#rancic

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Bill Prutt for Slate:

On Jan. 8, 2004, just more than 20 years ago, the first episode of The Apprentice aired. It was called “Meet the Billionaire,” and 18 million people watched. The episodes that followed climbed to roughly 20 million each week. A staggering 28 million viewers tuned in to watch the first season finale. The series won an Emmy nomination for Outstanding Reality-Competition Program, and the Television Critics Association called it one of the best TV shows of the year, alongside The Sopranos and Arrested Development. The series—alongside its bawdy sibling, The Celebrity Apprentice—appeared on NBC in coveted prime-time slots for more than a decade. The Apprentice was an instant success in another way too. It elevated Donald J. Trump from sleazy New York tabloid hustler to respectable household name. In the show, he appeared to demonstrate impeccable business instincts and unparalleled wealth, even though his businesses had barely survived multiple bankruptcies and faced yet another when he was cast. By carefully misleading viewers about Trump—his wealth, his stature, his character, and his intent—the competition reality show set about an American fraud that would balloon beyond its creators’ wildest imaginations.

I should know. I was one of four producers involved in the first two seasons. During that time, I signed an expansive nondisclosure agreement that promised a fine of $5 million and even jail time if I were to ever divulge what actually happened. It expired this year. No one involved in The Apprentice—from the production company or the network, to the cast and crew—was involved in a con with malicious intent. It was a TV show, and it was made for entertainment. I still believe that. But we played fast and loose with the facts, particularly regarding Trump, and if you were one of the 28 million who tuned in, chances are you were conned. As Trump answers for another of his alleged deception schemes in New York and gears up to try to persuade Americans to elect him again, in part thanks to the myth we created, I can finally tell you what making Trump into what he is today looked like from my side. Most days were revealing. Some still haunt me, two decades later. [...]

Now, this is important. The Apprentice is a game show regulated by the Federal Communications Commission. In the 1950s, scandals arose when producers of quiz shows fed answers to likable, ratings-generating contestants while withholding those answers from unlikable but truly knowledgeable players. Any of us involved in The Apprentice swinging the outcome of prize money by telling Trump whom to fire is forbidden. [...]

Trump goes about knocking off every one of the contestants in the boardroom until only two remain. The finalists are Kwame Jackson, a Black broker from Goldman Sachs, and Bill Rancic, a white entrepreneur from Chicago who runs his own cigar business. Trump assigns them each a task devoted to one of his crown-jewel properties. Jackson will oversee a Jessica Simpson benefit concert at Trump Taj Mahal Casino in Atlantic City, while Rancic will oversee a celebrity golf tournament at Trump National Golf Club in Briarcliff Manor, New York. Viewers need to believe that whatever Trump touches turns to gold. These properties that bear his name are supposed to glitter and gleam. All thanks to him.

Reality is another matter altogether. The lights in the casino’s sign are out. Hong Kong investors actually own the place—Trump merely lends his name. The carpet stinks, and the surroundings for Simpson’s concert are ramshackle at best. We shoot around all that. Both Rancic and Jackson do a round-robin recruitment of former contestants, and Jackson makes the fateful decision to team up with the notorious Omarosa, among others, to help him carry out his final challenge. [...]

Trump will make his decision live on camera months later, so what we are about to film is the setup to that reveal. The race between Jackson and Rancic should seem close, and that’s how we’ll edit the footage. Since we don’t know who’ll be chosen, it must appear close, even if it’s not.

We lay out the virtues and deficiencies of each finalist to Trump in a fair and balanced way, but sensing the moment at hand, Kepcher sort of comes out of herself. She expresses how she observed Jackson at the casino overcoming more obstacles than Rancic, particularly with the way he managed the troublesome Omarosa. Jackson, Kepcher maintains, handled the calamity with grace. “I think Kwame would be a great addition to the organization,” Kepcher says to Trump, who winces while his head bobs around in reaction to what he is hearing and clearly resisting. “Why didn’t he just fire her?” Trump asks, referring to Omarosa. It’s a reasonable question. Given that this the first time we’ve ever been in this situation, none of this is something we expected. “That’s not his job,” Bienstock says to Trump. “That’s yours.” Trump’s head continues to bob. “I don’t think he knew he had the ability to do that,” Kepcher says. Trump winces again.

“Yeah,” he says to no one in particular, “but, I mean, would America buy a n— winning?” Kepcher’s pale skin goes bright red. I turn my gaze toward Trump. He continues to wince. He is serious, and he is adamant about not hiring Jackson. Bienstock does a half cough, half laugh, and swiftly changes the topic or throws to Ross for his assessment. What happens next I don’t entirely recall. I am still processing what I have just heard. We all are. Only Bienstock knows well enough to keep the train moving. None of us thinks to walk out the door and never return. I still wish I had. (Bienstock and Kepcher didn’t respond to requests for comment.) Afterward, we film the final meeting in the boardroom, where Jackson and Rancic are scrutinized by Trump, who, we already know, favors Rancic. Then we wrap production, pack up, and head home. There is no discussion about what Trump said in the boardroom, about how the damning evidence was caught on tape. Nothing happens.

We attend to our thesis that only the best and brightest deserve a job working for Donald Trump. Luckily, the winner, Bill Rancic, and his rival, Kwame Jackson, come off as capable and confident throughout the season. If for some reason they had not, we would have conveniently left their shortcomings on the cutting room floor. In actuality, both men did deserve to win. Without a doubt, the hardest decisions we faced in postproduction were how to edit together sequences involving Trump. We needed him to sound sharp, dignified, and clear on what he was looking for and not as if he was yelling at people. You see him today: When he reads from a teleprompter, he comes off as loud and stoic. Go to one of his rallies and he’s the off-the-cuff rambler rousing his followers into a frenzy. While filming, he struggled to convey even the most basic items. But as he became more comfortable with filming, Trump made raucous comments he found funny or amusing—some of them misogynistic as well as racist. We cut those comments. Go to one of his rallies today and you can hear many of them.

If you listen carefully, especially to that first episode, you will notice clearly altered dialogue from Trump in both the task delivery and the boardroom. Trump was overwhelmed with remembering the contestants’ names, the way they would ride the elevator back upstairs or down to the street, the mechanics of what he needed to convey. Bienstock instigated additional dialogue recording that came late in the edit phase. We set Trump up in the soundproof boardroom set and fed him lines he would read into a microphone with Bienstock on the phone, directing from L.A. And suddenly Trump knows the names of every one of the contestants and says them while the camera cuts to each of their faces. Wow, you think, how does he remember everyone’s name? While on location, he could barely put a sentence together regarding how a task would work. Listen now, and he speaks directly to what needs to happen while the camera conveniently cuts away to the contestants, who are listening and nodding. He sounds articulate and concise through some editing sleight of hand.

