Wednesday, October 14, 2020

Donny's Journal

 From the Journal of

New post published December 1: Melania's Edited Press Release

I have gotten access to Donald Trump's Journal, aka The Donny Diaries. Don't ask me how. The White House is mortified that these pages have come into my hands. If I tell you any more, they will kill me. You know how the president gets when he's hopped up on Adderall, meth, and ego. So let's keep this between us. I'll keep posting until the election, or until the inspiration runs out. Scroll down for the newest entries.

September 28

People who can't buy food or pay rent think they have problems? Please. I owe $421 million dollars, my laundry business is about to be exposed, not one European leader likes me (except my daddy, Putin, and I'm worried that I'm in for a Polonium Cocktail once I'm no longer of use to him) and most of the world--including the shithole countries--think I'm hitler. Everyone who has worked for me has written a tell-all book that says I'm a moron--no, a fucking moron. No, a lying, grifting moron. 

My golf score sucks, even though I cheat. My sons are idiots. My third wife (the nude model who came over on a genius visa) sleeps in a separate bedroom. Ivanka keeps reminding me that she's my daughter not my girlfriend except when she needs another Chinese tariff exemption for her handbag business. Stormy said I have a micro penis (which I do, but did she have to tell everyone?). 

I have to wear depends, and I hate when it gets all squishy and I can't get changed. The mask messes up my face makeup. I can't do a thing with my hair even though I've spent $70k of tax money on styling. Also, if I don't get elected, the repugnican Senate will desert me and I will go to jail.

. . . . .

September 29

I am getting ready for tonight's debate. My makeup was sprayed on first thing in the morning (after I tweeted for four hours while sitting on the toilet), so that's done. The hair is going to get styled just before I go on (the stylist charges $900, but I don't have to pay her even though I claim it as an expense). Shall I wear the blue suit or the blue suit? Or maybe the blue suit? I will wear the longest tie I have. They always make me feel like my penis is longer. (Take that, Stormy!). They're putting new batteries into Melania, so she'll be there looking more attentive than usual. She's even getting a smile chip so that she'll keep smiling at me even after I turn around.

I hear that Joe is preparing for this thing. What a loser! I have a gigantic brain. I don't need to prepare. I've found that hulking is usually a good strategic move. Hillary was unflappable, but maybe I can make Joe nervous enough to stutter. 

Putie just sent me a good luck email. "Break both legs," it said. He owns, er, loves me.

 . . . . .

September 29

Well, I DOMINATED! Putie told me to talk loud and keep all the attention on me, and that's what I did. I was great if I say so myself. OK, so Biden called me a racist and a clown--he even said, "Shut up, man!"--but I just kept talking. I'm not even sure what I said, but I loved the lights and attention. I am Donald, hear me ROAR!

And my hair looked fantastic. I breathed in some hair spray when the stylist was working on it and got a buzz. OK, I sprayed the stuff right up my nose. That high was better than the Adderall. But I took that, too. I was really on. I felt twitchy, but I don't think anyone could tell. 

I leaked a little into my diaper when Chris Wallace asked me to speak out against white supremacy. Well, how could I do that? He might as well have asked me to refudiate white hoods and robes. I mean, those are my supporters. (They love me.) The Proud Boys are pissed because I told them to stand by. Still, they sent me a bouquet. Well, not so much a bouquet as a flower box with an arrangement of dead rats, but it's the thought that counts. There's good on both sides. Especially theirs. 

I got a little nervous about the tax issue, but deflect, deflect, deflect is my motto. I said I paid millions. (Ha! Millions of nothing.)

My one weak spot was on Covid. I'll never admit it, but I totally fucked up on that one. And it's so unlike me to fuck up. 

All in all, I think I'm on track to be Emperor for Life. I mean, a second-term president. OK, dear diary, I've got to go tweet. I'm sure everyone is saying how well I did, and I want to read every comment. But first I need another hit of that hair spray. Where's the AquaNet?

. . . . .

September 30

I was on fire last night. Really. I lied so much my pants are singed—and they are supposed to be fireproof. Fortunately the doody in my diaper protected my butt. This was not how I wanted to cover my ass—for that I usually rely on the Attorney General—but when you’re on the debate stage and you have to go, the last thing you want to do is leak. So you go in a diaper. I use the executive version with gold trim. I think they’re very presidential. I asked Melania, “Do these gold-trimmed diapers make me look presidential?” She didn’t say much, just, “Depends.” 

Thanks to the Adderall I was so energetic I could have gone for another couple of hours. (The hairspray was just a quick high.) Don Lemon, the little weasel on CNN, called me “hopped up.” And the girls on MSNBC laughed at me. I’d arrest Rachel Maddow but I’m afraid of her. 

Joe really pissed me off. He told me to shut up. Me, the emperor, er, president! I told Joe he had a working-class education. If he’d had someone take his SATs for him like I did, he could have gotten into Penn. It doesn’t cost anything. I mean, I never saw a bill the entire time I was there. You know what else I hate about Joe? He’s slim and looks good in a suit. And since he doesn’t wear a long tie, I’m assuming he’s comfortable with what’s, you know, behind the tie down there. Jill seems to like him. Excuse me: DR. Jill. Talk about flaunting a degree. My wife and daughter wife got their degrees in larger breasts, but do they flaunt them? OK, never mind. 

When the debate was over the Cleveland Clinic tried to detain me citing mental issues. They said I have a “tenuous grasp of the truth.” That’s a lie. I grasp everything I can get my hands on: pussy, money, Ivanka. Billy Barr made them release me. He said he would detain them. The chief doctor laughed. She said, “Detain what? We’re already here.” What a bitch! 

Anyway, back to me. I was so bold last night I thought for sure that Melania would (finally) sleep with me again. But by the time I got home, removed my makeup, netted up my hair, and put on a clean presidential diaper, she was in her room with the door locked. Does she really need a secret service guy to stand guard outside that door all night? 

I haven’t heard a word from Putie since the debate. Must be the time difference. I mean, I did everything he told me to do, and more.

. . . . .

October 1

I am getting just a little bit tired of the blowback from the debate—which I won. I have been called Twitler and now Shitler. And Michael Keaton, the worst Batman ever, said I didn’t have a plan. He says it like it’s an insult. Well, it works for me. That’s how I run the country. 

Stormy said the debate was the worst thing she’d ever experienced since the time we did it. On Facebook I saw that someone covered my side of the TV with a towel. And it wasn’t even a towel from a Trump Hotel, which are the best towels. (Plush. Very plush.) I was bold, brilliant, and beautiful. When I asked Ivanka about my performance, she just said, “Oh Daddy.” (She’d be dating me if I weren’t her father. ) Melania said I was a bully, so I removed her batteries. 

And my hair looked the best ever. Completely natural. Everyone said so.

I want to say this: Joe started it. He’s the bully. He laughed at me. Did he call me stupid? I thought I heard him say that. He definitely called me a clown. He tried to make me feel small. Well, there is nothing small about me. I have the largest hands and the largest penis, as well as the biggest brain. Also, the largest diapers. They are trimmed in 24-carat presidential gold, just like the faucets in Trump Tower. I wish I was back there right now looking down on everyone instead of sitting on a regular porcelain toilet here in the White House. But my base loves me. And I’m not talking about the ones I pay to stand behind me with signs. 

I read on social media that people want a kill switch for the mic so that I can’t interrupt. Others want a kill switch, period. That is just mean. You’d think I was tear gassing people. Or putting them in cages.

But I have some loyal fans, this I will tell you. The Proud Boys are standing by with a selection of badges, t-shirts, and mugs. And David Duke sent me a gold-plated hood. He knows how much I love the hoods. And, of course, the gold. 

But I haven’t heard a word from Putie since my brilliant performance. What does polonium taste like? I’m going to have Tiffany test my food before I eat it. Melania suggested I just prepare my own meals. One more comment like that and I’m going to sell that little robot for parts.

. . . . .

October 2

Covid? Me? I’m going to ignore it. It will be gone, like a miracle. 

Today I want to talk about prizes. I am noble. Everyone says so. Therefore I think I should win the Noble Prize. Ivanka, my daughter wife, will accompany me to Norway. Or is it Sweden? Or Denmark? I forget. I like the Danish pastry, though. I also like the Swedish meatballs and the leggy blondes—especially the leggy blondes, that I can tell you. Ivanka is a leggy blond, but she’s not Swedish. Actually she’s not blond, either—the carpet doesn’t match the drapes—which I know because I “accidentally” walked on her once when she was a teenager. Well, OK, at least four dozen times. Oops. (I did that at the Miss Pubescent Teenage Universe Galaxy contest, too. Which I own, so I can do that.) 

The important thing is that being so noble, I should get the prize. Obama got one, and he isn’t noble. He isn’t even white. (And let’s not even discuss the birth certificate, which he showed, and Hawaii showed, but I still don’t believe. So he had a white American mother. Big deal. He’s still Kenyan.)

On the subject of prizes, Amy Coney Barrett is a Rhodes Scholar. You know who else is a Rhodes
Scholar? Rachel Maddow (what a dyke!), Pete Buttigieg (what a fag!), Cory Booker (what a negro!), Susan Rice (I’m more afraid of her than I am of Maddow), and Bill Clinton (President Blow Job, I call him). 

Oh, wait, my bad, as Blondie, my press secretary, said. Barrett was a student at Rhodes College in Tennessee. Well, that makes her a Rhodes scholar in my book. Wikipedia says that “Students at Rhodes College are in an ideal location for experiential learning and extracurricular fun.” At first I thought it said “experimental” learning. That’s what I did at Wharton, where one of my professors called me “the dumbest goddam student I ever had.” I don’t know what “experiential learning” is, but I’ll bet that Barrett was tons of extracurricular fun—member of the Jesus Prayer Group, member of the Holy Ghost Ouija Society (“holy ghost,” ha ha, Happy Halloween!), the Student Anti-Abortion Coordinating Committee (their logo was a dismembered fetus, which doesn’t look all that human to me, but hey, the anti-choice thing is working for my base), and a special private club called The Handmaidens. (The robes are a bit much. They should show more cleavage.) Then she graduated to a secret Catholic group called Children of the Corn. 

Anyway, her husband gave her permission to be on the Supreme Court, and that’s good enough for me. The National Republican Senatorial Committee has already had t-shirts made saying “The Spurious A.C.B.” I hope Ginsburg is furious. Brett Cavanaugh is furious, too. He never got a t-shirt. But “Drunken Frat Rapist Who Likes Beer and Was Reduced to Tears by Kamala Harris at His Hearing” is just too many words for a t-shirt.

Speaking of too many words, I have reached my limit. It hurts when I think. Everyone says so.

 . . . . .

October 3

Finally, something positive for me in 2020. But why did it have to be Covid? 

Now I’m in the hospital. I wanted to be sequestered with Ivanka for two weeks, but she said no. Then I asked Hope Hicks. She’s like a daughter to me, and you know what that means. Usually I prefer blondes (except for that horse face, Ann Coulter), but Hope turns me on. The long brown hair! The aviator glasses! Cashmere and flannel. Doesn’t she look like a Ralph Lauren model? I may be sick, but my tiny is getting chubby just thinking about her. 

Melania put her foot down on Hope. And when she puts her foot down in those high heels, she could drill a hole through your instep. Mrs. Robot is quarantined at the White House. She has been mad at me ever since I won the election—which I won bigly, by the way—and she got stuck designing the Christmas decorations. Even I thought those blood red trees were too much, and you know my taste for the garish is bottomless. (Ha, bottomless. My tiny is getting chubby again.) She has not let me near her since I had my little interlude with Stormy. 

But give me an iPhone and a toilet and I’ll make the best of it. 

This Covid is not my fault. I blame Connie Chung. She’s Chinese. I blame Hillary. She should have known about Covid in December and done something it. But no, she was busy running that pedophile ring out of the basement of that pizza place in Seattle. I blame Obama. (I blame him for all the things I haven’t been able to do which is pretty much everything, that I can tell you.) 

The evangelicals are chanting “Jesus is your vaccine.” (Buncha dopes. But they’re dopes with votes.) What happened to the x-ray doctor I’ve been touting? The voodoo bleach lady? They are nowhere to be found. Now I have to depend on science and actual medicine. My base will be furious! 

At least I don’t have to do any more debates. I don’t like to admit this, but I yell and interrupt when I am scared. If Mike catches it, NANCY PELOSI WILL BE RUNNING THE COUNTRY! 



. . . . .

October 4

Melania and I have been talking about what would happen if we die from Covid. Here’s what we have decided so far: Trump Tower will be turned into the Trump Family Mausoleum. Our apartment will be the inner sanctum. It already has the marble floors, the ceiling frescoes, the crystal chandeliers, the posh furnishings, and the Renoirs. It will be a classy memorial to us. Very classy. 

(Some people have said the Renoirs are fake. Wrong! These are the same people who have said my hair looks like straw and Melania’s cheekbones are implants like her breasts. Liberal media lies!)

Melania wants to be taxidermied and displayed naked on a fur rug in the living room, like those photos she took when she was a model. I think this is a very great idea. Since she already looks like she’s taxidermied, she will look lifelike forever. 

I want to be gilded. I’m not sure how this will work, because I also want to be bronzed. Behind me will be the eight-foot portrait of me in my tennis whites—the painting I commissioned with the money I took from the Trump Cancer Charity for Children. I am also instructing that a marble statue of me be placed in the lobby. I’m thinking something like the David, but with a much larger penis. Is that Italian guy, Angelo, available? I want monumental, something that Andrew Cuomo will have to look up to. 

