He’s a coarse, perverted, perennially uncouth man who prefers cheap fast food, gaudy adornments, trophy wives, childish insults, tacky music, foul language, and a legendarily terrible haircut. To the extent that he has a style, ill-fitting suits and badly composed dinner ensembles fits it perfectly, whereas dressing to impress would mark him as an ‘insider’ that needs the approval he secretly screams for inside. No Hugo Boss-designed uniforms for this burgeoning despot; he’s an off-the-rack fascist all the way, an autocrat for (but not of) the common man, a sultan of shab.
Stranger