Then comes the note from NBC about the fact that after Trump delivers the task assignment to the contestants, he disappears from the episode after the first act and doesn’t show up again until the next-to-last. That’s too long for the (high-priced) star of the show to be absent. There is a convenient solution. At the top of the second act, right after the task has been assigned but right before the teams embark on their assignment, we insert a sequence with Trump, seated inside his gilded apartment, dispensing a carefully crafted bit of wisdom. He speaks to whatever the theme of each episode is—why someone gets fired or what would lead to a win. The net effect is not only that Trump appears once more in each episode but that he also now seems prophetic in how he just knows the way things will go right or wrong with each individual task. He comes off as all-seeing and all-knowing. We are led to believe that Donald Trump is a natural-born leader.

Through the editorial nudge we provide him, Trump prevails. So much so that NBC asks for more time in the boardroom to appear at the end of all the remaining episodes. (NBC declined to comment for this article.) [... So, we scammed. We swindled. Nobody heard the racist and misogynistic comments or saw the alleged cheating, the bluffing, or his hair taking off in the wind. Those tapes, I’ve come to believe, will never be found.

No one lost their retirement fund or fell on hard times from watching The Apprentice. But Trump rose in stature to the point where he could finally eye a run for the White House, something he had intended to do all the way back in 1998. Along the way, he could now feed his appetite for defrauding the public with various shady practices. In 2005 thousands of students enrolled in what was called Trump University, hoping to gain insight from the Donald and his “handpicked” professors. Each paid as much as $35,000 to listen to some huckster trade on Trump’s name. In a sworn affidavit, salesman Ronald Schnackenberg testified that Trump University was “fraudulent.” The scam swiftly went from online videoconferencing courses to live events held by high-pressure sales professionals whose only job was to persuade attendees to sign up for the course. The sales were for the course “tuition” and had nothing whatsoever to do with real estate investments. A class action suit was filed against Trump.

That same year, Trump was caught bragging to Access Hollywood co-host Billy Bush that he likes to grab married women “by the pussy,” adding, “When you’re a star, they let you do it.” He later tried to recruit porn actor Stormy Daniels for The Apprentice despite her profession and, according to Daniels, had sex with her right after his last son was born. (His alleged attempt to pay off Daniels is, of course, the subject of his recent trial.) In October 2016—a month before the election—the Access Hollywood tapes were released and written off as “locker room banter.” Trump paid Daniels to keep silent about their alleged affair. He paid $25 million to settle the Trump University lawsuit and make it go away. He went on to become the first elected president to possess neither public service nor military experience. And although he lost the popular vote, Trump beat out Hillary Clinton in the Electoral College, winning in the Rust Belt by just 80,000 votes.

Trump has been called the “reality TV president,” and not just because of The Apprentice. The Situation Room, where top advisers gathered, became a place for photo-ops, a bigger, better boardroom. Trump swaggered and cajoled, just as he had on the show. Whom would he listen to? Whom would he fire? Stay tuned. Trump even has his own spinoff, called the House of Representatives, where women hurl racist taunts and body-shame one another with impunity. The State of the Union is basically a cage fight. The demands of public office now include blowhard buffoonery.

Bill Pruitt wrote in Slate that Donald Trump used the N-word on the set of NBC's The Apprentice in 2004 when referring to a Black contestant (Kwame Jackson)'s chances of winning the competition by saying "would America buy a n***er winning?"

This is yet another example of Trump's long record of anti-Black racism that dates back to the 1970s.

[kelly-clarksons]

kellyclarksonshow: A fun Tuesday with @ hitrecordjoe, @ realjunesquibb and @ billrancic!

[perezhilton]

Joan Rivers would be loving this! All the Kelly Osbourne and Giuliana Rancic details HERE!

[falllpoutboy]

z🔚aya’s silence on the sag aftra and wga strikes as both a marvel actress and a tv star and producer is why we should never worship celebrities

[loveboatinsanity]

[celebritycloset]

Giuliana Rancic in Atelier Zuhra at the 2020 Academi Awards

[celebrityxbabes]

[cherrycolored-punk]

WADWSH - Chapter One: The Contest

Masterlist

pairings: 2000s!actor!Steve Harrington x fem!Reader, 2000s!bestfriend!Eddie Munson x fem!reader.

summary: Bad boy Steve Harrington is in trouble and desperate to clean up his image by any means necessary.

author’s note: we’re having fun, amping it up and d r a w i n g it out. we need angst, and pining and indecision (we is me) 🖤 I hope you all enjoy this chapter and this story. Remember, it’s completely re-written so things are different 👀

comments/reblogs and any feedback is always appreciated !

w/c: 6.8k

warnings: mentions of parental death, absent/neglectful parent

“Are you fucking seeing this?” Steve gruffed, pacing the length of his living room as he clenched the phone pressed to his ear.

“Yes, I’m seeing it just like I saw the tabloids of you cruising around West Hollywood holding a bottle of Ciroc,” Tad’s voice was full of frustration, causing Steve’s jaw to clench. His gaze shot back to his plasma TV.

Images of his wild night out were plastered on the screen as Ryan Seacrest narrated a version of his night out.

Hollywood’s most famous bad boy is back at it again! 

“Steve Harrington was spotted making the rounds and leaving Bar Deluxe with two of Victoria’s sweetest angels.”

“Guiliana, what are the chances he will ever settle down?” He asked as he turned to his cohost. 

Rancic cringed and stared into the camera.

“It’s not likely,” she laughed, and Ryan joined her. 

Their laughs grinding every last one of Steve’s nerves. 

He’d had enough and snatched the remote from the coffee table, angrily pressing the power button until the screen went black. 

“What are you going to do about it?” His voice raised an octave, pointing at the TV with the remote as though his manager were there.

“Harrington, I’m already in contact with the best PR firm in the city. Trust that I am taking care of this.”

“You know this will ruin my chances with Hewitz for his latest film.”

“Just don’t plan on any more late nights. The firm is working on a plan, and as soon as I hear what it is, I’ll call you. Don’t go making my job any more difficult.” The older man grumbled on the other end of the line, voice deeper from years of smoking. 

“Take care of it, Jenkins.” Steve flipped his phone shut, tossing it and the remote onto the couch before plopping himself onto the cushion.

He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose as his mind whirled with thoughts.

Henry Hewitz was the most prominent Hollywood Director to date. Anyone who starred in his movies was guaranteed success, a shoo-in during award season, and Steve wanted the role of the leading man in Hewitz’s current project more than anything. 