The boys want my money, that I will tell you, so we have to be clear in our wills. I trust Ivanka to execute the arrangements, because she and Jared have made so much money while in the White House that they don’t need any of mine. 

I am leaving everything to charity. (Ha ha, that’s a joke. We take from charities, we don’t give to them.) Each of the three boys gets an equal share of Mar-a-Lago and the golf courses (plus the debt that comes with each one). They’re going to have to share. Don Jr. will go ballistic. He has always wanted to be my favorite son. They’re going to have to pay taxes on everything, too. The IRS will love them. Putie will get any money the IRS doesn’t seize. I mean, it was all his anyway. 

Oh, I forgot Tiffany. I always forget Tiffany. Why start remembering her now? 

My niece Mary sent us a heard-you-were-sick card. She suggested that we leave our blankets to Mitch McConnell, Steven Miller, and Billy Barr. 

I see that it’s time for the UV light to go up my butt. I kind of like it. Makes my tiny a little bit chubby.

. . . . .

October 5

That little joyride really wiped me out. I was needing a little attention—I don’t get much from Melania, I will tell you that—but I think I overdid it. When I returned to my bed I passed out.

I felt myself fall through a tunnel of light—not UV light, like the one that went up my butt, but a giant floaty tunnel of soft white rays. My dad, Fred Sr., met me at a big pearly gate. “Welcome, son,” he said, pulling me close and putting his arms around me. It was the first time he’d ever done that. Jeez, I had to die for a hug? 

Putie was there, too. He was bare chested, like always, riding a big white stallion, and I must admit that my tiny got a bit chubby just looking at his smooth, muscular skin. He let us in. Heaven was all shiny and silvery, but too tasteful for me. No gold. No fountains. I prefer showy, like Mar-a-Lago. What’s eternity without glitz? But I was with my dad. 

Did you know that heaven has neighborhoods? Fred took me over to the Queens part of heaven, where I saw our apartment buildings. They were cleaner and more beautiful than I remember, sparkling, with only white people living in them, like when we owned them. Ah, this part of heaven really is Heaven! I mean, I wouldn’t live in an apartment like that if you paid me, but I liked that they were all white and that I was with my dad. I was just starting to feel like the person I always wanted to be. 

Then everything changed. A powerful black woman with the largest afro I have ever seen came over to us. Who is this bitch, I though. Definitely not a 10. Somehow she read my thoughts. “I am beyond numbers, you fool. I am god,” she bellowed. “And you three are in the wrong place.”

Suddenly Fred pushed me away and called me “a worthless little shit.” Putie grew fangs and kept saying, “Drink the polonium. Drink the polonium.” I was back in the tunnel, falling, falling. It was dark and hot. I kept going down. 

When I came to there was fire all around. It was hot as hell. That’s when I realized where I was. I saw myself in a mirror wearing flaming red robes. But it wasn’t a mirror. The devil looked just like me. Melania was there, taxidermied, her face in a squinty grimace. Everyone in my life was there, all of them taxidermied with their faces in squinty grimaces. Except for Eric, whose gummy grin and eyebrowless forehead were exactly the same as in life. My dad started chanting, “You are a worthless shit!” Then mom, Mary, joined in. Ivana, Marla, Melania, Tiffany, Baron, Jared, Stormy, even Ivanka, kept chanting, “Worthless shit! Worthless shit!” I heard Michael Cohen laughing behind me. All the generals I fired or who quit were there with him chanting “Worthless shit! Worthless shit!.” Kellyanne Conway, Billy Barr, Steve Mnuchin, Mike Pompeo, and Mitch McConnell were there, too, stuffed and grimacing and pointing their fingers at me. “Worthless shit! Worthless shit!.” (That Billy Barr needed a lot of stuffing.)

Don Jr. was the only one who was not taxidermied. He ran over to hug me. “Dad, Dad, you’re everything to me!” I pushed him away. “You’re a worthless shit,” I said. 

Know who I didn’t see? Biden, Harris, Pelosi, and Schumer. “Where’s Sleepy Joe and the others?” I asked. They answered in unison as if from a higher place. “We’re running the country, you worthless shit. Covid is gone, the Proud Boys are humbled, and we’ve restored Democracy.” 

I shrieked and screamed: Nooooooooo! Not Democracy! 

Then I woke up to a dozen doctors leaning over me. “The fever has broken,” one of them said. I got another shot of bleach and felt well enough to write down this dream.

I know you think I’m going to say that having seen the light I’ve, well, seen the light. But I haven’t. Now get me a handicapped person to make fun of.

. . . . .

October 6

This Corona Virus has made me think about family. Normally I don’t pay attention to my children. They’re just there and I give them money, but I realize they could get sick and I could lose them. Then who would do my dirty work? (Besides Michael Cohen, who I never trusted, plus he went to jail. What a loser.) 

Ivanka is more than a daughter to me. Well, in my fantasies, anyway. She’s the smartest of all four, or is it five, of my children. I have said many times that I’d be dating her if she weren’t my daughter. But she went to Jared. (A little joke. She always goes to Bulgari.) 

I put up with Jared even though he shares Ivanka’s bed because he’s my unofficial Secretary of State. He’s even buddies with the Saudi head of state who prances around in robes like he’s a king or something. (That guy is ruthless. He had a journalist killed and dismembered for saying bad things about him. Hmm, maybe I should take a page from his journal.)  But Jared can be just as ruthless. His real estate company in Baltimore evicted a single mother who was dying of cancer. He also billed a woman for repairs to an apartment that had mold growing on the ceiling and maggots coming out of the rug.

Even Fred Sr. wasn’t that ruthless, although he did send in goons to scare people who wouldn’t move out of his properties. Oh, wait, I did that.

Don Jr. has tried everything to win my affection, but he’s just a needy jerk. Needy. I hate needy. And I have no patience with jerks, that I can tell you. I keep him around, though, because he’ll do anything for me. I could ask him to shoot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue and he’d do it. He left his wife and five children for Kimberly Guilfoyle. Now her, I like. Sure, she looks like the love child of Leona Helmsley and The Joker, but she’s my kind of gal. Not to sleep with—as I say, she looks creepy, plus she’s half Puerto Rican—but she’s been sued for sexual harassment and I get that.

Eric was a cute kid, but his gums developed faster than the rest of him, and, well, you can see what happened. He’s married to Lara who is a senior adviser at the White House. Keep the power and the money in the family, I always say.

I don’t know if Tiffany is married or if she has any kids. I don’t give her that much attention. And I certainly don’t give her much money, so Tiffany definitely goes to Jared. She’s going to have to marry rich, that I can tell you.

And, Baron, I almost forgot about him. I’m told he has a Slovenian accent like his mother. I knew that would happen because she gave him to her parents to raise. They have an apartment in Trump Tower. That's some high-priced babysitting. High priced, believe me.

Speaking of Melania’s parents, her father looks just like me. He’s the same age, too. Some people say that’s Freudian, but why would she want to sleep with her father? He has no money.

. . . . .

October 7

Dear Donald Journal,

Today I write for Donald. I am still sick but feeling well enough to write on my gold laptop in my bedroom at White House where I am quarantine. If I were in New York, I would be in gold-trim bed with satin sheets in gold-trim room in gold-fill apartment. I go back there soon and change locks before he get home. (If he die, apartment is mine, but I change locks anyway because Ivanka will try to take it over, like she did in East Wing.) 

My mother has come to cook for me, just as when I was little. Nothing make me feel better than nice bowl of Žganci with cabbage and sour milk. I never eat too much because Donald want I stay slim. So stupid it is because I have not let him touch me since affair with Stormy, but he want people to think he still fucking a super model.

Yes, I say fucking. It was first English word I learn when I get here. I am not actually genius, even though I have genius visa, but I am smart enough to get into country, have a nice place to live, have anchor baby, and bring my parents over. No cage for us! Also, I was never super model, just pretty girl from Slovenia willing to do soft porn.

Maybe this year I skip the fucking Christmas decorations. To outdo blood red trees from last year, I will have to make them explode, and already I hear enough bad things about Rose Garden. I just want to go shopping and have affair. But I tell myself that when I am widow I will have plenty of time to shop and have sex. Also, I would also like to be contestant on “Dancing with Stars.” I have learned enough about cheating scores to win for sure.

I will delete this before Donald read it. Instead I will say how smart and powerful he is, that he really knows how to satisfy woman. And world respect him—bigly, as he say. If Donald happy, he stay away from me.

I do like to be writing, though. When I leave White House, I hope in January if not sooner,  I will write memoir. I think of perfect title. I call it “Becoming.”

. . . . .

October 8

Until now, the worst that could happen to a man on TV is that his fly was down. Well maybe Mike's was, but he was seated so who would know?

No, I made TV history. I went right for Mike Pence’s head. I like nothing better than a full pile of soft shit, and he did not disappoint. Like his boss, he offers an unending supply. And I have to say my closeup was so much more dignified than the cartoon of me buzzing around a Trump turd.

Oh, plenty of Pence/fly jokes flew after my appearance: Mike Pence is decomposing on live television. Even the fly knew its two-minute limit. And my fave, Last time Mike Pence’s head was under a fly, he broke a tooth on the zipper. (Mother hates that one.)  But I was not joking around. I am Musca Domestica and I had a mission. The lights were nice and warm, good for incubation, and his hair offered a soft landing.

I laid 500 eggs in his hair.

Mike is a right-to-life guy, so now he’s got to carry them to term. My Baby Daddy. (Mother is furious.) Please, Joe, hold the swatter until after my children have flown.

If you see Mike Pence Jr., Mike Pence Jr. Jr., Mike Pence Jr. Jr. Jr., Mike Pence Jr. Jr. Jr. Jr., or any of my little Pences, give them a hug from Mom.  Now I’m off to vote early. Biden all the way!

. . . . .

October 9

Ah, jeez. You fuck a guy a few times and then you get sucked into his sturm und drang. Who knew that when we met at a celebrity golf tournament in Tahoe our paths would not only cross but intertwine? I liked his power. He liked my breasts. But I got bored once I realized he’d never put me on “The Apprentice” like he promised. 

Did you know that Sturm und Drang was going to be my stage name? I even had cards printed, but my manager said it sounded too much like a comedy team so we went with Stormy instead.

Since Donny is still fighting off the “hoax,” as he calls it, I thought I would try my hand at journal writing. Won’t he be surprised to see me in here! (Melania, too, in case she peeks. Hey, Mel, "porn hooker" here. How's your prenup?) All I can say is that I’m glad I had that little interlude with him well before this pandemic. I have caught a lot of things in this business but Covid is not one of them, and I’d like to keep it that way. (Let me tell you, giving a blowjob on camera with a mask on is not easy.) Anyway, “little” is the operative word with Donny. I told reporters he has a little mushroom. I was being kind. Really, it was more like an acorn. A tiny, stunted acorn. It’s no wonder he overcompensates in everything else.

Normally, I don’t care about penis size. I mean, after the pounding I take in front of the camera, in my personal life I prefer a man who’s not so well endowed. It’s the motion of the ocean, not the size of the wave, I always say. But he is fixated on being known as the biggest and the best. The $130,000 he paid me was not to keep quiet about the sex, it was to say what a large power tool he has and how expertly he uses it. You’d think he was the star of ”This Old House”—not the PBS show, the movie I did in which a carpenter arrives to fix my back porch and ends up making a service entrance. (And you thought I was going to make a joke about studs and getting nailed.)

I like this journal writing. I think I will write a memoir of my own. I’m going to call it “Coming.”

. . . . .

October 10

As I was leaving the hospital, I heard several of the doctors say, “What an asshole.” I wondered what proctologists were doing in the ICU, but not my concern. I just wanted to get out of there. A Presidential Motorcade took me back to the White House. I love a parade. I’m just sorry we didn’t have tanks leading the way.

Before I went into the Presidential quarters I paused on the balcony to show myself to the handful of people who had gathered. I mean, the enormous crowd waiting for a glimpse of me. Some jerk from CNN called me “Covita.” I got the reference, even though Broadway is for fags. The truth is I am much more powerful than Juan Peron ever was. Besides, I was channeling my brother from another country, Benito. When it comes to power and showmanship, Mussolini is my man. He could work a balcony like nobody's business. Melita, I mean Melania, was in bed in her room recovering. She keeps her distance. 

I barely made it to my own bed I was so out of breath. When I was napping in the Presidential quarters, the giant disembodied head of Dr. Fauci appeared to me. It came right up close and whispered, “I told you so.” (Well, more like “Oi told you so.” That Brooklyn accent is nothing like my perfect Queens English.) Then Dr. Birx wrapped one of her scarves around my face so tight I could hardly breathe. I woke up gasping for air.  

The medical staff at the White House gave me more meth, or whatever it’s called, and I felt better. In fact I haven’t felt this good in 40 years. I feel pretty, oh so pretty. Sorry, wrong musical. I just need a little. . .  more . . . air.

The doctors think I might need a lung replacement so that I can breathe better. Do you know that my new lungs will come from another person? I told them: no women, no blacks, no Jews, no Mexicans, no queers. I want lungs from a straight white male, preferably good looking. If not, they can take them from Don Jr. He always says he’d do anything for me. He can have Eric’s. I want the new lungs monogrammed with “45,” like my shirt cuffs, and trimmed in gold. Can they do that?

