Donald Trump was never trained to make his bed. In 1972, I involuntarily spent eight weeks in Fort Dix, New Jersey. At that time, I was a reluctant trainee in the art of war. We fired all kinds of fun weapons. We took long marches carrying our gear along the way.
We wore heavy black combat boots and we were lucky if the drill instructors allowed us to take off our fatigue shirts. We sweated like pigs, some of us cried from the pressure, constant insults and sheer discomfort we were in.
We sang fun songs as we marched, sweat and cried. The songs told us our girlfriend was cheating on us with Johnny. They were called cadence and were meant to help you march in time. The one I remember best went something like this: I want to be an airborne ranger, I want to live a life of danger, I want to go to Vietnam.
You get the idea. It was indoctrination. Left, right, left, right, on and on.
One of the first things we had to do perfectly was make our bed. It had to be so tight a quarter would bounce on it. Forty-five never learned to make his bed. He’s undisciplined, arrogant and a poor leader. He should have learned to make his bed.