Hewitz, however, did not want him.

Steve had a reputation and not one that many directors wanted attached to their films. Offers were already coming in less frequently. The stench of his troubles kept most investors away; try as he might, he couldn’t clean up his image. 

And he did try, stints in rehab or starting new hobbies. None of them stuck, not the way that partying did. 

He was antsy for the remainder of the afternoon, bouncing between activities. Tanning by his pool, lifting weights inside his gym, and even trying to copy a recipe off the Food Network. He quickly realized that “Foolproof Ribs” weren’t foolproof enough for him, and nothing would keep his mind occupied while he waited for Jenkins to call him. 

Harrington leaned against his marble-top kitchen island, reluctantly nibbling on a piece of his creation. 

Why didn’t I just ask Dorota to come and prep something?

He winced at the taste and plucked the nearly burnt rib back onto the plate with a heavy sigh. 

His phone rang beside him, loud and shrill, and he hurriedly grabbed it when he spotted his manager’s name flashing on the screen. 

“Tell me you’ve got something already, Tad,” Steve turned toward his fridge, thirsty for a beer. Voice a little desperate. 

The older man coughed loudly, and Steve pulled the phone away, his face twisting in disgust, before putting it back to his ear.

“I’ve got something, but you’re not going to like it,” Jenkins coughed again and cleared his throat.

“Lay it on me,” Steve rolled his eyes as he used the bottle opener to pull the cap off the glass neck, guzzling down half its contents while he listened to his manager prattle on. 

But it was something the older man said that caused him to choke on the amber liquid and press a finger to his mouth to keep it from spewing all over the kitchen floor.

He gulped loudly.

“You want me to do what?”

“When I agreed to come to the movies with you two, I didn’t mean that I was game to watch your Romeo, Steve Harrington, poorly act his way through another rom-com,” Eddie whined as the three of you walked towards the auditorium.

“Majority rules,” Beth stuck her tongue out at him, her arm linked with yours as the two of you walked a few paces ahead of him.

You giggled along with her.

“Don’t be such a poo,” you called over your shoulder, and he rolled his eyes. 

“Excuse me for not finding the appeal of some Hollywood bozoo.” 

“He’s not a bozoo, Eddie, he’s-” Beth began.

“Dreamy,” you chimed in.

He stopped in his tracks and tilted his chin to the ceiling. 

“God, I know that I ask for a lot, but if you’re ever going to answer my prayers, I ask that you strike me down now.” Eddie’s hands were clasped together in a plea. 

You grabbed a handful of popcorn and threw it back at him with a teasing grin.

“So dramatic.”

“It’s not nice to litter, Sunshine.” He followed after you, picking popcorn from his brown curls and popping it into his mouth. 

The auditorium was nearly full as you entered it, the eager eyes of the crowd already pinned to the screen. The theater itself had not been updated since the eighties; the same dusty drapes lined the walls and smelled slightly of mildew. 

The three of you climbed the stairs and took your seats. Eddie on one side, Beth on the other and you situated right in the middle. Just as it had always been since the three of you were old enough to ride your bikes to the cinema. 

The room fell silent as the lights dimmed and the opening trailers began to play. You and Beth squealed when you saw the trailer for Steve’s latest project, each holding onto the other as you caught glimpses of his profile through the flashing images.

“Oh, brother,” Eddie grumbled and slinked further into his seat, aggressively chewing off a piece of his Twizzler. 

He sat through the movie with his arms crossed, bored and occasionally glancing at you. Watching the range of expressions that crossed your face. He could always read you so easily.

If your eyes glittered when you smiled, you were happy. Truly happy. 

If you smiled with an arched brow, you were feeling mischievous. He saw that look often.

If you found something funny, you snorted, and he knew you found something hysterical when there was complete silence. The only evidence that you were amused was how you held your stomach, eyes crinkled shut. 

If your eyebrows scrunched together, you were worried or seconds from crying, just like now. 

Eddie watched as you held back tears at the pivotal moment, Steve’s reunion with his love interest after years away at war.

The strings of the orchestra music playing in the background of the scene pulled at your heart, the emotion palpable.

“And how is this different from his other movies,” Eddie leaned over and whispered into your ear. 

“Shut up,” you nudged him with your shoulder and shoveled more popcorn into your mouth. 

You sighed in satisfaction when the two on-screen lovers finally kissed. 

The credits began to play, and Beth leaned over your frame.

“How good was that?” 

Eddie’s face twisted in disbelief.

“I’ve shit turds that were better than that.”

“Ew,” both you and Beth said in unison. 

“I just wonder if he’s really like that, y’know, all sweet and romantic.” Her gaze tilted to the ceiling as she imagined Steve gazing at her like he did his costar. 

“He has to be. There’s no way he could play a character so well if he weren’t,” you chimed in.

“He’s an actor,” Eddie reminded you.

“An hour ago, you said he couldn’t act,” Beth scoffed.

 It was the umpteenth time he’d had the same argument with the two of you. 

“It’s a sign - I’ve lost my mind.” Eddie held his hands in front of him, his gaze fixated on the ground as he put on the charade of someone who wasn’t all there.

“You’re such a butthead.” Beth leaned over and pushed at his head of curls before she stood up to leave. The auditorium was nearly empty, the screen had gone black and the theater workers waited patiently for you to leave so they could finish their closing tasks.

It was late, and you were scheduled for the opening shift at Family Video the following day alongside Eddie.

The three of you walked towards Eddie’s Volkswagen Rabbit, Beth’s beat-up Corolla parked beside it. 

“See you tomorrow,” Beth called over her vehicle as you opened the passenger door to Eddie’s car. You waved over your shoulder before plopping into the seat. The car smelled like him - weed, tobacco, and spiced vanilla. A scent you’d become accustomed to in all the years you’d known him.

“Don’t be late!” Eddie yelled back at the strawberry-blonde, index finger pointed at her.

“You’re only my manager between the hours of twelve and eight within the confines of Family Video!” She flipped him off and climbed into her car, getting the last word. 

Eddie tapped his knuckles against the hood of his car as he watched her leave, watching the tail lights of her car get further away before jumping into the driver’s seat. 

“Do you have to pick at her?” you questioned as he got comfortable in his seat.

“I only dish up what she’s dishing out,” Eddie shrugged as he started the car. 

And it was true. While you and Eddie were best friends, Beth and Eddie would be considered something closer to frenemies. 

You’d known him since you were kids. He was the first kid in the trailer park to say hi to you after you moved in with your grandma days after your parents died.