Hope says I should tell my supporters that Covid is not a hoax, and that everyone should be wearing masks and socially distancing. What a comedian! Tell my supporters to wear masks? My base would desert me like rats from a sinking ship. (Not that I’m a sinking ship. I float. I’m the best floater, believe me.) 

In between tweets I’m watching Weekend at Bernie’s on my phone. Hilarious. I love the premise. 

Now what the hell is this? I find everyone has been writing in my journal. Who’s next, Kellyanne? The Lincoln Project? Get off my lawn!

. . . . .

October 11

My Dearest President,

I am writing in your journal so that you, and only you, will see this. I have a problem from which I cannot recuse myself. 

You are getting an antibody drug to treat your Covid virus. I am grateful to heaven that you are feeling better. But the medicines that have given you a miraculous recovery were made using embryonic stem cells.  I believe that life begins at fertilization. I understand you feel the same way. If you take a medicine that uses the stems cells which come from aborted fetuses, are you not a murderer? How can you have been sent by God to lead us if you are willing to accept so many teeny tiny deaths? 

Please pray with me as I try to resolve this dilemma.

If I say nothing, I can be confirmed to the Supreme Court and go on to deny women agency over their own bodies and help roll back all the advances they have made—fair pay, the right to own property, the right to vote, even the right to hold office—all the better for them to serve their husbands. I may even be able to bring burkas to our country. I know you agree that the sooner we can return to the Middle Ages, the sooner Jesus will return to us. And, of course, I will be in a position, along with Justices Thomas and Kavanaugh, to eliminate LBJFK rights, including gay marriage. Queers, eww.

But if I don’t speak out against your murderous hypocrisy, I will forever be marked with the stain of hypocrisy on my own soul. Even worse, I will lose the respect of my religious family, Children of the Corn. I will never again be able to look Father Cob and Mother Maize squarely in the eye and tell them that I have been a good Handmaid.

Either way I am fucked. Oh, Jesus lord, forgive me! I mean, fornicated. (As the teachings tell us, fornication is permitted by god—indeed, it is holy and blessed—only if between a man and a woman, and only if they are married to each other and wish to procreate).

I  asked my husband to tell me what to do but he said, “Kiddo, you’re on your own with this one.”

Dear lord, I am spiritually adrift! I do not know how to make a decision without the guidance of a man.

Since I mentioned my husband, perhaps you can help me with another dilemma, Mr. President. Recently when he and I were procreating, he yelled out “Stormy!” a number of times. I jumped up to close the window so that he would not catch a chill, but there was not even a hint of bad weather. What do you suppose he meant?

I remain yours faithfully in the Holy Kingdom of the United States,


. . . . .

October 12

So after that debate between me and Sleepy Joe—the one I won bigly because I wouldn’t stop interrupting—the Commission on Presidential Debates said the next contest will take place virtually to “protect the health and safety of all involved.”

Just because I was infectious they went and changed the format? Wrong! I will not waste my time on virtual. What if the moderator presses the mute button when I start ranting? I want to be heard. If I can’t sound  like a lunatic at the podium, what’s the point of debating? 

And what is this Town Hall idea they've come up with? I have to take questions from regular people? From peons? Forget it. (You know what Steven Miller says about peons: Piss on 'em. That's the Trickle Down theory in action.)   

My 27th campaign manager—not Brad Parscale, who just got arrested for threatening to shoot his wife and then the cops; not Cory Lewandowski, who assaulted a reporter and also beat up his wife; not Steve Bannon, who was arrested on federal fraud charges; not Paul Manafort, who was convicted for witness tampering, bank and tax fraud, and conspiracy against the United States; not Rick Gates, who worked with Manafort and was also charged with financial crimes and conspiracy—Bill Stepien, the new one (who has not yet been arrested), says it is “pathetic” for the Commission to have changed the format. 

Stepien called the Commission members “swamp creatures.” I like this guy. (Well, until he comes out with his book and calls me a moron. Then I will say, “Bill who?”) He has urged the swamp creatures to postpone the rest of the debates until after the election. This I like.

And good news on the election: I have just been endorsed by the Taliban. I've already got the support of the KKK. If I can get the Mafia behind me, I'll have a trifecta of oppression, racism, and grift. This is unpresidented! Take that, Obama.

In the meantime I will hold a series of rallies. Why share the debate stage with Joe when I can have entire audiences to myself? Bus 'em in. Pay them $150 each. They'll all wear the same t-shirts, great for the photos. No masks! No distance! I feel most powerful when I am spewing slurs, lies, and germs. I am a super spreader—the best, that I can tell you—and I want it to remain that way.

This will be my legacy: Donald John Trump personally infected not only everyone in the White House but the entire United States. It is a great legacy, believe me. I just hope I live long enough to enjoy it.

. . . . .

October 13

I get around. Before I landed on Mike Pence’s head at that debate in Utah, I was at a vacuum cleaner store in Grand Rapids, Michigan. It’s amazing what you see from the wall and, equally important, what you hear. 

In the basement of the store a bunch of white guys were sitting around fondling their guns and talking civil war. They were planning to shoot up the state legislature and take hostages. They even planned to kidnap the Governor and put her on “trial.” Maybe kill her. Now, I buzz around fecal matter all day, but these guys were so disgusting that even I wouldn’t land on them. They’d clearly been reading too many Trump tweets. (Yes, I have an account.)

“Liberate Michigan,” the president tweeted not too long ago. Liberate Michigan from what? Intelligence? Decency? Masks? Yeah, Covid for everyone! Even I’m afraid of that shit. 

At one point I was spotted and one of them tried to blast me with Raid. But karma being what it is, turns out the raid was on them. The FBI had been following their every move with bugs of their own. 

You notice that these domestic terrorists men are all white, and the ones most proud of their “white supremacy” are the ugliest, stupidest, most out-of-shape people on the planet. And get this: The guy who hosted the event was living in the store basement unbeknownst to his boss. That’s even lower than living in your mom’s basement. Maybe the only thing lower would be living in the crawl space under your neighbor’s trailer.

Back in May President Trump tweeted that militia guys like these are “very good people, but they are angry.” Well I’d be angry, too, if I had to live in a basement under a vacuum cleaner store. Talk about sucking big time. But whose fault is that? If they have enough money for guns and ammo, they could have used it to rent an apartment instead. Maybe clean themselves up a little. (What is it with these militia types and their beards? I could lay eggs in them, but I wouldn’t want any of those yahoos to be my Baby Daddy.) "Good people?" I don't think so.

So you understand why I had to wing it to Salt Lake City for the debate. There was at least one intelligent person on that stage, and I wanted to see her. Plus, there was the matter of the eggs I had to deliver to Mike Pence. I just hope he doesn’t try to baptize them when they hatch.

There are those who will ask me, “Why didn’t you say something about what you heard in Michigan?”  What am I, Lassie? No one follows a fly. Although I must say, after that debate my Twitter numbers are way up.

. . . . . 

October 14

In my nearly five decades of public service, I have never openly endorsed any political candidate. You can quote me on that. But all of a sudden I find myself in a Trump ad, my words taken out of context to make it sound as if I am praising him.

“I can’t imagine that anyone is doing more,” is what the clip of me says. But it wasn’t Trump I was referring to. It was about what my colleagues and I have been doing. Mamma mia, we’ve been working around the clock since February, continually undermined by the White House. 

Do you really think I would shill for that stoonad? He actually suggested injecting bleach to kill the virus. Bleach! I have worked with some clowns in my career, but this guy doesn’t even rise to the rank of an actual Bozo. Did you see the face palm I made on TV when I heard him talk about the bleach? I hadn’t intended to, but I’m Italian and my hand just went to my forehead.

At first I was able to speak freely, but the President was so annoyed that my approval rating was higher than his  he yanked me off TV. That’s OK. I am not Dr. Phil. I'm the Director of the National Institute of Health. I have plenty to do in the office (and I am here until I decide to go). The problem is that he is bringing in people who are totally ill equipped to deal with the pandemic: the strip mall preacher who blames the virus on witchcraft (I didn't see that coming), the osteopath who has no experience with infectious diseases, and the palm reader who sits in a window in Greenwich Village offering to read your fortune.

Dr. Phil will arrive next week. I think the chief of Staff wanted the TV doctor on the team because he understands the president: "Whatever you must do today, do it with the confidence of a four-year-old in a Batman cape." Or in the president's case, a Superman t-shirt.

The president needs to be talking with epidemiologists. I think part of the problem is that he can’t pronounce the word.

By the way, you’re probably not aware of this, but every scarf  that Dr. Birx wears at a press conference contains a message. You just have to know how to read the symbols in the print. Her messages trace the arc of the epidemic: This thing is not the flu . . . . Dear god, it’s a pandemic! . . .  Trump knew about it in January . . . There’s no miracle cure . . .  Herd immunity? What herd immunity? . . . Wear your mask! . . . Listen to Dr. Fauci . . .  Bleach is not a cure . . . Rich people will get the vaccine first if there is a vaccine . . . We won't get back to normal until 2022 . . . We may never get back to normal . . . Trump is a liar . . . Trump is a stoonad. . .  We could see a million deaths . . . The CDC has been taken over by lizard people . . .  Vote Biden/Harris! . . . Help! I’m being held hostage in the White House infirmary. 

The FBI is mobilizing now.

And, Mr. President, since I’m writing in your journal I know you will see this entry at some point, so let me say directly to you: I can’t imagine that anyone is doing less.

. . . . .

October 16

Last night I had my rally, I mean Town Hall meeting, on NBC. I was phenomenal. I bluffed. I lied. I praised myself. I blamed everyone else. The audience loved me, that I can tell you. One contestant, I mean participant, told me I was handsome and had a great smile. (My hair looked good, too.)

The event was held in Miami. A bunch of Cubans showed up, but they are the good Hispanics—the ones who like me—not the rapists from Mexico.  The Spanish language station, Univision, covered the event in addition to NBC. Do you know that Univision is not pronounced yuna-vision but ooh-nee-vee-zee-on? That was news to me. Why add all those extra syllables? Say it in English! Keep it short, like Proud Boys. Better still, just use letters, like KKK or GOP. They’re easier to remember and you don’t even have to know how to read. 

A few people have called the timing of my rally, opposite Joe’s, “egregious.” I’m glad they liked it. Just about everything I do is egregious. And let me say that I like the media when it does what I want. Otherwise, Fake News!

But I am not very happy with Savannah Guthrie. She was relentless. I had to keep speaking over her to show who was in charge.

“You’ve repealed but you haven’t replaced,” she said about health care. The nerve of her! And then, when we were talking about conspiracies  (I love them, that I can tell you), she had the audacity to say, “You’re the President. You’re not someone’s crazy uncle who can retweet whatever.” 

She made me so mad I had steam coming out of my whatever—which was scary, because I was wearing the Presidential Diaper, and I had you-know what coming out of my you-know-where at the same time.

Then she brought up the issue of money. I hate when women do that. She asked about the $750 I paid in taxes, as if that wasn’t enough. Then she asked about the $400k I owe.  And then she asked if I owe that money to Russia. “Hillary was dealing with Russia, not me,” I said. (She’s the puppet.)

“You could clear this up tonight by releasing your tax records,”  Savannah said. Wrong! Well, right, but I couldn’t say that, so I just said that I have been treated very badly by the IRS. (Right after my performance was over, I texted Don Jr. to shred the remaining tax papers in my office.)

I also said that I have done more for the African American community than any other president, maybe even Abraham Lincoln, and that I caught Covid from the Gold Star families. I was on a roll, so I kept going. I said that 85% of mask wearers get Covid and that Osama bin Laden was still alive. When she asked me why I should get a second term, I answered honestly, for maybe the first time ever: “Because I’ve done a great job.”

What did Joe do? I watched him on tape after my triumphant rally, and this I can tell you: Boring. All he had was facts and figures. And plans. He even looked like he cared. What a sucker. And then he made me laugh out loud and leak a little into my diaper when he said, “In politics, grudges don’t work.”  Wrong!

My niece Mary texted me after the rally: “Savannah is right about the crazy uncle.” What a bitch.

. . . . .

October 19

Although I’m not scheduled to return any time soon, I’ve made a quick unofficial visit to remind my followers of Christian values. I am starting here on your Journal, President Trump, because I hope you will share this with the people of your base since they invoke my name and message so often (and so incorrectly).

First, your personal televangelist minister, Paula White, said, “Jesus walks in the White house.” Let me be clear on this:I do not. Like any decent person or invented entity—living, dead, resurrected, or existing in non-corporeal form—I respect the division of Church and State, as do my BFFs. I have spoken with Allah, Buddha, Jah, Yahweh, Jehovah, Shiva, Zoroaster, and the mighty Durga, and we are in complete agreement that none of us would set foot anywhere near the building. That’s a big multi-denominational no-no. However, we make no such claims for Beelzeebub, who seems to have moved into the suite next to Melania’s.

Since I mentioned televangelists, let me say to them directly and in the strongest possible terms: Practice what you preach. If you are railing against the Seven Deadly Sins, then do not disregard them in your own life. Take greed, for example. When your compound is the size of a small country and your followers can’t pay their rent but you continue to ask them for ever more money, you have not grasped the concept of Christianity. 

So it is with sex. I don’t care what consenting adults do together or alone; just do it safely. Every creature in the universe does some version of it. (Those bonobo monkeys, OMG!) So please stop talking incessantly about it. And for God’s sake, stop taping yourselves; you are not as smokin’ hot as you think you are. That includes the Pee Tapes, Mr. President. Also, do I really have to tell you people to stop cheating and lying? I am not kidding. Fly right or prepare to be smote. (Apologies on that verb. The past participle is ridiculously irregular: smitten, smote, smit—they’re all correct. English is not Dad’s first language.) 

