Let’s get something straight right from the jump: facts are not optional. \ But when you’re Donald J. Trump, inconvenient truths tend to vanish faster than unpaid contractors on a Trump project. Take, for example, his repeated claim that his father was born in Germany. Not once, not twice, but several times on different continents, in front of different microphones. A man who spent years fanning the flames of ‘birther’ conspiracies about President Obama, while pushing a hometown fairy tale about his own old man.

Here’s the actual genealogy: Trump’s dad, Fred Trump, was born in New York City in 1905. His grandfather, Friedrich Trump, was born in Germany and actually did get booted for dodging military service—because of course he did. Fred ran the family business, built up their fortune, and never saw Germany except maybe from an airplane seat. Yet, Trump keeps flinging this Germany story like a Frisbee made of nonsense. It’s a farce, a joke, but unlike most Trump jokes, this one isn’t funny—it’s just sad and desperate.

Nothing says “American hypocrisy” quite like the guy who claimed Barack Obama was a secret Kenyan literally inventing his own fake immigrant roots. The “birther” movement wasn’t about honesty, it was about racism, dog whistles, and owning the libs. And yet, Trump, the grand-poobah of birth-certificate nonsense, can’t seem to remember which country his own family comes from.

While Mary MacLeod (Trump’s mother) really was Scottish, Fred Trump was undeniably a New Yorker. Why does Trump lie? Because lies are easier than facts, especially for someone who treats reality like a suggestion. Worse, he knows his supporters rarely fact-check anything, and Fox News isn’t going to press him on basic history. After all, when you run on “alternative facts,” what’s one more family myth?

Let’s untangle the Trump family timeline before he rewrites it again in a tweet. Friedrich Trump was the German immigrant, arriving in the U.S. at sixteen, lured by dreams of a better scalp treatment (and probably to dodge military service). He did some entrepreneurial stuff—some of it sketchy by today’s standards—including selling horse meat and offering mysterious “services” during the gold rush. (Read between the lines, people.)

Fred Trump took over the family real estate business, made it grow, and absolutely was born in New York. But he played his own little ancestry games; for decades he listed his roots as Swedish, because it played better with tenants—particularly Jewish New Yorkers. Maybe Trump got the bug from his dad: when the facts aren’t convenient, just say whatever you want and wait for nobody to call you out.

This would be funny if it weren’t so goddamn dangerous. \ Presidential lying is a national sport now, and Trump played it like Tom Brady on Adderall. We expect politicians to spin, twist, and hype—but rewriting one’s childhood is next-level gaslighting. It shows utter contempt for the American public and, frankly, for the notion of “truth” itself.

The consequence? When people at the top treat basic facts as optional, that rot spreads. It poisons public discourse, emboldens the MAGA crowd to believe whatever feels good, and undermines the accountability Americans need and deserve. If Trump can’t tell the truth about his own family, why the hell should we expect honesty about taxes, Russia, or—hell—even his next lunch?