Sure, Uncle Wayne was the one who insisted he said hi, but what came after the small introduction was all Eddie. 

The two of you grew up thick as thieves, soldiering through the complexities and horrors of middle and high school together. There was no one on the planet you were closer to, especially after your gran passed away two years ago. But you’d never admit it, especially not to Beth. 

You’d met her towards the end of eighth grade when she transferred to your school in the second semester. You warmed up to her immediately; Eddie was still working on it.

In many ways, they were alike - not that either of them would agree. Both were headstrong, sarcastic, witty, and total pains in your ass. 

“You get lost in your head over there or something?” He glanced at you before quickly returning his gaze to the road. 

On drives like this, you couldn’t help but think of your parents, couldn’t help but miss them something fierce. You hated when it was time to return home, to the empty, quiet trailer that gran had left you in her will. 

It hadn’t felt like home since she passed, but even before it still always felt temporary. Despite your gran's best efforts, you never felt settled or like you belonged. Constantly yearning for a place that felt like yours, chasing the feeling you had when your parents were alive.

“Just thinking of them,” you answered honestly, staring out the window and eyes darting to the stars that dotted the night sky.

Eddie didn’t need a further explanation; he knew how you felt all too well. He became an orphan two years before you. Even though his dad was alive, he was as good as dead. His absence felt at every birthday, Christmas, and band gig he didn’t attend.

Without asking, he took the road toward Lover’s Lake instead of the one that led to your home. He wasn’t up to any funny business; he just knew you weren’t ready to go home, and you didn’t question him as the paved road turned into a dirt one lined heavily with trees on either side. 

He pulled near the lake and cut the engine, rubbing his palms along his jean-clad thighs. 

“You good, Sunshine?” He watched the side of your face, worry creasing in his brow.

Your eyes rolled in amusement at the nickname he’d given you when you were just kids. 

“Just peachy,” you responded, fingers swirling in your hair absently, and still staring out the window.

“Never been a good liar, sweetheart,” he nudged your shoulder.

“Do you ever feel stuck?” You stated abruptly and Eddie’s eyebrows shot up into his bangs, hand falling back into his lap.

“Be more specific?” He was studying your face, what he could see of it, attempting to decipher what you were trying to say.

“Here in Hawkins. O-or like you don’t really have a place to call home?” you stammered and turned to him. Your eyebrows were knitted together and he knew you were worried, sad even. 

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Not exactly my dream to still be living with my Uncle, who was forced to take me in while I manage a movie rental shop in the worst city along the bible belt.” 

Your lip jutted to the side.

“Wayne loves you,” you insisted and Eddie nodded at your words.

“Yeah, he does but I still flipped his life upside down,” he chuckled without humor and began to pull at the frayed edge of his jeans.

You wanted to assure him but knew he wouldn’t believe you so instead you changed the subject.

“What would you do? If you could do anything, no limits?” 

His lips lifted into a sideways grin, the kind of smile you saw when he was amused and you knew that it was the distraction he needed. That you both needed.  

“Get my music out there. Cut a record and get the fuck out of Indiana. I just want to buy my uncle a house and let the old man retire.”

You nodded, teeth digging into your bottom lip. Your dreams felt so much simpler in comparison, almost lame.

“And you?”

You took a deep breath and sighed heavily, blowing a raspberry as you did. 

“I just want my own house. Maybe with some land. You know, like my family used to own?” 

You used to have a home. A big ranch-style house that your parents were still paying on at the time of their accident and when there was no one who could pay, the bank took it away.

He nodded and smiled wider at the image in his head. Eddie could picture you sitting in a rocking chair on a wraparound porch, the golden retriever you’d always wanted resting at your feet. 

His silence made you self-conscious, and you laughed, but Eddie knew it wasn’t one you meant.

“I know it sounds lame, but-”

“It’s not lame,” he assured, “I know it’s going to happen one day. Going to have that dream house on forty acres with two-and-a-half kids-”

“Six,” you interrupted with a wide grin.

“Holy shit, ok, six kids and a loaded husband. Who the fuck can afford six kids?”

“We said no limits,” you reminded him, and he nodded in agreement. A broad dimpled grin spread across his lips.

“If anyone’s dreams are gonna come true, it’ll be yours.”

“How are you so sure?”

Because I’ll make it happen even if I have to work three jobs until my hair turns gray.

But he didn’t say that part out loud.

“Just trust me, it’ll happen before you know it.” 

“It’ll happen for you too.”

Eddie began to scoff, but you shot him that look, the one that dared him to question you. He held up his hands, calling a ceasefire before any shots were fired.

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence as you stared at the lake. It was always easy like this with Eddie; easy conversation without awkward pauses. Comfortable enough to sit with just the sound of crickets chirping around you. 

Family Video was dead; the afternoon rush before a weekend had settled into a quiet lull. 

You sat at the computer, scanning in returned videos as Eddie worked in his office. His molten honey gaze darting to the clock every so often. Beth was nearly thirty minutes late. 

The Goonies played on TV - Eddie’s choice instead of the endless cycle of previews for Steve Harrington’s newly released movies. He drew the line at his job.

Beth barged through the front door, huffing and obviously distressed. Her hair disheveled and sticking to the sweat that lined her forehead. 

“Are you okay?” You questioned as you took in her appearance.

“Oh, just great,” she responded sarcastically.

“That’s twenty-eight minutes, Walden!” Eddie shouted from his office, addressing her by her last name.

She groaned. 

“I had a long night!”

“You left before us?” 

Eddie’s voice grew louder as he left his desk and leaned against the doorway. 

“Doesn’t mean I went to sleep,” she said in a low tone, gaze avoiding that of her two friends as she clocked in and set her bag underneath the counter.

“What kept you up, or should I say who kept you awake?” You questioned, voice breathy in faux flirtation. 

“You know that cutie from the bar?”

“You didn’t!” You gasped, mouth rounded and eyes wide in excitement. Beth had been eying the curvy brunette behind the bar for ages, never working up the courage to ever introduce herself. 

“I did. Twice!” She held up two fingers as you both squealed. 

“Gross,” Eddie gagged, and Beth shot him a dirty look.

“Don’t be jealous.”

“How did you blast off twice and have a bad night?” You interrupted, using the code name the two of you had come up with in high school. Not that it was any use, Eddie had caught on years ago when you and Beth tried to talk in code about her trysts. 

“Because my car wouldn’t start this morning, and she expected a ride home. So by the time I got it working and dropped her off, I was already running late.”

“Oh.”

She turned her head and looked at Eddie with pleading eyes.

“Could you, pretty please, take a look at it, Eds?” 