Then there was the laying on of hands in the Oval Office. WTF, Republicans? You do not have a monopoly on me. In fact, I can say unequivocally that the biggest hypocrites are members of the GOP. You talk holy but you’re not. We text, Beelzebub and I. We know who’s doing what and who’s going where. Also, it should be clear by now that your effort at raising up your president did not work, because if he descends any lower he will be in another electoral district, if you catch my drift.

Mr. Trump, you looked like a sanctimonious orange jerk holding up a Bible in front of St. John’s Church in Washington, D.C. Now I have nothing against photo ops—we had them in Nazareth, too, but when I showed up, you just had to make a mental picture—however dispersing peaceful protesters with tear gas to demonstrate your faith was way off the mark. (Plus, I know what you really believe in.) BTW, Beelzebub loved the upside-down Bible. 

Don’t put words in my mouth about abortion or gay rights. I never said anything about either issue. Why? Because I believe women have a right to make their own reproductive choices, and everyone has the right to love whom they wish. In fact, Dad was all set to create Adam and Steve but at the last minute changed his mind and went with the heterosexual version. He has asked me to tell you that he takes full responsibility for the overpopulation and misogyny that has resulted. 

Finally, I am not white. I know you want to think of me as blond haired and blue eyed, but for the love of God, look to geography. I’m from the Middle East. My skin is brown, my hair is woolly. It even says exactly that in the Bible—look it up—but I guess you people just pick and choose the parts you want. Also, I am Jewish. You know that, right? So stop already with the slurs. It’s a shanda when you speak that way.

In short, get your shit together. You do not want to provoke me or my Dad. (And just so you know, Covid was not our doing. That was Beelzebub, with a big assist from your disinterest and incompetence, Mr. President.)

P.S. To the Trump supporter with the pickup truck that’s painted with confederate flags and the image of a ghostly me (looking like Charles Manson) with my hands on Trump’s shoulders: That is taking the lord’s name in vain, except with paint. I have reported you the Department of Motor Vehicles. You will be called to appear in person. I want you to have a little taste of hell before you actually get there.

. . . . .

October 20

President Donald Trump asked me to fill in for him today as he is off on a rant. He said I could talk about anything I wanted as long as I didn’t call him a moron, the way everyone who works for him has done. So I’ll start off by saying this: President Donald Trump is not a moron.

After he loses the election and resigns, I will become president and pardon him, so writing in this journal is good practice for me. My journal will be called Lord of the Flies, although Mother is pushing for The Most Heterosexual President Ever in the History of Presidents.

Let me tell you a few things about myself.

1.   First of all, about the fly: No, I didn’t know it was there. I have no nerve endings on my scalp. In fact, I have no nerve endings anywhere. I was born with nerves, of course, but I have never used them so they’ve atrophied to nothing.  

2.   The lack of facial nerves explains why my expression is a combination of serene, upset, perplexed, amused, quizzical, and pissed off. Also, a lot of the time I just don’t know what’s going on.

3.   I was hoping the GOP would want to groom me for President in 2024, but Mitch McConnell has informed me that they prefer I return to Indiana and groom my dog.

4.   I am not gay. The Conversion Therapy made sure of that. Now, when I look a hunky guy, I feel nothing. Nothing at all. But I must admit I have an insatiable craving for corndogs.  

5.   I have a wonderful bear collection. Big, furry bears. Pierced bears. Bearded bears. Nothing gives me more pleasure that dressing them in tank tops and bikini bottoms—and then undressing them. Ooh, I love to hug them when they’re undressed. Mother once walked in on me when I was rubbing one up against me. “Oh, sure,” she said, “you’ll do that with a bear but not me.” She was so mad that she took a strap to my bottom. Oh, my, I was a naughty boy. I have made a point of being so naughty with the bears that Mother puts the strap to me several time a week.

6.   Mother once asked, “Mr. Pence, is there anything I can do to make you find me more attractive?” I thought about it and asked her to not shave her legs. We already wear hairshirts, so she’s almost like my very own bear. Well, except for the missing extra bit. But the Conversion Therapy says I don’t need it. Besides, I recently discovered that I have an extra bit of my own.

7.   Mother and I have three children. I have no idea how that happened. 

8.   I describe myself as a Christian, a Conservative, and a Republican, in that order. However, most people call me an Asswipe, a Hypocrite, and a Dolt.

9.   Once time, however, I was called a thief. In 1991 when I was 31 and running  for state Congress, I used campaign donations to pay my mortgage and other bills, including car payments and groceries, lots and lots of groceries. “It was a brazen act of hypocrisy,” is how my opponent’s campaign manager described it. I lost the election. But I still have a freezer full of those corndogs.

10.  Don’t tell President Putin, but I have my own stash of videos: The Pooh Tapes. Oh, Winnie! That little bare-bottomed fuzzy wuzzy really turns me on.

. . . . .

October 21

It was not an easy decision for me to drop out of the Presidential race, but having done so I am all in for Joe Biden. What intelligent person wouldn’t be?  And I say that not because I’m a member of Mensa, but simply as someone who espouses a free press and responsible journalism over Fox News and lies.   

Before you call me elitist, let me say that you don’t necessarily have to be book smart to be intelligent, just as having an advanced degree doesn’t guarantee resourcefulness and common sense. 

Case in point: Rudy Giuliani, a self-described “cybersecurity expert” who locked himself out of his phone. The guy puts the rude in Rudy. He has been hounding me ever since Newsweek referred to me as “America’s Mayor.”  Rudy just won’t let up with the emails and texts. “I am America’s Mayor, not you! I am! Me! Me!“ He even called me a few times. The shrieking, my god, I thought he was being stabbed with an ice pick.

Now he’s being investigated by federal prosecutors in Manhattan for illegal election activities in Ukraine. Again, the shrieking. 

Yes, he had that brief shining moment after the attacks in 2001. I was just a kid in South Bend then, but I remember watching on the news how he made his way to Ground Zero, even as Donald Trump was on Fifth Avenue proclaiming, “Now I have the tallest building in New York City.” How Rudy rose out of his own muck to lead the city during that time—most New Yorkers hated him (and apparently still do)—was a bit of a miracle. Unfortunately for him, after that stratospheric rise in popularity he had a meteoric fall back to where he had been—lower, actually, when he tried to stay on for an additional term. Since then all he has done is stick his foot in his mouth.

And have you seen what else is in his mouth? Those teeth!. Not only does he look like a baboon with those incisors, the veneers on top are about 50 shades whiter than the originals on the bottom. It’s the dental version of the-carpet-doesn’t-match-the-drapes. His dentist should be impeached.

And what is it with all the wives and girlfriends? I don’t know much about heterosexuality, but surely those women can do better. Do you know his first wife was his second cousin? Then Wife #2, with whom he had two children, learned he was divorcing her when he announced it on the 11 o’clock news. Surprise! She was followed by Wife #3, a pharmaceutical executive, whom his friends called “a cross between Lucifer and Marie Antoinette.” Since then he has been romantically linked with a few women he has described as “big breasted.” Well, I guess we know what his priorities are. Intelligence? Wit? Compassion? Looks? No, tits.

My apologies. I don’t normally talk that way. I’m an even-tempered Midwestern guy, but between that loudmouth bully, our bloviating and incompetent president, an out-of-control pandemic, and the prospect of a Medieval judge on the Supreme Court, I am really pissed off.  

The LA Times called me a campaign asset for Joe, saying that I “speak softly and carry a sling blade.” I’m not really sure what that means. I don’t speak softly so much as Joe’s opponent never stops ranting and yelling, so by comparison the rest of us seem quiet. As for the sling blade, well maybe. I have reached the point where if you are a science denier, a homophobe, a bully, or a virus spreader, I will cut you.

. . . . .

October 22

Mayday! Mayday!

As I write this, my husband and I are on our 400-foot yacht, The Wealthy Oppressor, taking on water fast. We have been calling for help, but to no avail. We’re sinking! If you are reading this, Mr. President, we may have already drowned. 

Our trip up the Potomac started out as a little R&R cruise. I had just gotten an eyebrow replacement—the ones I had, eww, total Alfred E. Neumann—and was recovering nicely when we had a mutiny. Our peons, I mean crew, said they had had enough of our disrespect and mistreatment and then took off on the motorboat we keep on the yacht for emergencies. Come on, they’re just the crew. We don’t have to be nice to them. So there we were in the wheelhouse trying to figure out how to skipper our vessel when we hit something. We started taking on water almost immediately.

A group of teachers on a tourist boat motored over to assist, but when they realized it was me they cheered at our predicament, revved up their engines, and sped away. Unions, bah! We took on more water in their wake. The same thing happened when a boatload of parents and schoolchildren saw us. Their vessel pulled up close to ours. “Tell her, tell her,” urged one parent to her First Grader. “I hope you drown,” said the child. A father yelled out, “You need help? Call your local charter school!” They left us to die.

Mayday! Mayday!

I was born Cruella Prince on January 8, 1958, in Holland, Michigan, the oldest of four children. My father was a billionaire industrialist, so of course I attended private schools. I grew up with absolutely no understanding of middle-class life and thought that poor people existed just in Dickens novels. Who knew? (Poverty is so unseemly.)The only sibling I truly admire is my brother, Erik. He founded Blackwater, which he calls a “private security agency.”

I married Richard Devos Jr, son of the Amway founder, in 1979, the year I graduated from college. We have been good republicans, donating to many right-wing causes and supporting the idea of using public money to fund private schools, especially those focused on a christian education.  Believe it or not, we founded a group in 2003 called All Children Matter (but of course, we believe wealthy white christian children matter more than the others).

Between the Amway money, our exclusionary philanthropy, and Eric’s mercenary killing, we are a trifecta of republican perfection.  

In the 2016 primaries I donated to Jeb Bush and Carly Fiorina before throwing my financial support to Marco Rubio. To be honest (and I’m not always), I supported Fiorina so that people would see that we were not the same person. In the public perception, skinny uptight republican ladies seem to be interchangeable, but it has not helped my cause that Fiorina hasn’t been seen since I became Education Secretary.

President Trump doesn’t know this, but I called him “an interloper . . .  who does not represent the Republican party.” (It’s in Wikipedia. Look it up.)  Nevertheless he nominated me to be Education Secretary in 2017. Perhaps he thought I was Carly Fiorina. It was the narrowest of margins, 50/50, with Mike Pence stepping in to break the tie in my favor. He’s an odd duck, that Pence—I can’t read his face at all—but he voted me in, and that’s all I care about.

As soon as I got the job I cut the education budget and eliminated many civil right protections. Handicapped children don’t need to go to school; everyone knows that. I also believe that if homosexual students insist on getting an education, they should not be protected from harassment. Bullies weed out the weaklings. That’s what Jesus says in the bible. But did you know I am a big supporter of HBCUs? Who wouldn’t be? They help keep the black students out of white colleges.

Now that we’re in a pandemic, which our president has handled so deftly, I have been pushing to open the schools anyway. In fact, I have redirected millions of taxpayer dollars to private and religious schools. Sure, that money was intended for the public domain, but my christian duty is to keep wealthy christian children safe (especially the white ones). 

Mayday! Mayday!

With the water in our yacht well up past my knees and inching up to my chest, I have not been able to get on my knees to pray. But I did call out to my lord and savior, Jesus Christ. "Dear Jesus, I beg you  to save us. We are drowning!"

Imagine my surprise when I heard his holy voice boom: “Insufferable bitch, you are on your own.”

. . . . .

October 23

I came. I saw. I conquered. That’s what Julius Caesar said when he conquered the Nile in 1492. And that’s how I felt last night. It may sound bragadocious, but I was magnificent. 

This was my best debacle, I mean debate, ever. Everyone said so. And by everyone I mean the people who live upstairs in my head. I didn’t shout or yell. I used my inside voice and kept everything in. Except for the little bit of poop that leaked into my presidential diaper each time I broke wind. When I told Joe I know more than him about wind, I wasn’t kidding. Believe me. 

I practiced debate points ahead of time:
. A vaccine is going to be ready within weeks
. We have the cleanest water
. I am the least racist person in the room
. The coyotes did it
. You have made millions from China

OK, so a vaccine is not ready, but soon. Maybe by the election. Or definitely by Inauguration Day. Or  maybe not until the end of 2021. Or sometime in 2022. But it’s coming. In the meantime, we’re learning to live with it. (And damn Joe for answering, “We’re dying with it.”) Well, it’s China’s fault, not mine. I really thought that if I ignored Covid it would go away. I have done that with my children and with everyone I owe money to, and it works with them.

And we don’t really have the cleanest water. When I said it was clear and sparkling, I was thinking about diamonds, like the ones Melania insisted I give her before she would marry me. (And what did she do after the debate? Instead of hugging me the way Joe’s wife did, she stood next to me like a robot. Not even a smile or a, “Caesar, you were magnificent.” How hard is it to say something nice to me?) The actual water in places like Flint, Michigan, is brown and smells of gasoline. Since I am personally responsible for cutting over 100 environmental regulations, what I meant to say is that we have the cleanest water possible under the circumstances.

