Welcome to The Family Tiffany.

They Really Will Eat Their Own

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I think we all know that there is something very off about the Trump dynasty—that sprawling American tragedy dressed up in Brioni suits and spray tans, where each act reveals fresh horrors that somehow manage to surpass the last. Donald Trump himself is a menacing wonder to behold on so many levels, a figure so cartoonishly malevolent that fiction writers would reject him as too implausible. Normally, one would argue that dragging politicians' children into the spotlight crosses an ethical line—after all, most didn't choose the glare of public scrutiny. But the Trump offspring? They don't just seek the spotlight; they sprint toward it with the desperation of moths to a flame.

The apple, as they say, doesn't fall far from the tree.

The Original Trio: A Study in Two-Dimensional Living

The older three Trump progeny—Don Jr., Eric, and Ivanka—present such shallow personas that attempting any deep analysis feels like an exercise in futility, as if curiosity itself might suffer a broken neck from diving into the shallowness.

Don Jr. once seemed like he might break free from the family mold. His well-documented struggles with alcoholism, his teenage flight from home, and his public condemnation of his father's parental prowess suggested the emergence of an anti-Donald rather than merely a junior version. The stories are legendary: Trump storming into his son's dorm room to slap him in front of his roommate for dressing inappropriately for a baseball game, or Junior's public declaration that his father cared only about money while siding with his mother during the messy divorce proceedings.

But that rebellious phase proved tragically short-lived. What emerged instead was something far worse—a crasser, less charming iteration of his father. What's remarkable is that Junior managed to carve out a space so morally bankrupt that he actually makes Donald look refined by comparison. It's a stunning achievement in its own perverse way.

Eric presents perhaps the most tragic transformation of all. Once an adorable towheaded child, he seemed to physically morph under his father's malevolent influence—as if simply existing in Donald's orbit bucked his teeth, fattened his belly, and dulled his mind. His evolution serves as a testament to the eternal nature versus nurture debate, or perhaps speaks to the cataclysmic outcome when bad genes meet teratogenic parental love.

Then there's Ivanka—Oedipus Trump, if you will—who long appeared to be the golden child destined for escape. She managed to separate herself from the family's more odious enterprises and seemed to jam her Jimmy Choo-shod toe into Manhattan's more rarefied circles. Yet she still reeked of nouveau riche Queens money and married the spoiled son of a crook. Of course, this being post-Knickerbocker New York, both Jared and Ivanka initially received passes for their various transgressions. Kushner's disastrous pedigree and his destruction of a beloved newspaper were deemed either not his fault or signs of youthful inexperience.

But it was 666 Fifth Avenue—even the address seemed ominous—and the solutions pursued while working in the White House that finally proved Ivanka was cut from that same bolt of fabric. Rayon masquerading as silk, as it were.

Between this trio's horrible acts and their equally vile partners—Lara, Jared, and Kimberly—we thought we understood the full scope of what Donald Trump had spawned. Barron remained a minor, living high above the city in Trump Tower under the protective skirts of the animatronic Melania. The Trump children, we concluded, were like fudge—too much to take.

The Afterthought Daughter

And then there was Tiffany, existing in our minds exactly as she did in her father's—as an afterthought.