[Ed. – Well, not THAT Eric Trump. 1,140 words later, I (your Ed.) am none the wiser. But I do love Salon.]
Dear Eric Frederick Trump:
My name is Eric Frederick Trump. Can I call you Eric? I feel I know you. We are in a long-term relationship, though only one of us, until now, has known about it.
There is something going on here. Something very strange.
Let me explain. For years, I have been fielding your calls and receiving your correspondence (no suspicious white powders, yet). Now is the glorious Summer of Trump, and I need to sort out this matter of nomenclature and apprise you of the dead letters that continue to arrive at my door and my inbox.
This is a true story. I swear I exist. I still have my birth certificate and am happy to release it. Or you can go to Amazon.com and look up “Eric Trump, verbs, German” (you have to be very precise if you want to find me). There, squashed between Daddy-T’s “Never Enough” and “Think Big: Make it Happen in Business and Life,” you’ll find my modest book, “501 Essential German Verbs.” (I said it was modest—and available for only $5.69!).
I know you, but you don’t know me. I think that makes me your Doppelgänger, your double, Hyde to your Jekyll, Latif Yahia to your Uday Hussein. We share more than a name. Like you, I have blond hair and blue eyes and live in New York. You’re taller, but my wife says I am better looking. My family comes from Germany (like your mother, mine has a suspicion-arousing accent), and my grandfather’s name, like yours, was Frederick.
My father is voting for your father. My father is high energy. My father is known for his argent hair. My father has said a lot of things. Your dad is angry. Mine sits alone and shouts at the news on TV. Many Americans find your father inscrutable. I still wonder who the man playing my father is.