I’ve hammered Donald Trump in this exact space. Called him a coward. A moron. A fraud. Tough guy? I had nuns in school tougher than Trump. In one piece I compared him to a disease. None of these opinions have changed with his landslide win on Tuesday night. What has changed is this: I will no longer spend one joule of energy on Trump. It’s not that I don’t care about America, or that I’m a quitter. It’s just that he and the entire system are just not worth it. I will no longer dwell one second on the atrocities of Donald Trump — I’m out. Growing up, there was a guy in my neighborhood who was phenomenally lucky, and we called him Lucky Ray. In organized, competitive sports, if Lucky Ray was at bat with the winning runs on base, he’d check-swing a double down the opposite field line to win the game. If he took the last shot in a tied basketball game it would be all net. And it’d never be hit or miss. No — Lucky Ray always seemed to hit. Time after time Lucky Ray won the game. And it wasn’t the result of super talent. He was just lucky. Later on, if Lucky Ray played poker, he’d never lose. And it’s not that he was some kind of Lancey Howard. If you spotted Lucky Ray at the track you’d try to follow him to the window because by the time the last race was run, he’d end up leaving a winner. Football parlay cards — a sucker bet if ever there was one — a concept you could conjure being affixed with a Trump logo — were not so for Lucky Ray. If he played one, he’d win. The guy always won. Because he was lucky. Donald Trump is a version of Lucky Ray. He may just be the luckiest man in world history. And I’m certainly not talking about the gifts bestowed upon him, which are minimal. I’m talking about having luck — as in saving your ass lucky. Falling out of a tree, landing on your feet lucky. And just like Lucky Ray, Trump is not immeasurably talented. And don’t give me any Jeffersonian adage about luck, and the harder you work the more luck you have. I’d say that applies more to Lucky Ray than Donald Trump. But Trump’s one undeniable talent is the con. Put him in a courtroom and it’s useless. But put him in an arena of people who are viscerally hurting, hurting from missed mortgage payments or jacked insurance premiums, and it flourishes. Put him in front of people leaden with uneasiness, with fear of the new and the foreign and the perpetually changing and he will thrive. Because a Hall of Fame con man will always play to his crowd. And Trump will prey on the vulnerable over and over and over again. Prey on them with a bogus university, with failed casinos, with bankrupt steaks and vodka and most recently gold sneakers and six-figure watches made in China. Buyer beware: Sadly, the victims of a con job are not only the last to know it, they are more often than not so humiliated that they take their lumps and say nothing. So, they stay in. Conversely, if Lucky Ray raised on the last card, it’d be smart strategy to get out. Along those lines… I’m out. Out of the Trump scorecard business. Out of tabulating the obscene and degrading. Of calculating the repulsive. America has spoken and I’m out. The scorekeeping of that now falls to those who voted for him. Until they start, all inventory is meaningless. I’m out because the broadcast media has failed repeatedly to reveal Trump. Because a good number of them once played footsie with him (Mika, Joe, Howard Stern, Donny Deutsch, et al). Because you cannot have a Mar-a-Lago dance card and suddenly have a revelation that your host is a fiend — I know that the shortest time spent with Trump reveals him as just that. How much of their opposition was ratings driven, and not from the heart? I’m also out because I have much better things to do. I have a TV pilot to get made. And I plan to fall in love for the final time in my life. Whatever happened to Lucky Ray? I heard his luck finally ran out. I heard he got run over by a bus coming back from the track. There was a good chance he had a pocket stuffed with winnings when he did. Marotta is a filmmaker and writer.