But I was definitely the least racist person in the room, if you define “room” as the three-foot-square patch of stage I was standing on. I have done more for black people than any other president, maybe even Abraham Lincoln. Just ask my African American friend over there. They love me, those African Americans. The Mexican rapists, not so much. Well, most of them are not really rapists. But they are drug dealers. Or if they’re not actually drug dealers, they are brown.  Definitely brown, that I can tell you. So are the Muslims. I was really surprised when Joe said, “Abraham Lincoln here is the most racist president in modern history.” I think he was mocking me.

And I really resented it when the moderator, Kristine Walker, brought up the issue of kids in cages. I didn’t build those cages, Joe did. All my ICE people did was take the kids after they were brought here by coyotes. Now I’m not exactly sure why those kids would want to come in with wild dogs, but Mexicans do things differently, that I can tell you.

And the thing about Joe and his family making millions from China, brilliant strategy if I say so myself. I should write a political playbook. My strategy is: Whenever I blame someone for something, I’m the one who has actually done it. I can’t believe no one has figured this out. I was surprised that Joe didn’t mention how Ivanka and whats-his-name have made billions off China. And since we’re talking playbook, I have gotten a lot of mileage out of that I’ll-show-you-my-taxes-as-soon-as-I’m-no-longer-under-audit line. I’m actually starting to believe it myself.

Of course Rachel Maddow said I was wrong about all of this. She and her girl buddies on MSNBC made fun of me too. Again. The fly on the wall (not the one that wrote in my journal, a different one, a republican fly I sent in to report back to me) said that when a commercial was on, they were “merciless”—that was the fly’s word, merciless—in their mockery of me. 

I do not appreciate how they privately ridiculed my performance. They kept calling me “Julius Seize ‘er” and “Vinny Vidivicci.” Do I look like Joe Pesce?  It’s like they were reading my mind but twisting it all around.

Lock them up!

. . . . .

October 24

 How well are you paying attention to current events? Here are 13 items, several of them involving sex (what else is new?). Answer correctly and you get to choose the next President.

Donald Jr. said “My father doesn’t need to rape women. It’s more likely a woman would rape him. That’s how popular he is.”
According to Facebook, Junior said this on October 14 on the Sean Hannity radio show.
Come on, did he really say that? Let’s add up the elements: Don Jr., stupidity, Hannity, ratings. Yeah, Junior said it.

Rudy Giuliani was captured on film with his hand down his pants.
ere, let Borat tell you: "I here to defend America's Mayor, Rudolph Giuliani. What was an innocent, sexy-time encounter with a consenting man and my 15-year-old daughter have been turned into something disgusting by fake news media. I warn you: Anyone else try this, and Rudolph will not hesitate to reach into his legal briefs and whip out his subpoenas!"

In actuality, the woman was a 23-year-old actor, Borat is Sacha Baron Cohen, but Rudy’s hand was definitely down his own pants. Bonus: Giuliani says he was just trying to tuck in his shirt while he was lying on a bed.

“Zoom Jerk” is now both a noun and a verb 
Sadly even anti-trump Democrats get hoist by their own petard, or in this case, penis. In an election simulation on Zoom, New Yorker magazine writers were strategizing possible election night results. Thinking his camera was off, Jeffrey Toobin was seen fondling his member. He has been  suspended pending an investigation.
Jeffrey, the call was supposed to be a simulation, not a stimulation.

Baron Trump, the president’s son, tested positive for Covid
Sadly, no one noticed him, which is surprising because he now stands eight feet, six inches tall.

Donald’ Trump’s signature correlates perfectly with his cardiogram. 
The man does not have a heart. But it might correlate to a lie detector response to a question about money he owes to the Russian mob.

Melania demanded a larger plane for her trips
An entire small plane did not provide the poor woman with enough room on her trips between the White House and New York City where she gets her hair done, so she made a deal with the military. She’d get a larger plane in exchange for them getting a room in the East wing, where space is at a premium.
This might be fake news—I read it on Facebook but can’t corroborate. However it sounds plausible, doesn’t it? So I’m going with it.

Melania is worth every penny she is paid for being First Lady 
Definitely true
Her salary is $0.

Susan Collins is concerned that  Amy Coney Barrett was too indecisive in her responses during her Senate confirmation hearing
But don’t tell Andy Borowitz.
Support Collins’s opponent, Sara Gideon.

In the same confirmation hearing for Mrs. Barrett, Lindsey Graham referred to “the good old days of segregation.”
According to Politico, Graham backtracked and said, “I want to assure the people of South Carolina that statement was made with dripping sarcasm."
e’s dripping all right, but it’s probably not the sarcasm. Can you say “STD,” boys and girls?Support his opponent Jaime Harrison. 

Originalism, as Mrs. Barrett understands it, requires fealty to the Constitution as written in 1787 
According to the unamended Constitution, black people would be regarded at three-fifths of a human being and women would not have the right to vote.

So why, then, does she think she should be on the Supreme Court, even if her husband says it’s OK, when the framers did not consider women important enough to participate in government? Apparently her JD degree is from the Picken Choose School of Law, which is next door to the Selective School of Theology, both located in Hell, Michigan.

Ice Cube helped the Trump White House develop a “Platinum Plan” for Black America 
According to various sources, including the New York Daily News, Mr. Cube, who is apparently suffering from Black Dissociative Disorder, worked with a man who enjoys the support of David Duke and the KKK. Trump has proposed, among other ideas, making Juneteenth a national holiday.
Great idea. But Trump never heard of Juneteenth until June 19, 2020.

Elon Musk endorsed Kanye West for president 
True and false
According to Vanity Fair, “When West initially announced he was joining the race on July 4, Musk enthusiastically responded, ‘You have my full support!’ He then backtracked 72 hours later when a Twitter user pointed out a few of the rapper’s more conservative beliefs [like his anti-choice and anti-vac stances]. Musk responded in a since-deleted tweet, “We may have more differences of opinion than I anticipated.”
You want spacey, Elon? Stick to rockets.

Donald Trump promises that if he loses the election, he’ll “leave the country.” 
Well he said it at a rally in Georgia, but we know he lies. “Could you imagine if I lose? My whole life, what am I gonna do? . . . I’m not gonna feel so good. Maybe I’ll have to leave the country? I don’t know.”
Let us pray. Actually, let us vote—Blue. And when the entire Trump family gets to Russia, could they please send Edward Snowden back? 

. . . . .

October 26

Lasciate Ogni Speranza Voi Ch’entrate.

Allow me to switch to English for you inhabitants of the New World, The message that I, Durante di Alighiero degli Alighieri, wish to impart, is this: Be forewarned lf you live a life of evil, upon your death you will go to a place of horror worse than you can imagine. You will leave all hope behind. 

It has been 700 years since I wrote La Divina Commedia, but looking at your president I believe it is time to restate the consequences of an unworthy life.

Mamma mia, che capo di cazzo è il vostro president!

I therefore wish to commence my update with The Inferno, specifically the Eighth Circle, for your president and all those surrounding him will find themselves there. You will recall from your university literature classes that this is the location in Hell where politicians and hypocrites and those who have committed rape and fraud are forced to remain for eternity.

The Eighth Circle is a large, funnel-shaped cavern of gray stone with 10 concentric pits, or malbolge, filled with all manner of viscous liquids, from boiling tar to excrement, overrun with reptilian creatures. It is, in short, a swamp.

Your president promised to drain such a foul place in the above-ground world but instead filled it with the grossest of beings: gluttonous Barrs, forked-tongue Conways, weak-spirited Mnuchins, religious zealots who call on god but do the work of the devil, and others, though none so foul as the two-headed monster, Javanka, which, in trying to run in opposite directions, succeeds only in remaining in one place, and a pair of half-wit brothers who each consume the excrement of the other.

Let us see who inhabits this fetid circle.

Pimps and rapists are condemned to the First Pit. The catholic priests who raped children are languishing here, as are the bishops and cardinals who turned a blind eye to the egregiousness of those misdeeds. It is here that Jeffrey Epstein resides, naked, as horned demons whip him endlessly. He awaits Alan Dershowitz, who began a legal career with forceful mind and ended it by inflicting the flaccid appurtenance at the other end of his torso on underage girls. Your Ghislane Maxwell, will be here, too, one of the few women consigned to this hideous ditch.

In the Second Pit are the obsequious, the flatterers, immersed in human excrement, which represents the words they have spoken. To state this in your contemporary terms, not only are they full of shit, they are soaking in it. Followers of Ghengis Khan, Hitler, and Mussolini are here, as are all the “yes men” who, often knowing better, followed orders nonetheless. This pit has been readied for Mitch McConnell, whose necrosis has already set in, as well as all those republicans who did not speak out against the wrongdoing they saw but instead praised the wrongdoer. A place has been reserved here for Michael Cohen, but he is using his earthly hours to atone for his misdeeds and may yet ascend to a higher ring of hell. He will pass Lisa Murkowski, who is fast moving in the opposite direction.

In the Third Pit are the Simoniacs, who sold religious favors. You would know them in your contemporary world as televangelists who promised salvation for donations to their ostentatious and tasteless churches. These evil predators, who worshipped only gold, are stuffed headfirst into stone tubes as flames lick continually at the bottom of their feet.

In the Fourth Pit are the sorcerers who wander with their heads on backwards. In life they claimed to see the future. Now they are blinded by the past. A special bulge in this pit is being readied for Ann Coulter, and her vulpine colleagues of Faux News.

In the Fifth Pit are the corrupt politicians submerged in boiling pitch These are the people who sold public office and took bribes. Lucifer has prepared a special place for Rod Blagojevitch, the former Governor of Illinois, who sought to sell the U.S. Senate of a vacating Barack Obama. Although your Trump commuted the Governor’s sentence after he served eight years, Lucifer plans no such commutation. Rudolph Giuliani will be here soon enough, complaining as if to a maître d’, that he should be at a better table. I assure you, Mr. Giuliani’s place here has been secured for all eternity. He will be joined by a ruler from beyond the Bosporus, a bare-chested czar who interfered with the honest election of your leaders. Evil of eye and malicious of deed, he seeks to consume all power for himself. This despicable creature will be dipped first in polonium, a material that had not yet been discovered in our 14th Century, and then tossed into the pitch with the others. 

In the Sixth Pit are the hypocrites, which is where the religious extremists Pence and Pompeo will be placed, as well as the troll-like creature called “Mother.” I am not certain that even Lucifer realizes how many are doomed to this place. Until recently the inhabitants of this pit were forced to wear clothing made of lead, a metaphor for the weight and poison of their words.

Recently, however, the Ruler of Hell instituted a change to the Sixth Pit. The men, henceforth to be known as Donaldians, must now wear ill-fitting blue suits, long neckties over which they trip at every step, and height-enhancing shoes which constrict their feet in ever increasing pressure until their bones are reduced to splinters and still they are required to walk. The women, known as Melanians, will see their faces become ever tighter until their feet are drawn up into their eye sockets and they become misshapen balls of bone and Botox. The Melanians float in a pool of sewage chattering, "Maralago, Maralago, Maralago." Mrs. Schlaffly and Mrs. Reagan are afloat here awaiting their kinswomen: Mrs. Cheney, Mrs. Barrett, Mrs. Ernst, Mrs. Bachmann, and lesser known members of their Tea Society. 

In the Seventh Pit are thieves who are bitten by reptiles. Lucifer has already welcomed many of the Watergate break-in team and awaits the arrival of Steve Bannon, Paul Manafort and much of the West Wing. The reptiles are replaced at regular intervals because of the toxicity of the creatures on which they gnaw. Lucifer salivates at the arrival of the lizardly Steven Mnuchin who, as a banker, foreclosed on a 90-year-old woman who mistakenly neglected to pay 27 cents of her mortgage. Upon his entrance, all remaining vowels will be removed from his name, so that he will live on in ignominy as Stvn Mnchn.

In Pit Eight are the counselors of fraud, wrapped in individual columns of flame, never to be consumed by the fire but ever to burn. This is a large pit, as it contains dictators, money launderers, and most egregiously, the bankers who lured working people into mortgages they would be unable to pay. Judge Jeannine Pirro will be here, her flame to burn more brightly because of the alcohol in which she soaked herself in life. Columns are being kept lit for the three eldest Trump Children who stole from a children’s cancer charily to fill their own coffers.

In Pit Nine are the Schismatics. This may sound like one of your rock bands, but entertainment was the last thing on their feeble minds. These are the disuniters. The promoters of Apartheid are here. Your KKK members are here and will continue to stream in. The Proud Boys will find their place here, as will the blood-and-soil torchbearers, and the men who intimidated with enormous weapons to compensate for their own tiny swords. Rush Limbaugh has already begun his journey down. As a fitting end to their divisiveness, each of these offenders will be split in two. Hitler eagerly awaits their arrival, not only for news of 21st Century schisms but for the influx of the hate on which he thrives.

Pit Ten contains the Falsifiers—the lyingest of liars—compelled to scratch their itching skin into eternity. Roger Ailes is here. Lucifer has expanded this section to contain the entire staff of The National Inquirer as it arrives. Rupert Murdoch has requested an extra-large suite here but does not realize that having done so, he will be confined to a niche so constraining that he will be forever unable to move his arms to scratch, an unguent remaining just centimeters out of reach. Roger Stone is expected here any day.

Lucifer was at first troubled by where to place your president when his time comes, as he is guilty of everything thus far described, but he decided upon the same measure he consigned to Richard Nixon. Mr. Trump will be cut into 10 equal pieces, each of which will transmogrify into a complete being so that every pit in this horrid circle may contain him. Trump will thus feel tenfold every pinch and pain, every scorch and itch, every bite and slice of punishment for all eternity. 