“It’ll cost you,” he pushed off the frame of his office door and moved to lean against the counter across from her. You turned your attention back to the computer as they bartered with each other, scanning in the last rental return. 

You hummed to yourself as you opened your email and skimmed through the new messages you’d received. Eyes practically bulging out of your head when you saw the subject line of one in particular.

Win a Date with Steve Harrington!

“Oh my god!” You shouted, catching the attention of your friends. Both of them looking at the back of your head with concern.

“What is it?” Beth leaned over your shoulder and read the email, fingers gripping your skin as she neared the end.

“Holy shit!” She shouted with you, and both of you began bouncing in place.

“What is it? Rick check-out Fast Times again?” Eddie chuckled, amused with his own joke.

“I could win a date,” you paused, “with Steve Harrington!”

You and Beth squealed again.

“Yeah, right. Let me see.” 

He nudged you out of the way as he read through the e-mail.

“Seems like a scam.” He backed away from the computer and shook his head disbelieving.

“It’s not!” 

You clicked the link and read through the site to confirm that it was indeed official.

“See, he wants to donate the money he raises to Feeding America.” 

You and Beth awed in unison; Eddie couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“There’s no way that King Steve doesn’t have some sort of ulterior motive,” he grumbled. Referring to Steve as the nickname he’d had for the brief moment in time he’d walked the same halls of middle school as you. 

“That was almost thirteen years ago, Eddie!” The two of them began bickering again.

You turned your attention back to the screen and read through the contest rules.

“I doubt he’s some gem now.”

“Not everyone donates to charity with an ulterior motive.”

Beth turned away from him and read through them with you.

“Grand prize includes a first-class flight to Los Angeles, lux accommodations at the Waldorf Hotel, styled outfits for the date, and a private dinner with Steve!” You gripped Beth’s hand excitedly as you read the entry rules.

“Says we have to pay one hundred dollars for a ticket to enter,” your shoulders sagged. 

“Shucks,” Eddie snapped his fingers in fake disappointment. He knew that you didn’t have a hundred bucks to spare.

Slowly, you and Beth turned to him. 

You looked at him with pleading eyes. 

Beth looked at him with murderous intent.

“I think you want to donate twenty-five to the cause, don’t ya Eds?” She asked as she stood straight and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Would you, Eddie? Please?” your lip practically jutted out into a pout as you waited for his response. 

And how could he ever say no to you?

He groaned and reached for the wallet nestled in the back pocket of his jeans before handing you a few bills he didn’t bother to count.

“Guess I can’t say no to feeding the hungry,” he muttered, refusing to acknowledge that there was even a slight possibility you’d win.

You jumped up and wrapped your arms around his neck, hugging him close before acknowledging the money he was willing to give you. Your lips pressed to his cheek, and you pushed off his chest before grabbing the money.

“You’re the best, Eds!” You gleamed, but Eddie was still in shock—cheek vibrating from where your lips had just pressed, and how affected he was by the moment wasn’t lost on Beth.

She shot him a knowing smile as he shook his head from the stupor but didn’t say more about it as she reached for her purse. 

“Eddie gave you thirty, and here’s twenty more. Now you just need fifty.”

You bounced with excitement, pulling them both close in another embrace.

“Have I said that you guys are my best friends?” 

“I know I am, but Beth?” 

The strawberry blonde shot her hand towards his ribs, and he winced as though he’d been mortally wounded. 

You were too blissed out to notice - images of your imaginary date with Steve Harrington already popping into your head. 

Three Weeks Later…

The Hideout was crowded, bodies pressed together and huddled around the makeshift stage. You and Beth weren’t amongst the large crowd, though, opting instead for your usual seats near the bar—the spot where you’d have the perfect view of Corroded Coffin as they played their usual Thursday night gig. 

“I can’t believe the turn-out,” you exclaimed, eyes darting around the hole-in-the-wall that never saw this many people. 

“I know,” Beth remarked incredulously. 

Both of you were shocked for very different reasons.

Eddie had begun to play shows at the local bar back in eleventh grade. His usual crowd had consisted of the same five drunks, but over the years, the popularity of the band, his popularity, had grown exponentially. Far surpassing the occupancy limits of the small space. 

People had started to come from all over the state, even out of state, to see them perform. Their followers on MySpace had nearly tripled what they used to be, and their monthly listeners had doubled, but Eddie had yet to accept that his band was known, that they could play at a bigger venue, or even book a small tour. Even when you’d shown him the evidence, he’d rolled his eyes. Too afraid to believe that his dreams might be within grasp. 

The bar lights dimmed, and the stage lights came on, illuminating the wooden platform in shades of red. The crowd began to cheer, surging forward to get as close as possible to the stage.

Gareth, Jeff, and Xander took the stage with their instruments, each giving a small wave as they did. Jeff began to strum on his guitar before Gareth joined with his drums, freestyling before Eddie came on stage. 

They loved to tease the crowd. 

Eddie came out a few moments later, waving his hands to greet the crowd. Amping up the energy even more. The buzz of it felt in the air. 

“Holy shit,” He breathed into the microphone as he took in how many people were there.

“How are we doing?”

The crowd’s yells grew even more in response to his question.

“I hope you’ll indulge me tonight. I want to do something a little different than our usual sound. Something I’ve been working on with the guys,” he turned and pointed to his bandmates with a bright smile. 

The audience cheered, and Eddie nodded as they did.

“Anyone a fan of Audioslave?

They roared a resounding yes.

“Me too,” he nodded again, “This is a cover of Like a Stone. I hope you enjoy it.”

The stage lights changed, washing the band in blue. A more somber mood settled over them as they began to play the song's opening. Eddie bobbed his head as his friends played, eyes closed as he felt the music and your gaze focused on him. You loved seeing him in his element, a different kind of focus that fell over him that you only ever saw when he played dungeon master during campaigns. Passionate. Happy. And it looked so good on him.

“On a cobweb afternoon, in a room full of emptiness,”

Eddie’s voice was rich, enveloping you in its warmth as he sang. Your eyes traced over his features. Noticing him in a way you hadn’t in a long time. The slope of his nose, the apples of his cheeks, the sharp edge of his jaw and it was like your childhood crush was rearing its ugly head. Surging forward and nearly knocking you to your feet. 

His eyes found you in the crowd, and it felt like he was singing to you.

“I’ll wait for you there like a stone,

I’ll wait for you there alone.”

You swallowed harshly, blinking rapidly as you gripped the glass cup you held before chugging down its contents. 

He isn’t singing to you. Get a grip.

You were best friends, but there was a time when you wanted more. 

