sojourn.

The author exhorts -
those who are gone still see us
feel us.

And I smile wryly, a little ruefully
at the still living, stranded passengers
in one too many crowded lanes
on this gross, physical plane
devoid of all succor even from a ghost

slippery yet subtle.

If only there was a real life Whoopi †
we all would be as lucky as the demure Demi
and Patrick Swayze would do the reel drill
in real time indubitably.

Alas!!!
celluloid existence is pure imagination
.....just neat fiction.

And the impeccable book.....
though elegant
seems utterly untrue.

❋

I therefore can not take heart
from the prophesied fact
that the dead are not really dead

not ever, or at least not yet....

Yes, they may be right beside
but unless we cross over to the other side
or they someday decide to travel back in time

the living will always be somewhat dead somewhere
and the dead will always be somewhat alive somewhere

accidentally meeting.....
sometimes......

from across the great divide
in a nebulous twilight

but mostly waiting, waiting....
for the wait to end

and to be terminally united
either fully alive
or completely dead.


† Reference made to the 1990 film 'Ghost'. More information at:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghost(1990film)

Oh Mother Earth-Heart, a prose of Love, I simply cannot silence,
For Affairs of Heart do Truly start in Love no Solid Guidance.
You move unseen, Betwixt between, adorning All who Dances.
I'm Overdrawn, my heart is worn to endeavour these Finances.
Rising realms and Planes avail, I sometimes trip my feet,
Cast out of Sphere my Worlds right here, It is then I hear Thou speak.
Floods my Akashic, takes Cathartic to equate your countered cries,
And Oh My, those Angels fly in and out of Yonder Skies.

"Dear Ray! My All One truly beckons, for You were Born on Wings!"
Oh, Blessings flower, and now every Hour I deftly hear you sing.

"Then listen to my Avatar call! You rarely do ignore!"
Well yes ingress, for I know less than you who's wanting more.

"I've served you Realm at Sailor's Helm, and still you're all quite Contrary!
Well I'd agree with most of that, it's my Owl and my Canary.

"You Savoured Love, it's Meaning Felt, My Earth-Heart was All With You"
Well thanks again oh Noble Lady, our Hearts are now in situ.

"You Will Grow some More, Adore What Plans I Have in Store for You..."
Well give us a Shout when you Let It Out, there's Snooker on Beeb2.

"You've Ascended Well, Praise Where it's Due, Excuse Recent Bombardment"
Oh I'll take a chance with Cosmic dance, it's fine from my apartment.

"We Love your Prose it's Heaven s(c)ent, and the Gods say You've Done Swimmingly"
Only few know where I go, with you and what you mean t'me.

"Cut some slack and listen back, that Owl had Nasty Habit."
Well **** Whoopi Goldberg, my Tawny howled, with me when we did grab it!

"Don't get Confused from being Used, that Handler's Firebug"
Oh Im all fused, his punches Bruised... bigger the Handler Bigger the Mug.

"Then Ease Your Mind my Angel Kind, I'll Fire Thee Level Atmic."
Cheers ***, you've Become my Lover in my Mind's Attic.

"Just remember Celestials are Powerful Beyond Measure"
I'll Take Onboard and Most Certainly Horde all your Earth-Heart Treasure.

"And lastly Ray, May I Truly say, my Love for you Eternal"
Back at ya Lass, I'm a Soldier that you can call your Kernel

i love how...
when whoopi goldberg
does the
O (three
  Kit-Kats)
                 |||
O..K.
               sign...
it's all: ****** did
good...
but when i do it...
i'm reduced to
stereotype of a lynch mob!
good to be known
as a ****** hater alongside
Dr. Dre...
and interracial *****...
  thanks...
but no thanks...
                      hello retards!
i'm no Christian,
i'm no Jew,
and sure as **** i'm
no Muslim....
         with the way....
kiss my ***!
your sanity is worth as much
as my concern for
your sanity...
           the belittled,
and rightly so...
labelled:
        idiotic people.
what?!
how am i to deem
a ****** an Einstein,
and an Einstein a ******?
        
             well.... given the confusion...
please explain!

.if i'm going to borrow from the alt-lexicon... snowflakes... snowflakes... well then... i must be a ******* snowman by now.

i surprise myself sometimes,
esp. when sobering up...
i was choking on refraining from
crying tears of joy,
when watching sister act...
when the choir of nuns sings
salve regina...
        
         and i kept choking on
keeping these tears of pure joy...
ha ha... what a loser that
i am reacting to music like
that...

             wait a minute...
whoopi goldberg has no eyebrows!
it's like this morphed
Germanic aesthetic
concerning beauty...
   those Germanic people love
their physiognomy to
not include eye-brows...

alt. called the David Bowie look.

- but that tells you something
about the mingling of
sentimentality and sobering-up.