And let our sight be satisfied with that.

Mille grazie alla Signora Ellen Wineberg per avermi suggerito di aggiornare l’Ottavo Cerchio dell’Inferno. Xoxo, Dante 

(A thousand thanks to Ellen Wineberg for having suggested that I update the Eighth Circle of Hell.)

. . . . .

October 27

I am so confuse. Do I vote in New York City, where I live? Or Washington, D.C. where I live? Or Palm Beach, where also I live? Do I mail vote or go in the person? If I go in the person, what do I wear? I like to put on my I-don’t-care-do-u jacket because I do not give a leteči kurac (which in English you say “flying fuck”), but then I would have to wear sneakers. I prefer very high heels because they make me taller than husband. He does not like that, but I do. But very high heels hurt feet, even though rest of me stopped feeling when I marry Donald. 

Always it is hard to make these decisions. 

But one decision I will have no trouble to make: I vote for Joe Biden. Four more years of Donald I cannot stand. Even the other Melania—how you say, body double—vote for Joe.

As soon as I will be out of White House I divorce Donald because deal over. Dokončano. Finito. Kaput.  No more I will have to push his hand away from me in public or lock my bedroom door. I find young handsome men to have sex with. I change name back to Knavs. Also, I call myself Dr. Melania.

Once no protection from White House, everyone will go to prison except me. Decorating for Christmas and digging up Rose Garden have keep me very busy. Also, do you know how many hours require every day for hair to be color, set, and blow? So no time to break law. When Trumps and Jared locked up in what you call “Big House,” I change name of my own big house to Knavs Tower. I like, how you say, the bell of it. Also, nice view. I look down on everyone.

Divorce will give me lots of money. I shop until I am dropping. Now one more question: Where do I buy friends?

. . . . .

October 28


This is just a journal entry? I thought it was going to be a press conference. OK, then, I don’t need hair and makeup. Put that pink dress with the bows back on the rack. I’ll just stay in my jeans.

People think I slept my way to the top, but that’s not true. I was born there. Daddy loved me more than the others even before my nose job, implants, and veneers. Marla once told me that he used to yell out my name when they were having sex. She said it was the best sex she ever had. Poor thing. She’s now into hugging trees in Central Park and eating gluten-free pizza.

But I don’t want to use my journal time to talk about sex or Marla. I want to talk politics. In my unofficial capacity as acting President, I mean First Lady, have met with numerous heads of state and contributed to the international dialog. I am every bit the equal of Emanuel, Angela, and Boris. I’m not sure why they shift uncomfortably and look down when I join them. I talk about world economics and women’s rights. I participate. I make policy. I am feminist. Hear me breathe.

I may not be as experienced as Angela, but I have a lot more style. I offered her a makeover—that’s Verjüngungskur in German—even sent her a box of Ivanka Trump clothing and jewelry, but she didn’t wear any of it. I heard she donated everything to Schnäppchenjäger, a thrift store in Berlin. I am getting tired of my designs ending up in thrift stores and off price. Marshall’s marks them down to 99 cents and then gives them to Goodwill—Schnäppchenjäger all over again.

With my father off campaigning, I am stepping in to fill his shoes. Except that I am wearing spike heels of my own design. (Yes, they are similar to Jimmy Choos. Can I help it if he copies me? That’s what my lawyers will argue anyway.) I don’t wear a mask when the TV cameras are on, but I do in in the Oval Office because I am terrified of getting the virus. The entire West Wing is terrified because the entire West Wing is infected. I blame Hope Hicks for that—she’s the Typhoid Mary of Covid—but she blames Daddy. Do you see the way they lean into each other? He calls her “the daughter I never had.”  (Well, in fairness, he calls me “the wife I always wanted.”)

After the election, I hope Daddy abdicates and Mike Pence pardons him. I am tired of being First Lady, er Presidential Adviser. But there is the matter of liability once we’re out of office. New York State is ready to indict. And I suspect that Manhattan society will turn its back on us. We have become personas non gracious, even among the right-wing Republicans. Daddy infected all of them at his recent fundraisers and they are not pleased. I would rather die of Covid than be a socialite at Mar-a-Lago. Too many low-class people with tons of money.

Jared and I have made our own ton of money from our time in international politics. He’s a good business partner, but not very exciting otherwise. I need a break from him. I want to travel, and I’ll do it incognito if I have to leave a couple of steps ahead of the New York State Attorney General. Jared will stay in New York to run his real estate empire (or face charges). The kids will stay home with a nanny; they’re used to it. My first stop will be Italy to visit my mother and her 47-year-old boyfriend, Rossano. She told me, “I would rather be a babysitter than a caregiver.” Go, Mom!  (Do you know they competed in “Ballando con Le Stelle”— the Italian version of Dancing with the stars? Melania was apoplectic.) Mom hasn’t aged well—all that plastic surgery and Italian wine—but she knows her way around wealthy Italian men. Maybe I’ll have an Italian fling myself. Jared knows how to make money, but he couldn’t find a G spot if you gave him a spread sheet and a GPS. 

When everything blows over—and I pray it does because I do not look good in orange—I’ll come back. My shoes and handbags don’t design themselves. Marshall’s Clearance Centers are waiting for their next shipment.

. . . . .

October 29

Aside from getting that Stepford Wife on the Supreme Court, this has not been a good week for me.  

First Lesley Stahl bullied me on 60 Minutes with questions that were too hard. She did say they were going to be hard, but she’s a woman so I didn’t think they would be. She started off with the pandemic (which I ended), and then suburban women (who love me), and then unemployment (everyone is working), then preexisting conditions (no problem under my non-existent plan). Every time I answered she said, “That’s not true, Mr. President.”  I may not tell the truth, but no one calls Donald J. Trump a liar, that I can tell you.

When Stahl said, “You’re the President. Don’t you think you should be accountable to the American people?” I did the Presidential thing and walked out.

Then Barack Saddam Hussein Obama hit the campaign trail to mock me. And he’s not even running for president. He said if, “If the President can’t stand up to 60 minutes of questioning, how can he stand up to four more years in the White House?” and “How can he stand up to the dictators who would tear this country down?”  Well, I don’t stand up to dictators. I write them love letters and sometimes give them classified information. Otherwise Putie would poison me and my whole family. OK, so I only care about Ivanka, but there would be a lot of dead bodies, that I can tell you. 

Obama kept mocking me, just like at that correspondent’s dinner when he made me a laughingstock and I wanted to crawl under the table, except I was too big to fit under it. And he doesn’t slur or lie, the way I do. He has never called me a name, unlike Donald Jr. does behind my back or Mrs. Robot does to my face. He just uses my own words against me. What kind of sadist does that? Lock him up! And Alec Baldwin, too. (I am much better looking than both of them.)

And then everyone made fun of me for dancing on stage to YMCA. Not my supporters, of course, but the Democrats. And the fake media, which described my moves as an “awkward Dad dance.” SNL, that Antifa show, mocked me. Yes, I was a host on it once. That was a mistake. Huge mistake, that I can tell you. Also, the Village People issued a cease and desist on using their music. Hope says to ignore them because I am a Macho Man. (Was she mocking me? I think she was mocking me.)

There’s more. I left thousands of people stranded in the freezing cold after my rally in Omaha. My enemies are calling it the Trump Death Tour. We hired buses to bring them to the airfield outside of town where I was set up to speak, but then the buses didn’t show up when it was over. (Maybe because no one was there to pay them, as they were promised? I don’t know. It’s not my fault.) Good thing I had Air Force One to get me out of there. Those MAGA hats don’t keep you warm, that I can tell you.

I don’t care that all those people were left in the middle of nowhere for three hours— in the dark, by the way—but Hope says it did not reflect well on me. “Bad optics,” is what she said. (Who does she work for, LensCrafters or me?)  We should have had the buses wait while I rallied. A company official said it was because none of my supporters were wearing masks and they were singing YMCA at the top of their lungs on the way over, spewing Covid everywhere. And no one from the campaign showed up to pay them as promised, so the drivers decided to leave. That bus company is never getting paid now. Not that we actually planned to pay them. Dozens of old people ended up in the hospital. If they die, I just hope it’s not until after they vote for me. The Omaha Police Department sent me a bill for overtime. They can line up behind the bus company.

But there is one bright spot. Crowds of Trump supporters with automatic weapons are showing up at early voting places to oversee the election process. They are tremendous, those militias. Tremendous. The jeers! The threats! This is Democracy in action, using their Second Amendment right to exercise their First Amendment right. I’m quoting Hope on that. I don’t know my Amendments from my Commandments.

I hope next week goes better for me.

. . . . .

October 30

Well, since Dad has forbidden us to write in his journal, we decided to videotape a conversation. As you can see, we got spiffed up for the occasion. I got my hair shellacked and my little bro had his gums polished. Don’t we look great? Two perfect specimens of Trumpitude.

Don Jr: I’ll go first, because I’m named after Dad.

Eric: OK, then I’ll go second because I’m not.

Don Jr: Let’s start with the safari photos. I am ripping mad that the photos of us with dead animals are being mocked all over the internet. They make us look like killers. We’re not.

Eric: We’re not killers. We just happened to be in Africa when big cats were all around us. And we just happened to have high-powered rifles with laser scopes.

Don Jr: One of those cats was about to attack. I know my rights. Stand your ground. So we shot it.

Eric: We shot an elephant, too. It was standing on the ground so we shot it. We cut its tail off.

Don Jr: Dad says that if Nancy Pelosi threatens us, we can do the same thing.

Eric: That’s right. She lives in a house with a whip. She threatens us. Do we need a permit? We didn’t have one for the animals. Peter said we shot endangered ones. Who’s Peter anyway? 

Don Jr: PETA, bro. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals

Eric: What’s ethical?

Don Jr. Look, Eric, something shiny. I’ll tell you what’s endangered. We are. We don’t have a Jared to make money for us. And we don’t know how to make it ourselves. Sure, we “run the business,” but mostly that involves moving money from one place to another. We make salaries, but we want the big bucks, like what Ivanka and Jared make.

Eric: Well, what could we do? I mean, neither of us knows how to design shoes. And Dad said only Ivanka could get the Chinese  tariff exem . . . exem . . .

Don Jr: Exemptions, bro. Exemptions. You are not as stupid as Dad says you are. When he calls you stupid, you have to say, “No, I’m not!”

Eric: Oh sure. And then he’ll take away my allowance. 

Don Jr: That’s not an allowance, bro. That’s your salary. You help run the business. 

Eric: But you said all we do is move money around.

Don Jr: That’s the business.

Eric: I want a drone for Christmas

Don Jr: Oh, you have a drone already. Wannnh, wannnh, wannnh. 

Eric: Stop making fun of me. I am not stupid.

Don Jr: Dude, you’re supposed to say that to Dad, not me. The fact is you are a bit slow.

Eric: Thanks, Don. Hey, how’s your new girlfriend?

Don Jr: Well, she’s no Stormy, but she’s hot. My wife doesn’t think so, though. 

Eric: Lara says she stutters.

Don Jr: No, Eric. Lara says that about Joe Biden, not my girlfriend. Kim just talks loud. Hey, when was the last time you were tested?

Eric: For talking? Never. I just open my mouth and words come out.

Don Jr: No, bro. Tested for . . .  you know.

Eric: Yep, I have been tested. No more gonorrhea. Lara was happy about that. She said she has no idea where it came from.

Don Jr: That’s not what you need to get tested for. Corona virus is the big problem.

Eric: Not for me. I got the vaccine already. Now I don’t have to wear a mask anymore. 

Don Jr: You never wore a mask. But there is no vaccine yet, Eric.

Eric: That’s not what Dad says. Melania got the vaccine. Baron, too. He says you’re next. And Jared.

Don Jr: What are you talking about?

Eric: The vaccine. We take it and we’ll get heard immunity. I like being heard. Most people don’t listen to me.

Don Jr: Dear god, not heard, herd. Herd immunity.

Eric: That’s what I said. Everyone in the family is going to get heard. Then Dad and Ivanka are going to go visit Uncle Putie. 

Don Jr: This is not good, bro. Dad is going to infect us with Covid. Then he and Ivanka will flee to Russia when he loses and leave us here to face the music.

Eric: I love music. My favorite group is the Grateful Dead

Don Jr: Kill me now.

. . . . .

October 31

It’s always kind of scary in the nation’s capitol, what with the gang wars between parties, the roving bands of unmasked tourists, and the occasional arrival of armed troops sent by the president for one of his photo ops. But these days the town is more frightening than usual, and not only because the election is imminent. It’s almost Halloween. Here’s how some of the government’s key players plan to celebrate. 


President Trump is ready with full pumpkin makeup, but he’s not giving out goodies to anyone making under $90,000 a year. In fact, he’s enlisted Attorney General William Barr to seize the candy of anyone in that income bracket and give it to corporations and the wealthiest one percent. 

Senator Mitch McConnell promised candy for everyone, but he’s hoarding it in the Senate until after the election. 

Education Secretary Cruella DeVos does not believe children deserve candy.

Senator Susan Collins says she’ll give you candy, then she says she won’t give you candy. Then she will, then she won’t. She does this every year. The District’s trick or treaters know better now. They just run past her house. In Maine it’s worse; kids avoid her neighborhood entirely. 

Senator Lisa Murkowski knows that giving out candy is the right thing to do, and she wants to do it, but first she needs to see if Mitch will allot some extra candy for her state before she makes her decision. 

Representative Maxine Waters will give out orange t-shirts with the slogan, A prison jumpsuit to match his makeup.