Throughout your senior year, you yearned for Eddie to notice you the way that all girls wanted to be noticed when they fell in love with their best friend, but he never saw you that way. His attentions were on Paige, some girl who claimed she’d help him get his music to a reputable producer, and then on Chrissy, the head cheerleader he’d had a crush on since all of you were in middle school. 

It was never you, and you had accepted that long ago, but seeing him on stage roused something inside you. Something that unfurled its wings and took flight in your gut, creating a flurry of excitement. Making you nervous, anxious, and overwhelmed. 

The song continued, Eddie’s deep voice turning you into a puddle. He was right; it wasn’t the band’s usual sound. It was melancholy, a longing felt in each lyric, and you wondered who it was for, who Eddie thought of as he sang.

You glanced back up and noticed that Eddie’s attention was still on you somehow despite the size of the crowd. 

His vocals kicked up, and he hit every note like a plea.

“I’ll wait for you there like a stone,

I’ll wait for you there alone.”

Your breath hitched, lungs squeezing tightly as though you were in the middle of the crowd being pushed on all sides. Claustrophobic. Overwhelming.

“I know I usually shit on Eddie, but oh my god,” Beth cut through your trance and you gave her a tight grin.

“They sound so fucking good,” her breath was warm in your ear. The smell of gin enveloping you. 

“He does,” you breathed. 

Your muscles were tensed the rest of their show, and you felt like you were drowning in your thoughts. In the feelings that’d crept up from their burial site deep within your ribs. You didn’t take a breath until Eddie was no longer on stage. Until the stage lights dimmed and the bar lights came back on.

“Listen to me,” Beth grabbed your arm and your attention.

“Do not tell Eddie what I said. He can’t know that I think he’s good.”

“Why not?” You laughed, brows pushed together in confusion.

“Because he’ll never let me live it down!” She insisted with a roll of her eyes. You knew that she wasn’t wrong. If there was anything that Eddie enjoyed, it was teasing her. 

“Your secret is safe with me,” you promised, holding up your pinky finger to seal it. Her finger encircled yours, and you kissed the side of your hand—an official pact. 

“What’s the secret?” Eddie interrupted, sliding into the bar stool next to you. You jolted at his sudden appearance, frazzled by the sight of him. 

“What do you mean,” you questioned, avoiding eye contact but entranced by the smell of his cologne: spice and vanilla with a slight hint of tobacco. 

And why is your mouth watering? 

Your eyes widened at the realization.

“I walked in on the sacred pact. I know you guys are hiding something,” he pointed between the two of you. 

“Great set tonight,” you changed the subject - sort of. 

“Yeah, yeah, it was fun,” Eddie glanced around the bar. At the strangers who were still eying him and debating whether or not to approach. 

“Surprised by the new song,” you began to broach the subject. 

“Just a little something I’ve been working on,” he shrugged.

“I heard, but who has my best friend all glum?” You poked his side with a grin that didn’t meet your eyes, and he could tell something was bothering you.

“Just a girl,” he chuckled.

“Must be some girl,” your smile fell, and you played with the condensation on your glass.

“She is,” Eddie assured, eyebrows lost in his bangs—a mournful look painting his gaze.

Did you really not know?

“Eddie, use your newfound local fame for some good and get us some free drinks,” Beth interrupted, begging as she finished her gin and tonic. 

“No way,” he scoffed.

“Come on!” She whined.

“What if I played you for them?” You challenged with a lilt of your brows.

“Ok, but if I win, you’re buying the drinks.” Eddie set the terms and pushed off the bar stool.

“Deal,” you held your hand out to shake on it. His warm palm slid against yours, his large hand enveloping your smaller one. You could feel the calluses on them, evidence of his years of practice and manual labor. He shook your hand gently, holding onto you for a moment. Swallowing hard at the simple contact. 

“Go win us some drinks!” Beth interrupted again, shaking your shoulders and egging you on. Your hand slipped from his, heat growing in your cheeks.

“301?” you challenged as you pushed off your barstool. 

“Game on,” Eddie said in agreement and followed.

The two of you walked towards the dartboard, pushing each other playfully as you did.

“I’ll take a pina colada, Munson. Make you order something the bartender might hate you for,” you teased. Eyes tracing up his jean-clad legs, admiring how they hugged his thighs as he pulled the darts from the board.

“Oh, you’re toast,” he muttered over his shoulder. 

He walked over and handed them to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. Had he caught you staring?

“Ladies first,” he beckoned you to stand in front of him, allowing you to start the game.

You lined up, feet dancing along the tapped line that desperately needed to be replaced. Your tongue stuck out to the side as you concentrated, arm moving back and forth as you got ready to aim. To start the game, you needed to double in.

“Scared to lose?” Munson questioned, his breath fanning against your ear. You tried to hide the shiver that traveled up your spine in response and threw the dart - hitting the double ring next to the number eighteen.

“Not a chance,” you flashed him a cocky smile.

“Lucky hit,” he rolled his eyes and stepped back to allow you to throw your other two darts.

They landed where you aimed them, bringing your score down from 301 to 231.

“Your turn, Munson.” You walked to the board and grabbed your darts, standing behind him as he lined up with his own.

You giggled as you noticed that the two of you shared the same look of concentration. Eddie’s brows were pushed together, tongue jutted out as he looked to aim. You stood on your tiptoes, leaning close to his ear.

“Miss, miss, miss,” you whispered. 

Eddie stilled, and you felt his muscles tighten underneath the palm of your hand that rested on his shoulder. He took a deep breath, the scent of your perfume filling his lungs: vanilla musk and jasmine. 

He turned to you, chestnut eyes boring into your gaze, as he released his dart. If this were a movie, he would’ve made the shot. But it wasn’t, and he didn’t. Instead, the dart fell to the ground, and you couldn’t help but laugh. Eddie was entranced all the same. 

“Already losing, and you haven’t even joined the game,” you swallowed harshly. Teasing him to cover how his gaze was affecting you once more. 

The game continued like this, each of you trying to distract the other, but in the end, you had won, much to Eddie’s chagrin. Beth cheered from her seat, nearly falling off the barstool in her excitement. 

“Looks like you owe me that pina colada,” you raised your eyebrows smugly as you looked at him. 

“Fuck me,” Eddie grumbled to himself.

Getting your drinks wasn’t an issue; the issue was having to talk to the bartender. Violet Jennings had a massive crush on him since the second grade, one that never faded or wavered, and every time he was in the bar, her eyes remained glued to him. It might even be cute if she weren’t so intense. 

As he approached, Violet dropped everything she was doing and walked to where he stood. The only thing separating them was the wood of the bar top.

