KENNEDY’s view of Trump’s surreal RNC conference speech

You could hear a pin drop in Milwaukee on Thursday night as Donald Trump got straight to the point:

‘I will tell you exactly what happened, and you’ll never hear it from me a second time, because it’s actually too painful to tell.’

I stood in a circus of red, white and blue-painted faces, bedazzled MAGA jackets and baseball caps just 20 rows back from the Republican National Convention stage.

The Oregon delegation was on my left, Puerto Rico on my right. Across the floor the Wisconsin Cheeseheads were wearing their glorious orange headgear.

The Texans proudly pumping in their ivory Stetsons to the live band. The Arizonans were decked out in white ear bandages, some customized with Star Spangled-flair.

Behind me sat Trump’s family in their private box.

I could make out the profile of red-hot Melania, freshly flown in on private jet. She’d just sucked the oxygen out of the arena, striding in like a WWE Diva to the quivering strings of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9, before a hard-cut to Kid Rock’s rousing pre-Donald performance.

Musically, the evening was starting to sound like orange juice and toothpaste tastes, but who cared?

Trump was about to make his first public remarks since a pizza-faced, 20-year-old dipstick evaded the once-most respected security service in the world to come within an inch and a stiff breeze of shooting him dead.

Rumors swirled after Saturday’s attack that Trump would only appear remotely.

No chance.

This showman par excellence was going to milk this moment like an Iowa State Fair-winning dairy cow.

‘It was a warm, beautiful day in the early evening in Butler Township in the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania,’ Trump said.

They were the opening lines of a bedtime story that one should never read to a child.

But the Trumptastic ladies decked out in custom MAGA glitter gowns, normie delegates in suits and ties and gray-haired men cosplaying Uncle Sam were primed to explode – if not slightly manic after just being firehosed with a psychadelic pop parade of Americana.

Moments ago, a jacked-up Hulk Hogan had ripped off his top to reveal a Trump-Vance t-shirt. (I saw Don blow the Hulkster a kiss from the family box).

Evangelist Franklin Graham calmed the rising animal impulses with an appeal to our Lord and Savior, who he personally thanked for saving Trump from an assassin’s bullet.

Kid Rock snapped a few artificial hips with his ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ ode.

And UFC president Dana White did his best Macho Man Randy Savage impression (‘Need a little excitement? Snap into the Democrats!’).

A slick pre-produced video re-tracing Trump’s life story from young New York City real estate magnate to reality show star to president left me wondering: Did Don Draper come out of retirement?

And then the stage lit up: ‘TRUMP’ in giant Broadway bulbs.

The man of the hour walked out to singer Lee Greenwood belting out ‘God Bless the U.S.A’.

The helmet and jacket of slain firefighter hero Corey Comperatore, who was killed while shielding his family from the would Trump assassin’s shots on Saturday, were placed stage-right.

All around me were in tears. 

One woman was sobbing so hard that she wiped her eyes with her fake ear bandage.

‘I heard a loud whizzing sound and felt something hit me really, really hard. On my right ear. I said to myself, ‘Wow, what was that? It can only be a bullet,’ Trump recalled, the audience transfixed.

‘I moved my right hand to my ear, brought it down. My hand was covered with blood. Just absolutely blood all over the place.’

A elderly man wearing a white cowboy hat with Trump 2024 buttons lining the lapel of his white cotton blazer was desperately trying to hold it together – his chin quivering, his eyes misting up.

Only the naive among us are not cynical of politics, but I must say, this felt real.

‘To every citizen, whether you’re young or old, a man or woman, Democrat, Republican or Independent, Black or white, Asian or Hispanic, I extend to you a hand of loyalty and of friendship,’ he boomed – and we believed him.

This speech transcended politics, because it wasn’t about bumbling Joe Biden or Cackling Kamala.

This is the Trump that stuck-up coastal know-it-alls refuse to acknowledge.

He relates to people.

And if he had left it there, stuck to the teleprompter, wrapped up the emotional rollercaster, then there wouldn’t have been a pundit in the cable news universe who could have credibility concluded that it wasn’t one of the most masterful convention closers in modern history.

However that would have been too simple for such a complicated man leading such a wild, unruly, unpredictable MAGA movement.

So, the clock ticked by as the great entertainer went off-script.

When Don from Oregon bent down next to me, I thought he dropped his phone. But this sweet guy in his 60s was doing squats so his legs wouldn’t fall asleep.

The entire Puerto Rico crew had taken their seats.

A nice lady from Maine asked if the paused teleprompter was broken.

‘No’, I reassured her as she looked genuinely worried, ‘he’s just freestyling.’

The minutes turned into what felt like weeks as 45 took a trip down memory lane from his love affair with Kim Jong Un to Venezuelan rapists.

I swear I heard the narrator from Sponge Bob announce in a French accent ‘three…hours…later…’

Though when I looked over at the Trump family box, I felt a sense of relief. The entire thing had emptied out!

Surely that meant they’d been ushered backstage to join their patriarch any moment now.

Nope!

For 40 minutes he kept going.

Jean from Delaware agreed that it had all gone on a little long, but added wisely: ‘that’s to be expected from a man who cheated death.’

And as the entire Trump family gathered on stage and balloons fell from the ceiling, I reflected on the mad spectacle we’d all just watched.

In more ways than one, Jean is right.

Trump has escaped death – and now it feels like he’s just getting started again.