Melania will give out tiny red Christmas trees.

Joe and Kamala will go door to door, masked of course, giving candy back to the homeowners. “We understand the financial burden they carry,” said Kamala. They’re calling it the Snickers Initiative. 

Andrew Yang will give out $1000 worth of candy to every trick or treater. The line to his front door is already around the block.

Joni Ernst is back in Iowa where she had a literal ton of soybeans covered in chocolate to give to her constituents. “Soybeans!” they fumed. “We have freaking silos full of them, the result of Trump’s China tariffs.” Ernst was last seen being chased down Main Street by a mob of farmers with pitchforks. 

Senator Elizabeth Warren will be handing out candy from her home in Cambridge, Mass. Visitors may select from a tray laden with goodies as she reminds them that they didn’t get there on their own. “I want to be clear. You got here on roads and sidewalks the rest of us paid for. You are safe because of police forces that the rest of us paid for. You didn't have to worry that marauding bands would come and seize your candy. God bless! Keep a hunk of it. But part of the underlying social contract is you take some of that candy and pay forward for the next kid who comes along.” 

Mike Pence and Mother were planning to give out tiny plastic statues of Jesus that are suitable for prayer and contemplation. Last year they gave out a chocolate Jesus to every trick or treater, and most thought it was a riot to bite off its head or watch it melt. The Pences vowed to offer something more lasting. However when an advance visitor mentioned that this year’s Jesus is just the right size for a butt plug, Mother collapsed face first into a fresly baked pie. Mike was heard screaming, “Oh, god,” from an upstairs bedroom. 


Ben Carson loves Halloween. This year he will dress as a brain surgeon. Is that hilarious or what? Next year he wants to be the floppy inflato-guy you see at car dealerships.

Steven Miller will be dressed as a vampire—the fangs, the bat wings, the rabid look. Oh, I’m sorry. That’s him in street clothes.

Rudy Giuliani will wear a pinstripe shirt with a message scrawled in Sharpie on the back: Jeffrey Toobin is the masturbator. I was just tucking this shirt into my pants. 

As always, Lindsey Graham will dress up as a French maid. Even he’s getting tired of it, but he has no room for extra costumes. He’s been living in his closet since 1963.

Ted Cruz is dressing up again as Grandpa Munster. He likes it because he doesn’t have to do anything but put on a cape. This year, however, Amblin Entertainment, which owns the rights to the characters of Morticia, Gomez, and the others, has issued a cease and desist order, noting in part, “This monster is giving The Addams Family a bad name.” 

Dr. Birx plans to wear an orange scarf with a festive pattern of haystacks and cornstalks. What? You though she would let this occasion pass by without a scarf? She will accent it with a pumpkin-print babushka.

Dr. Fauci is working. He has no time for frivolities. 

Over at the Supreme Court, Brett Kavanaugh is wearing one of those beer hats with tubes that deliver the brew directly down his throat. This is not so much a costume for him as another day on the bench. He usually has a keg concealed under his robes.

Justices Sonia Sotomayor and Elena Kagan have already put on white lace collars to keep the memory of RBG front and center as the Stepford Wife prepares to take her place on the bench.

John Roberts is dressed as a Chief Justice. May he now act like one.

Nancy Pelosi will be in head-to-toe black leather. She dominates! House Majority Whip Jim Clyburn came up with the idea, and House members have requested that she wear the costume until inauguration. “Anything that keeps Trump in line is fine with us,” said Clyburn.


Senator Mitt Romney doesn’t believe in pagan harvest festivals, but he has been known to indulge in the occasional slice of pumpkin pie.

Secretary of State Mike Pompeo hates the hoopla of Halloween, preferring instead to spend November 1,  All Saint’s Day, reading scripture and praying—with sufficient time allotted to malign Muslims, Jews, and homosexuals.

Finally, Amy Coney Barrett says that since Halloween is not mentioned in either the bible or the Constitution, she’s not celebrating it. In fact, she believes that no one should celebrate it, and she will use her power to make it so. On a personal note, Mrs. Barrett would like it to be known that she does not appreciate her religious family being mocked as Children of the Candy Corn.

Here’s hoping for a big election Treat. With no Russian, er, Republican tricks. 

Also, may Donald find a razor blade in his apple.
. . . . .

November 2
Part 1

The sinkholes on the front lawn should have been a warning, but at first everyone thought it was just Melania digging up more of the grounds in her high heels. Then Kellyanne Conway resigned citing family issues, as if she had a human family. And then Jared weighed in on black American life as if he had any understanding of the living. By the time Mike Pompeo’s head started rotating and puking up green slime, we knew we had a problem. 

After that it’s kind of a blur. The lights kept flickering. All the smoke detectors started going off at once. The shriek was deafening. No, wait, that was Mike Pence after he found himself alone with the Press Secretary.  Every TV in in the building turned on simultaneously, tuned to Rachel Maddow on MSNBC. The remotes didn’t work. Someone yelled, “Put Fox News back on!”—except he called it “Pox News.”  They couldn’t even change the channel by hand. Bombarded relentlessly by fact and informed opinion, staffers cowered under their desks. The computer screens were all flashing the number of the CDC. But what really scared me was the deep rumbling, a very low bass vibration that seemed to rise up from the depths of the earth. That rumbling coalesced into a wave and the wave into a message: “YOU'RE NEXT!”

Reporters scrambled out of the Press Room, dictating stories of doom into their phones as they fled up Pennsylvania Avenue. Mark Meadows, the White House Chief of Staff, should have taken charge, but he was trying to channel the ghost of H.R. Bob Haldeman, because the last time anything like this happened Richard Nixon was in the Oval Office. Then his head started rotating and he started puking up green slime, too.

I’m the Chief Butler at the White House, so I stepped in. It is my duty to see that things run smoothly—which they weren’t—but I did the best I could. The West Wing offices remained full of people coughing and sneezing, not a mask in sight. Bill Barr, looking pale and bloated—not unusual for him—asked for a Depends and then I think he left. (From the window I saw a large figure lumbering in fits and starts away from the building.) At least the East Wing was empty, which it had been since the First Lady went into quarantine. Her assistants were working from home, trying to avoid Christmas decoration duty.

The generals convened in the Situation Room, prepared to bomb, but they didn’t know who, what, or where the target was. They needed their Commander in Chief to issue orders, yet they knew he would know even less than they.

Meanwhile, the Commander in Chief was up in his quarters tweeting on the toilet. When the Secret Service arrived to pull him to safety, they disappeared into a vortex of virus, misinformation, and lies. Poor guys. They just dematerialized into the ether.


By then the walls were dripping blood.

Ivanka was beside herself with excitement. “Pantone Sceptre Red!” she exclaimed. “It’s exactly the right hue for my final collection.” (As the White House butler I pay scant attention to fashion, but even I knew that her Marie-Antoinette-in-the-enchanted-forest-of red-Christmas-trees theme would be headed straight to the Marshall’s Clearance racks.)

The air became foul, sulfurous, as a venomous creature rose from a hole in the basement. “President  Nixon!” Pence shouted, dropping to his knees and touching his forehead to the floor. Not quite. It was Cthulhu, King of the Underworld.  “YOU’RE NEXT,” he rumbled.  The sound was so deep I thought my insides would be cooked from the vibration.

Pompeo and his Children of the Corn prostrated themselves and began to pray. Cthulhu vaporized them, leaving only the stain of Pompeo’s ego on the floor. Pence ran out so fast he forgot to collect Mother. Hope Hicks hissed back at the creature, whipped her hair, and fled, the click, click, click of her high heels doing double time. 

I passed out from the sulfurous fumes. When I awoke, everyone was dead or gone except the president, who was still rage tweeting upstairs on the toilet.

. . . . .

November 3
Part 2

[In Part 1 the White House is occupued by a sinister force. Yes, him, but also something else. The White House butler tells the story.]

By the time I came to, a Special Ops team dressed head to toe in hazmat gear had arrived and was disinfecting the building. As the Chief Butler, I can tell you there are 132 room, 35 bathrooms, eight staircases, and three elevators in the White House. Ops was going through them methodically, office to office, room to room, cleaning and spraying, cleaning and spraying, even as Cthulhu threatened to take the building down. I fled.

The rest of the story was recorded on the Presidential Drone, which I accessed remotely. The drone is used by the Secret Service to make sure the President has not wandered off. That happened to President Reagan a few times, and no one wanted it to happen again. (We recognized Trump’s dementia the day he strapped himself to the flag pole on the roof of the building and screamed, “I’m the king of the world.”)  We tell the President it’s the White House’s pet fly, which Pence thinks is hilarious. Anyway, that’s how I know an Elite Relocation Team from within Ops made its way to the Presidential bathroom and carried the president out, toilet and all, as he was still tweeting on the pot. POOR PEOPLE SUCK! . . .   MORE TAX BREAKS FOR BILLIONAIRES!! . . .  PRINT EXTRA MONEY! . . .  NOBODY LIKES ME !

“Mr. President, put on a mask,” one of them said. “Mask? He’s butt naked,” said another. Someone on the team pulled out a printed silk scarf and wrapped it around him like an apron.

Then the drone followed a lone figure who had broken away from Special Ops and was making its way down to the White House basement, braving the darkness and foul air. Someone said it was Mitch McConnell, but that was incorrect; Mitch was last seen cowering on the Senate floor whimpering, “I want my power back.” Lindsey Graham was there, too, stuck in some kind of demonic loop that couldn’t be turned off: “Trump is a racist. Trump is not a racist. Trump is a racist. Trump is not a racist.” The last time I saw that happen, it was Susan Collins debating with herself about Kavanaugh. But the word had a p not a c.

I know it wasn’t Justice Kavanaugh making his way to the basement, because when things get tough he taps a keg and doesn’t stop until he has passed out. Justice Thomas doesn’t go out of his way to help anyone. My god, he hasn’t said a word since he got that pubic hair stuck in his throat in 1991.  

I was also able to rule out Ben Carson. The poor guy is no longer coherent, although he comes to work every day and sits at a very nice table in his office tracing his hands to make Thanksgiving turkeys. 

No, this figure in full hazmat was a warrior, striding toward the terrible unknown armed only with the ardor of righteousness and the protection of a powerful spirit. 

“Steven? Steven Miller,” is that you?” the figure inquired.  

Cthulhu raised himself up, ready to strike. It was indeed Miller, fangs bared, red eyes ablaze, his hairless skull a Medusa of maggots. The hazmatted figure stood  tall, shoulders squared, refusing to yield a centimeter of ground. 

“Tiananmen Square! Tiananmen Square!” I heard myself shouting in solidarity as I watched the feed. I could see that the figure, powerful as it was, was being protected by a good and even more powerful spirit. The King of the Underworld hissed, but weakly. Though enveloped by the ghost of Hitler, he realized he was outmatched in intelligence and integrity and like a defeated cur slunk into the damp earth under the White House, the foul odor following behind him. The ground shuddered and then calmed. Suddenly the air throughout the building smelled almost sweet.

The heroic figure removed her helmet and let out a deep sigh. Feeling the presence of the good spirit still with her, she said, “Thank you, Justice Ginsberg. I wish we had more time together.”

“Not to worry. I will be right here with you.”

Satisfied that evil had been vanquished from the White House, and protected by her invincible Ruthian shield, Kamala made her way back up to the first floor, wiping her sneakers before setting foot on the polished floors. Like a miracle, Special Ops had thoroughly cleansed the premises. Kamala inhaled deeply, the first time in almost a year that she had felt safe enough to do so. Calmly she placed a call.

“Joe, the place is ready when you are.”

. . . . . 

November 9

Despite not getting enough votes, I did not lose the election. I just did not actually win it.

Things started off well--so well that those crybaby Democrats were on Facebook whining, “I can’t believe this is happening again.” Some of them were shitting their pants as the early votes started coming in. Too bad they weren’t wearing Depends like I was. The Fake News media called those early votes a “Red Mirage.” (I think they used the same words to describe Melania’s Christmas trees.)

Then as all those mail-in votes started getting counted, everything turned blue, including me. I held my breath so long that Mike Pence thought I was going to die. (He wishes, believe me.) Mike could be president. If he agrees to pardon me, I will resign before those squatters move in.
Maybe I should have been nicer to that woman from Michigan. Her state went blue. And what’s that other M state? Oh, Minnesota, with that annoying lady senator who speaks her mind. I hate women who have opinions. That went blue, too. When Fox News called Arizona for Sleepy Joe, I passed out from the shock. That’s when the ghost of John McCain appeared to me. “I don’t like losers,” he said. “Not only can you not win at golf, you can’t win a second term. And you only got the first term because you cheated.” Then I turned a shade of blue that Melania described as “Prussian.” That I liked. Sounds like “Russian.”

Which reminds me, I have not heard from my baby daddy. Not a word. He hasn’t called or texted. Nothing. Nyet. There goes my Plan A. (Note to self: Get Eric in here to start tasting my food.)

At least I have Florida and the southern states. (Well, except for Atlanta. They don’t like me there.) But my KKKers are tremendous, that I can tell you. Tremendous. They love me almost as much as the Taliban. Too bad those Tallies couldn’t vote for me. Well, maybe some did.
As I was, ah, not winning, my personal attorney, Rudy Giuliani, called a press conference at the Four Seasons in Philadelphia to announce that I was not losing. (Sure, Rudy was filmed with an underage girl in a hotel room in the Borat movie. Big deal. Who hasn’t been with an underage girl once or twice? Alan, amirite?)