“What can I get you, Eddie,” she said his name. Breathy and affected. 

“Uh,” he cleared his throat, his cheeks turning pink because he could feel you and Beth watching him—your giggles carrying through the air.

“Can I get a pina colada, a gin and tonic, and just a pint of whatever is on tap?”

“Whatever you desire,” she nodded her head and jutted her chest out, but Eddie didn’t dare glance down. No matter how great her cleavage may be. 

She began to prepare his order, and he looked toward your table, you and Beth throwing him a thumbs up. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, tapping his fingers against the bar as he waited.

“Here you are, on the house of course.” She winked at him. It wasn’t his newfound fame that got the drinks but her neverending crush. 

“Thanks,” he tilted his chin towards her as he grabbed the glasses. Doing his best not to drop the drinks. 

“Here you go, assholes,” he murmured as he pushed the drinks onto the table. You excitedly grabbed for yours, humming as the sugary drink slid against your tongue and the rum burned your throat. 

“We won these fair and square,” Beth argued and took a sip of her drink, shooting him a glare.

“No, Sunshine here won them fair and square. You just made her do your bidding.” 

“Whatever,” she rolled her eyes and looked over at the bar. Spotting the girl she’d spent the night with three weeks ago. Her eyebrow raised, a warm feeling settling into her stomach as she recalled that night.

“This a snooze,” she looked at you both before jumping from her seat and walking towards the girl. You chuckled as you watched her leave, sauntering to the brunette whose name you still did not know.

You looked back at Eddie, a smile still wide on your lips.

“Did you ever hear back about the contest,” he asked suddenly, feigning disinterest. 

“No,” you sighed, “but it was a long shot anyway. Plus, in what world would I go on a date with Steve Harrington.”

“You say his name like he’s some god,” he scoffed.

“Shut up, I do not,” you grumbled, cheeks growing warm.

“Y’know there’s better guys out there than some lame actor, right?”

“Eddie, you act like even if I had a date with Steve, that he’d be interested in me. I wouldn’t measure up to the models and actresses he’s dated.”

“He’d be an idiot if he wasn’t interested.” 

Your heart stuttered in your chest, and you struggled to respond. Settling on deflecting instead of overthinking what he said.

He’s your best friend; of course, he’s going to say that.  

“Yeah, well, I don’t have to worry about hypotheticals and whether or not he would or wouldn’t be interested because I didn’t win. Now enough about me,” you nudged him, “You need to do something with the attention Corroded Coffin has now,” you urged.

“I want to,” he closed his eyes for a moment and sighed, “but I just don’t wanna make the wrong move, and what if no one is interested?”

“There is plenty of interest. Did you not see the size of the crowd?” You waved your arms around the room. 

“Yeah, from fans, but that doesn’t mean a record executive will be interested,” he gulped his beer down.

“You are stubborn as always,” you tilted your head up and looked back at him.

“Submit the demos. The worst that someone can say is no, and you’ll still have the growing fanbase if they do.” 

You looked at him with pleading eyes, and he shook his head. 

“Stop,” he pushed your face away, “you make that face, and I fold.”

You beamed and grabbed onto his arm, taking note of how his bicep felt beneath your fingers.

“Please, please listen to me, Eddie. I know your big break is around the corner, and when you make it, the only thing I ask is that you remember little ol’ me when you’re jetting around the world or marrying Heidi Klum.”

“Who?”

It was your turn to push his head away.

“Just promise?” you held a pinky finger up. It was his turn to make a pact. 

“I promise,” his pinky circled yours and you kissed the other side of your hand, gaze never leaving his. Wishing that it was his lips that you were kissing instead.

The next morning you woke up, head a little heavy from the alcohol you drank and dragging ass to the restroom to start getting ready for work.

You started the shower, turning the nob until it was nearly scalding, just how you liked it. Steam already filling the small bathroom when you stepped behind the shower curtain. You hummed as you worked the shampoo into your scalp, thinking of all you had to do at work. Creating a grocery list in your head for when you got off and went to the grocery store. 

It was a Friday night, movie night with your two best friends, and it was your turn to host. You debated whether to torture Eddie with another rom-com starring your favorite actor or if you should give in and watch one of his favorites. You always chose based on what was easiest to make themed foods for and never found it easy to make anything around any of the horror movies Eddie loved. 

The sound of someone pulling near your trailer interrupted your thoughts and caused you to stop humming as you listened closely. You could hear car doors slam shut and the sound of footsteps approaching. 

You rinsed your hair, shut off the water, and stepped out into the cold air.

What the hell?

A sharp rap at the door startled you and you hugged your towel close, quickly darting to your room to change so you could answer the door.

You took hesitant steps, pressing your body against the wood and peering through the peephole. A woman stood on the other side, preening as she waited for you to answer. 

Slowly you opened the door, poking only your head out.

“Can I help you?”

She said your name excitedly, and your eyebrows pushed together, unsure how she knew you or your full name.

“Yes?” 

“I’m Vanessa with WRTV!”

“Okay?” 

Everything came out like a question because why was she here?

“I’m here to interview you about winning a date with Steven Harrington,” she beamed, cameraman rushing up behind her. Lens focused on you.

“I won?” Your eyes bulged, and you threw the door open.

“Congratulations!” 

You squealed and jumped in place excitedly, wet hair sending droplets of water in the air. 

People began to poke their heads outside their doors at the ruckus and the scene of news trucks outside your trailer. All the neighbors stared including Eddie. 

“Eddie, I won!” You turned to him and invited him over, but with the camera pointed at you, he only arched a curious brow. 

Usually, you’d shrink away from the attention, but as you prattled through Vanessa’s interview questions, all you could think about was your luck. 

How you’d just won a date with Steve Harrington.

-

next>

tag list: @ali-r3n, @12thatsanumber, @lonely-phantoms, @Chickocrit

Request to be added to tag list here 🩵

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

The Princess delivered such a clear & well written statement for the layperson. She displayed unparalleled poise, courage, and compassion under the harshness of the global spotlight.

I feel for her. Unlike Charles (IMO), Catherine never anticipated that she might have been battling cancer symptoms. Hearing the pathology results was devastating. They deserve our compassion.

And yet THIS:

Knowledge is Power

I already created a post to help the layperson better understand "preventative chemotherapy."

The use of preventative chemotherapy means Catherine's lymphatic system is concerning and warranted aggressive action to ensure that she is cured of this disease.

Sometimes a malignant tumor is removed and the body is cancer free [Sarah York/Guiliani Rancic].

Thankfully Catherine's magins are cancer free as there is no evidence the cancer metastasized.

