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I can no longer justify calling myself a Trump supporter

That’s all, folks! I’m out.

Embracing the presidential aspirations of Donald Trump was, from the start, an exercise in magical thinking. In my heart, I wanted the smack-talking, hair-challenged, self-absorbed New York City billionaire Republican to nail down this baby.

But in my head? Not so much.

I’ve hung out with Trump, 70, many times over the years, professionally, socially and in wacky combinations of the two. I interviewed him inside a stretch limo in New Hampshire in 2011 about his White House ambitions. But the chat devolved into a madcap dash through Podunk streets too small for his ride — or his ego. Trump soon got palpably bored with the Granite State and the presidency, and started motor-mouthing about “Celebrity Apprentice’’ and his suspicion, which was proven wrong, that President Obama was born in Kenya. He asked the driver to drop him off at his private chopper emblazoned with the name “TRUMP’’ for the trip home.





”Want a ride in my helicopter?’’ he asked me. Not wanting to find myself airborne over the Throgs Neck Bridge with no exit strategy, I begged off.

Here is a guy with the common touch, but the attention span of a flea. He’s someone voters would enjoy having a beer with, even though he doesn’t drink alcohol. Can you imagine the torture of sharing a Bud Light with Democrat Hillary Clinton?

But some of us smitten with his shoot-from-the-lip style have reached our limits.

I think Trump secretly doesn’t want the prize. Why would he crave spending endless hours in policy meetings, cavorting with miserable domestic and world leaders and abandoning his collection of obscenely opulent abodes to live in public housing at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. in Washington, DC?





His penthouse, which sprawls over the 66th, 67th and 68th floors of Trump Tower, looks like the palace of Louis XIV — if the French king mated with Liberace, with 24-karat-gold accents adorning everything from the lamps to the china, marble bathtubs and a vaulted living room ceiling painted with a fresco of scantily clad babes.

When I visited about two months after his lovely wife, Melania, now 46, gave birth to the couple’s son, Barron, now 10, the infamous germophobe boasted that after fathering five children, he’d never changed a diaper.

I enthused that Melania, who stood quietly nearby aboard 5-inch stilettos, had lost all her baby weight. Trump corrected me: “She’s almost lost all the baby weight.’’

I was embarrassed for the mother of his youngest kid, who ignored the dig. Trump staffers asked a photographer and me to put sterile cotton booties over our shoes so as not to sully the carpet. It was time to get the hell out of the loony bin.





My all-time favorite Hollywood GOP curmudgeon, Clint Eastwood, 86, told Esquire magazine in the September issue that we’re living in a “p—y generation’’ beholden to political correctness. Trump, he said, is “onto something.’’ But he stopped short of endorsing him.

Trump picked a stupid fight with the Muslim Gold Star parents of 27-year-old Army Capt. Humayun Khan, who was killed in Iraq in 2004. Sure, dad Khizr Khan put the candidate on the spot while at the Democratic National Convention. Holding up a copy of the US Constitution, he needled Trump — “Have you even read the Constitution?’’

Trump could have said he’s sorry for the Khans’ loss, and left it at that.

Instead, he said the dad had “no right’’ to “viciously’’ criticize him, and accused the slain soldier’s mom, Ghazala Khan, of standing by silently as her husband spoke because she is Muslim. (She later said she was too distraught to speak.)





And Trump won’t back down from his lunacy and bigotry.

I can no longer justify calling myself a Trumpkin. I’m done with The Donald. Let’s grab a beer — or I will — and call it quits.

Addicted to coddling criminals

President Obama released from federal prison or slashed the sentences of 214 inmates last week, the largest one-day springing since at least 1900 — many of them minorities he termed nonviolent drug offenders. But his clemency spree helped criminals who not just used but sold garbage, and more than 50 who brandished firearms while engaging in “nonviolent’’ trafficking.

Independently, the affluenza-afflicted Cameron Douglas, 37-year-old scion of Hollywood royalty — son of Michael Douglas, 71, grandson of Kirk Douglas, 99, stepson of Catherine Zeta-Jones, 46 — was released from a federal lockup to a halfway house after serving nearly seven years for drug dealing and possession. He landed a glamorous job at a film production company in New York City. A source told The Post’s Page Six he plans to write a tell-all book about his “struggle” growing up among icons.

Wealthy druggies have it over ordinary, coddled junkies and pushers. They get bigger breaks.

Face it, Renée – looks matter

You signed up for this life, Renée. Renée Zellweger, 47, went nuclear over two years of rampant media reports speculating that she had undergone plastic surgery.

“Not that it’s anyone’s business, but I did not make a decision to alter my face and have surgery on my eyes,” she wrote in the Huffington Post, slamming the claim as “sexist.”

With her new film “Bridget Jones’s Baby’’ set to open next month, she went on the tear after a piece was published in Variety in June by the mag’s chief film critic, Owen Gleiberman, headlined, “Renée Zellweger: If She No Longer Looks Like Herself, Has She Become a Different Actress?”

I don’t think someone who makes her living off her appearance should express anger when people notice she’s changed.

Panic in Needle Park — Part Two

A flashback to the bad old days of the 1980s and early ’90s, when junkies ran decent folks out of Tompkins Square Park in the now-gentrified East Village.

Now filth has a new, better ZIP code. Hookers, crack smokers — a man was seen injecting drugs into his neck — do their business freely, even in front of cops, in Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village, The Post reported.

Mayor Bill de Blasio and new top cop James O’Neill — help!





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