The Reason Donald Trump Is Running For President Is Because He’s Pissed Obama Took A Huge Dump On Him Years Ago

Man. This is some Beatrix Kiddo-type shit. In Quentin Tarantino’s opus, Kill Bill, after The Bride gets unceremoniously riddled with bullets and left for dead on her wedding day, she awakes from a coma years later and begins exacting her revenge on everyone who wronged her. No one is free from her wrath, and she slaughters wholesale people across the planet, from Japan to the America Southwest.

Turns out Donald Trump’s presidential campaign is the same blood-soaked revenge tour.

A lot of people claim Barack Obama is somehow indirectly responsible for the rise of Trump, be it that people who support Trump want a more forceful voice in the White House, an antithesis to Obama’s calm intellectualism, or the simple fact that Trump appeals to voters who believe Obama left them behind in his vision for a different America.

Turns out though, it’s worse. Trump’s entire run for president stems from being shit on by Obama at the White House Correspondent’s Dinner back in 2011. From a fascinating feature on the rise of Trump that was in Sunday’s New York Times.

Donald J. Trump arrived at the White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner in April 2011, reveling in the moment as he mingled with the political luminaries who gathered at the Washington Hilton. He made his way to his seat beside his host, Lally Weymouth, the journalist and socialite daughter of Katharine Graham, longtime publisher of The Washington Post.

A short while later, the humiliation started.

Watch what happens next.

From jokes about Trump’s birther movement, to his feckless stature as head of the Celebrity Apprentice, Obama made it apparent Trump was a joke, a sham, and a laughable figurehead that no one in the nation should take seriously.

Mr. Trump at first offered a drawn smile, then a game wave of the hand. But as the president’s mocking of him continued and people at other tables craned their necks to gauge his reaction, Mr. Trump hunched forward with a frozen grimace.

After the dinner ended, Mr. Trump quickly left, appearing bruised. He was “incredibly gracious and engaged on the way in,” recalled Marcus Brauchli, then the executive editor of The Washington Post, but departed “with maximum efficiency.”

That evening of public abasement, rather than sending Mr. Trump away, accelerated his ferocious efforts to gain stature within the political world. And it captured the degree to which Mr. Trump’s campaign is driven by a deep yearning sometimes obscured by his bluster and bragging: a desire to be taken seriously.

Ever since then, he’s been on the fucking warpath, his Hattori Hanzo sword his wealth and brazen tactics.

Repeatedly underestimated as a court jester or silly showman, Mr. Trump muscled his way into the Republican elite by force of will. He badgered a skittish Mitt Romney into accepting his endorsement on national television, and became a celebrity fixture at conservative gatherings. He abandoned his tightfisted inclinations and cut five- and six-figure checks in a bid for clout as a political donor. He courted conservative media leaders as deftly as he had the New York tabloids.

Give the whole thing a read. Trump is certainly more cunning than anyone gives him credit for.