The Billy Mays of the GOPRich Lowry
March 10, 2016
The presidency has been occupied by lawyers, ex-generals, a former actor and even a peanut farmer, but never before by a pitchman.
In his historic run, Donald Trump seeks to become the first. He is the Billy Mays of the GOP, doing what the late, ubiquitous celebrity pitchman never could dream of: making the sale to a major political party and, he hopes, to the nation.
Trump fashions himself a builder, but he is really a marketer and, more than that, a salesman, with methods that have their roots in infomercials and before that on boardwalks and at carnivals.
Mays became a very wealthy man pitching everything from OxiClean to Mighty Putty to — who can forget? — Zorbeez.
A Mays pitch was high energy (“Hi, Billy Mays here for … ”). It was simple and easy to understand. It was full of superlatives. The Quick Chop, to take one example, was the fastest, easiest and safest way to chop anything — and, of course, the best deal on TV. And his pitches included offers of free stuff: in the case of the Quick Chop, a Quick Grater thrown in at no cost (as well as a second Quick Chop, if you paid separate process and handling).
A Fortune magazine article on Mays, who learned his craft on the Atlantic City Boardwalk, noted that his methods go back to the old carnival days. Trump instinctively understands the art. The candidate knows how to “bally the tip,” or create a spectacle to draw a crowd, and how to “nod them in,” or say things to get a crowd of potential customers to nod along (e.g., we are going to build a wall and Mexico is going to pay or it).
An admirer of Mays writes that he “learned on the Atlantic City Boardwalk that buyers want to be led. From the moment pitchmen like Billy Mays open their mouths, they make sure you understand he’s talking to YOU, that he understands the problems you have and, most importantly, he has the perfect solution.” Sound familiar?
What is most disturbing about Trump’s infamous and eponymous scammy business ventures, like Trump University or the failed multilevel marketing venture, the Trump Network, is that they bear such an unmistakable resemblance to his campaign.
In Trump’s pitch for Trump University, you hear the same grandiose promises: “Success. It’s going to happen to you.” The same meaninglessly vague statements: “Trump University is about knowledge about a lot of different things.” The same assurances that Trump will hire the best and the brightest: “We are going to have professors and adjunct professors that are absolutely terrific, terrific people, terrific brains, successful. We are going to have the best of the best.” The same literally incredible claims: “These are all people [the so-called professors] that are handpicked by me.”
A promotional video for the Trump Network included faux interviews on a faux red carpet of people getting in on the ground floor of the scheme.
Their testimonials could easily be drawn from the marketing of Trump 2016:
“We’re going to be able to help people take back the American dream.”
“What this means to this entire country is so phenomenal. Get in now. Don’t miss the ride.”
“We are going to change America and the position that people are in. Get on board. Don’t think about it. Just do it.”
It was Trump the pitchman who felt compelled to devote much of his post-Michigan and -Mississippi news conference to defending his products, whether they still exist or not.
Goaded by Mitt Romney’s roll call of failed Trump ventures, the mogul put out a display of alleged Trump Steaks, which were really Bush Brothers Steaks (Trump Steaks are no longer available for sale). He passed off a boutique publication about his club Mar-a-Lago as Trump Magazine, which ceased publication in 2009.
It was a passingly strange way to celebrate a victory — but what do you think Mays would do if someone questioned whether Kaboom was really the best tile cleaner? At least Mays is said to have believed in his products. Trump’s insistence on the vitality of his defunct ventures led to instant debunking. Not that he cares. The Trump method, honed over decades, is to spread a thick lather of bravado over a foundation of mendacity.
There is, of course, overlap between the work of a pitchman and politician, but Trump makes the two indistinguishable. He isn’t a rejection of politics so much as a grotesque parody of it. He’s like any other politician, only more dishonest, insincere and unscrupulous, and less principled, informed and civil. He is a way for angry people to send a message to the political class: We have such low regard for you, we think you are no better or different than Donald Trump.
The sentiment is understandable. But if you think it will end well, I have an Awesome Auger or an EZ Crunch Bowl to sell you, provided you order without delay.
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