Despite those cancer free margins, the cancer gained access to the lymph channels (not her lymph nodes), hence she was prescribed a course of a "preventative" form of poison (chemotherapy) to arrest & annihilate the wandering cancer cells in every system of her body. 😥

[smolwritingchick]

What was Jennie’s reaction to Joe Budden and him being rude to BTS?

Still thinking of answers for the other asks in the inbox but here is this one 😁💜

Goshhhh. I know her immediate reaction is to want to lash out because are you kidding? Hating on the boys for no reason and claiming they are from China when they are from Korea? Not cool. Come correct. She’d be annoyed about it and scoff at his words. He has no valid reason to hate.

I want her to take time to reflect on his ignorant words and her response to it. It saddens and disappoints her that people such as Joe Budden are so ignorant when it comes to BTS. And it’s also crazy because during American Hustle Life, Jennie and Yoongi were assigned to dance as a team to Pump It Up. So that’s even more wild.

She’ll probably say her response at the Permission to Dance concert like Namjoon. During this situation, Jennie would be like 24 around this time and I see her as more mature and less likely to be getting into a lot of drama like she’d do currently in the story (like replying to a random hate comment or when she would clash with the Amity members chapters before).

While working on the story and brainstorming future chapters especially future JenKook, Zendaya has become an inspiration when writing Jennie because of how graceful and positive she is. Especially during the time of that ignorant comment by Giuliana Rancic about her braids. Zendaya’s response to that was everything ❤️

I’d like for Jen to do the same, taking the route of telling facts while still having a strong passionate message to call out close mindedness. She wouldn’t even say Joe’s name but it’d be pretty clear he’d be the context along with other ignorant people regarding Bangtan. 💜

[jelajade]

Spot Illustrations I did for "Exit Music" by Michael Rancic for the summer edition of Maisonneuve Magazine.

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

A former "Apprentice" producer newly released from his nondisclosure agreement published an account on Slate that details former President Donald Trump's alleged use of the n-word to describe a Black finalist on the business competition show. According to the producer, Trump discriminated against the contestant, claiming Americans would not "buy a nigger winning."

That producer, Bill Pruitt, said Trump made the comments during a recorded but heavily edited boardroom meeting that was held to compare the performance of the two finalists in the show's inaugural 2004 season: Kwame Jackson, a Black Goldman Sachs broker, and white cigar entrepreneur Bill Rancic. The participants each weighed in, and it was Carolyn Kepcher, an "Apprentice" judge and chief of Trump's golf courses, who Pruitt recalls advocating strongly for Jackson because he successfully dealt with "more obstacles" than Rancic, mainly in the form of his antagonistic teammate Omarosa. According to Pruitt, Omarosa attacked several of their teammates in support of her "brother" Jackson, and Kepcher observed that the latter handled the awkward situation with "grace."

Kepcher then suggested that Jackson would be a "great addition" to the Trump Organization. But Trump was apparently uncomfortable with the recommendation. According to Pruitt, Trump "winces while his head bobs around in reaction to what he is hearing and clearly resisting."

"Why didn't he just fire her?" Pruitt recalls Trump asking of Jackson, as if Trump had suddenly forgotten that his own iconic line existed to be spoken by him alone.

“That’s not his job,” said Jay Bienstock, the showrunner. “That’s yours.”

“I don’t think he knew he had the ability to do that,” Kepcher added, as Trump continued to wince and bob.

"Yeah," Trump said, "but, I mean, would America buy a nigger winning?” Pruitt then looked at Trump, who looked "serious" and "adamant about not hiring Jackson."

After the meeting and Jackson's so-called firing, Pruitt writes, no one raised Trump's comments again. But they vaguely resurfaced in 2018, when Omarosa, fresh off a stint in Trump's White House, claimed in an NPR interview that she heard him say the n-word in a tape while promoting her new book, "Unhinged."

President Joe Biden's campaign was quick to capitalize on the report. "No one is surprised that Donald Trump, who entered public life by falsely accusing Black men of murder and entered political life spreading lies about the first Black president, reportedly used the N-word to casually denigrate a successful Black man," said Jasmine Harris, the campaign's Black media director, in a press release. "Anyone notice a pattern?"

The Trump campaign has denied Pruitt's account. “This is a completely fabricated ... story that was already peddled in 2016,” Trump campaign spokesperson Steven Cheung said in a statement. “Nobody took it seriously then, and they won’t now, because it’s fake news. Now that Crooked Joe Biden and the Democrats are losing the election, they are bringing up old fake stories from the past because they are desperate.”

Racism is not the only charge Pruitt is leveling against Trump. He also alleges that Trump made lewd and demeaning comments about female camera operators, having Pruitt order one woman off an elevator because she was "too heavy" and comparing another one's appearance to that of his daughter, Ivanka.

“There’s a beautiful woman behind that camera,” Trump said, according to Pruitt. “That’s all I want to look at.”

Beautification of Trump and his brand, meanwhile, was what the show was all about, Pruitt wrote. "In the show, he appeared to demonstrate impeccable business instincts and unparalleled wealth, even though his businesses had barely survived multiple bankruptcies and faced yet another when he was cast,” he said. “By carefully misleading viewers about Trump – his wealth, his stature, his character, and his intent – the competition reality show set about an American fraud that would balloon beyond its creators’ wildest imaginations.”

[leanstooneside]

& NEVER THE TWAINS SHALL MEET

1. David Letterman's round waist

2. DJ Pauly D's balanced calf

3. Bill Rancic's fleshy buttocks

4. Marni Senofonte's chocolaty mouth

5. Hugh Grant's alcoholic mouth

6. Steve Carell's herbaceous wrist

7. Cheryl Burke's heavy eyelash

8. Sophie Monk's smooth foot

9. Lana Del Rey's hard ankle

10. Keanu Reeves's fresh nostril

11. Christie Brinkley's bright belly

[jechristine]

Anon questioning why Z and her team are making such a big deal out of the daily mail article are basically trying to say that the black folk should just shut up and take it. However, if they don’t dispute it, it becomes the truth in many people’s minds and the narrative is the black folk don’t know how to dress even for “smart casual.” They’re trying to knock this A-list POC celeb down a peg, but Z (and her people) has never not stood up for herself especially when something is racist or has racist dog whistles like when Giuliano Rancic said Z's dreadlocks looked like it smelled like patchouli oil and weed.

Yes, exactly, thank you!

[90363462]

Rancic has always looked like an anorexic bug to me! She needs to keep her mouth shut about Black hairstyles, and worry about looking like a lollipop on a stick, with her big giants head, and stick body.

[celebrityxbabes]