But the problem is that someone screwed up, and the location was not the Hotel but the Four Seasons Total Landscaping company a few miles from downtown. Fake News had a field day with that, because this Four Seasons is in a strip mall located between a porn shop and a crematorium. There are those who have described this as the arc of my presidency. They are wrong. I’m not ready to go up in flames yet.
But I am feeling the heat. Fox & Friends is not taking my call-ins. Rupert is not taking my calls. Palm Beach says I have to remove the helicopter pad from Mar-a-Lago on January 20 because I will no longer be conducting presidential business. (I am feeling very unloved. Palm Beach chose Joe over me.)
That's not all. The banks are going to close on my loans, and I don’t have the money to pay them back. Is there a limit on the number of times you can file for bankruptcy? And then New York State is going to arrest me for tax fraud, or maybe it’s bank fraud, or maybe insurance fraud. Oh, god, it’s all the frauds! New York really has it in for me. Whatever they don’t get, Melania will.
I’ll make 20 cents a day in jail cleaning toilets. I won’t have my elevator shoes or my makeup artist. There will be no one to style my hair. They will cut it off. I will end up poor and pale, just like the one thing I have always despised: my base.
Please, don’t make me share a cell with Bernie Madoff. That guy is such a cheater.

. . . . .
November 19 P.P.S. I'M NOT GOING
I told Melania that I was reaching the end of my rope. She said, “Ne dovolj kmalu.” Finally, some sympathy. (That is until Melania’s father, my lookalike brother from another mother, told me it means, “not soon enough.”) The lookalike brother makes my marriage to Melania seem almost incestuous, and I find that titillating. Ha ha, I said “tit.” My tiny is getting chubby. Take that, Borat. I don’t even have to stick my hand down my pants, that I can tell you.

I’d like to say that Melania would stick her hand down my pants, but who am I kidding? She wouldn’t touch me with a 10-foot pole. One time I offered her a larger plane for her trips to the hairdresser if she agreed to use one of those extension grabbers. “You turn me into trash picker,” she complained, and then she squeezed so hard I passed out. That’s the night I made the midnight chopper trip to Walter Reed Hospital. Tiny Trump was black and blue for weeks.

Melania’s divorce papers are burning a hole on her lawyer’s desk. OK, I tried to set fire to them, but I know the moment I’m out of the White House, she will file. I guess I don’t blame her, even I don’t like living with me, but I would never admit that to anyone, believe me.

I guess people have noticed by now that I have stopped gilding my hair. I have Ivanka to Thank for that. She said, “It's time to stop. You already have enough gilt on you.” Tiffany chimed in, There’s a ‘u’ in there.” A me? A what? I paid for Tiffany’s law school for what, a spelling lesson? Anyway, I like the new, more distinguished me.

Eric called me an “eminence grease.” This from a boy who pomades his hair with Valvoline.

At least I don’t have hair dye dripping down my face. Poor Rudy, his Just for Men was just not for him. At a press conference the poor bastard was sweating so much the color ran down his face and onto his shirt. I texted him: “You look like you’re leaking shit.” Ha ha, good one if I say so myself. Then he went on to lose another three court cases.

But I’m not letting any of this get me down. I have my Adderall and my Twitter. I have the Secretary of Defense. And I have my fans--the ones who haven't died yet from Covid. When I get so down that not even Adderal can cheer me, I crank up the hifi with Jennifer Holliday. What an inspiration!

. . . . .

November 24 PARDON ME Today I pardoned a turkey.

It was big, white, and kind of creepy looking, with a mass of waggly flesh under its chin. No, not me. It was a bird named Corn.
Supreme Court Justice Amy Coney Barrett called to ask me to be clear that Corn,the turkey, had absolutely no connection to her husband, the Colonel, nor to Father Cob and Mother Maize, the leaders of her religious group, Children of the Corn. “I can’t be too careful now, what with those heathen Democrats mocking me at every turn,” she said, speaking from the grain-filled silo that serves as the international headquarters of her sect. “The jokes and bad puns are a grind,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m about to pop.”
Melania weighed in, too. Perhaps because she was procrastinating on her Christmas duties, she spent a few hours on Google researching the tradition of the President pardoning a Thanksgiving bird. I caught her laughing, something she doesn’t do too often because it stretches the tight skin on her face.
“A lame duck pardoning a turkey. That is the funniest thing I have hear all year,” she said. Well, that put me in a fowl mood.

Then she got serious and said, “Do you know that most turkeys die just a few months after a Presidential Pardon?”
I felt faint, that I can tell you, because I am planning my own pardon as a grand exit, just after I set the Oval Office on fire.

I’m sure I heard Melania say “Flock you” as she left the Pardoning ceremony. She would have moved faster, but her spike heels kept sinking into the Rose Garden lawn.

. . . . .

November 29 FAMILY TIES

Although I have lost three times in Georgia, and twice in Pennsylvania and Wisconsin—and even the judges I appointed are ruling that my evidence of fraud is “strained”—I will continue my fight to hold onto a job I don’t want. I haven’t made America great yet, but I will.
So on Joe’s Inauguration Day, after the Secret Service drags me out of the Oval Office, I will hold a rally for my candidacy for the 2024 election. I will be a tremendous president, even if I have to reign from jail. (New York State is not going to let this go, that I can tell you.)

I am thinking of having Ivanka as my Vice President. I’ll be divorced by then, and if Jared gets convicted of treason, Ivanka will be free to marry me. My daughter would become my VP and my wife. Barron’s half cousins would then become his step brothers and sisters, and his half sister would then become his stepmother. Confusing? Not to my base. They’re all married to one another. (I think that’s why they liked Rudy so much, even if he is eye-talian, because his first marriage was to his cousin.)

Melania will continue to live in Virginia with her father, who looks like me.

I know Don Jr. would like to run for President, so it’s possible that we will be running against each other in the 2024 primary. If Joe decides not to run for a second term (Too old! Too old!) our Democratic opponent in the Primary could be California Governor Gavin Newsom, who used to be married to Kimberly Guilfoyle, Junior’s girlfriend, possibly second wife by then. That would make her a former First Lady and potential First Lady. (And she’s no lady, believe me.)

On her way out the door, Melania said that with the family ties, and the crime, our family saga would make a good movie.

No, it would make a GREAT movie. A TREMENDOUDS movie. Maybe even win an Oscar. (And if it doesn’t, I will demand recounts and charge fraud.) I will ask Francis Ford Coppola to direct. He knows his epic family dramas, that I can tell you.
It could open with my grandfather, Friedrich Drumpf, a handsome young man who emigrated to America in 1885. History will tell you that he left to avoid serving in the German Army, but really he came to seek his fortune in America. He headed west for the gold rush and worked as a pimp for a brothel in Alaska. (And you wonder where my obsession with gold and women comes from). On a trip home he met my great grandmother, Elizabeth Crist, and brought her here. But she was homesick so they went back to Germany—except that the Germans didn’t want him. They called him a draft dodger and gave him 48 hours to leave and never come back. (Which neatly explains both my attraction to immigrant women and my hatred for immigrants.) After Friedrich died, Elizabeth bankrolled my dad, Fred, in a small real estate business. (The themes! Coppola will love it!)
So although I don’t have much to do with Melania now that I’ve lost, er, not won, I will give her the last work on this one.  “Donald, tell Coppola I have great title for movie. You should call it The Godfather.”


Oh, lookie here. Someone put a pen to the First Lady’s press release. See for yourself:
The First Family is celebrating their fourth Christmas in the White House.  This year’s theme, "America the Beautiful,” is a tribute to the majesty of our great Nation. From coast to coast, our country is blessed with boundless natural wonders
which Donald have done his best to ravage, from erecting wall at Southern Border (only erection Donald have) to selling Arctic drilling rights in Alaska.
Upon entering the East Wing, visitors are welcomed by The Gold Star Family Tree, an annual tradition among the holiday decorations. Draped in blue, the color of perseverance and justice, it pays tribute to our American heroes and their families who Donald have called “losers and suckers.”  We have special star for Khizr and Ghazala Khan, parents of  war hero Humayun Khan, who sacrificed himself to save his soldiers. Donald will mock it each time he walk by the tree.
Around the corner, the East Colonnade celebrates the diverse landscapes found across this great Nation, which Donald have desecrated by reversing environmental protections. Separated by region, classical urns hold foliage representative of the official tree of each state and territory. Just beyond the gallery of greenery, the East Garden Room displays holiday cards sent by first families over the past twelve administrations. This year’s card, shimmering in gold, shows the unique landscape of America, the beautiful. Of course it is gold. Donald’s DNA has pimp grandfather, who went to Goldrush, and sent pieces of gold to people in his family. Also I am gold digger. I like it too.
Entering the Ground Floor Corridor is the Vermeil Room, a collection made up of more than 1,600 pieces, many of which are on display. To preserve the White House for the American people, First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy established the “People’s House” as a living museum and laid the foundation for expanding the diversity of the collection. Sharing in this love for arts and culture, President John F. Kennedy’s official portrait is featured on the graceful trees. Outside, Donald have erected six layers of barrier to keep people away from White House.
The next stop, the White House Library, is home to a collection of more than 2,700 classic works that provide first-hand accounts of progress in our Nation’s history. In recognition of this year’s 100th anniversary of the ratification of the 19th Amendment, the Library shines a spotlight on women who were pioneers for gender equality and the impact of their voices on our Nation’s story. It also contains a tribute to Mrs. Trump’s 19th Amendment child art competition hosted earlier in the year, with all of the winning art displayed on the base of the tabletop tree. The décor highlights women at the forefront of American achievements who have paved the way for generations to come. Donald doesn’t know where the library is. He can’t read. Also, he doesn’t understand meaning of “achievement.”
Nearby is the China Room which houses the historic collection of presidential china patterns and is modeled to show the joy that home can bring to us all. The home scene is set for timeless traditions and tasty treats, capturing the importance of time spent together during the holiday season. Stockings for the First Family hang on the fireplace, one of the 28 historic fireplaces throughout the White House. Donald hates China. His tariffs “against”China cost Americans millions of dollars in extra fees. Oh, you mean plates? Donald prefers to eat chicken right out of bucket.
Upstairs in the East Room, visitors will see planes, trains, and automobiles race around the trees, through the ribbons, and between the twinkling lights. Since the creation of our Nation, America has been on the move. From the First Transcontinental Railroad to the Apollo 11 lunar landing, the East Room celebrates our monumental triumphs in innovation and technology. In a 1909 ceremony in this room, President William Taft recognized Wilbur and Orville Wright for their unprecedented achievements in aerodynamics. As a country, we proudly commend those who embrace the power of possibility, fueling the next chapter of our history at sea, on land, in skies, and beyond. Donald is so angry that we have nothing to commemorate his Space Force that he soiled his diaper during tantrum.
Moving into the Parlors, the Green Room features the beauty of American wildlife, whose habitats Donald has reduced (he hates animals, I think because they try to bite him.) Vignettes in the windows showcase the diversity of creatures that flutter and find refuge among our native landscape.
As one moves into the Blue Room, the official White House Christmas tree illuminates the room and stands over eighteen feet in height. This majestic Fraser fir showcases the splendor of our country through the unique perspective of America’s children. Students across the country were asked to artistically depict what makes their state beautiful by highlighting the people, places, and things that capture the spirit of the state in which they call home. Glistening on the branches, their mini masterpieces collectively showcase America, the beautiful. The gleaming tree, bedecked with rays of yellow and gold, unites us in our common goal of building a brighter future for America’s children, aligning closely with First Lady Melania Trump’s BE BEST initiative which focuses on giving all children the best opportunity to succeed in life.
Donald want press release to say in big letters that this tree is LARGEST TREE ever placed in White House with MOST LIGHTS. Also, Donald supports the success of all children, as long as they are white and born here to American parents.
As one moves to the Red Room, we salute America’s everyday heroes who serve as first responders and frontline workers. Handmade ornaments highlight the many professionals and volunteers who serve their communities with a spirit of generosity. Donald say he doesn’t care that first responders are near exhaustion from caring for Covid patients. It is more important to hold rallies and not wear mask. Also, he ask, “What does ‘generosity’ mean?’”  
As one moves to the State Dining room, we continue to celebrate “America the Beautiful.” This year’s Gingerbread House, a delicious masterpiece displayed on the iconic eagle pier table, replicates the West Wing, Executive Residence, East Wing, and for the first time, the Rose Garden and the First Ladies’ Garden. Constructed from 275 pounds of gingerbread dough, 110 pounds of pastillage dough, 30 pounds of gum paste, 25 pounds of chocolate, and 25 pounds of royal icing. The White House pastry team took extra care in making sure that every detail, down to the smallest blossom, paid homage to the beauty of “America the Beautiful.” I tell chefs to rip out all rose bushes. Also to make sure there is no sign saying “Ivanka’s Garden.” She is bitch.”
Ending in the Grand Foyer and Cross Hall, guests find themselves overflowed with love, joy, peace, hope, and faith, to reveal the most important gifts of the season: the soon departure of Donald Trump from office.
“I am excited to announce this year’s White House holiday theme, ‘America the Beautiful,’” said First Lady Melania Trump. “Over the past four years I have had the honor to travel to some of our nation’s most beautiful landmarks and meet some of the most compassionate and patriotic American citizens. From coast to coast, the bond that all Americans share is an appreciation for our traditions, values, and history, which were the inspiration behind the decorations this year. Thank you to all of the staff and volunteers who worked to make sure the People’s House was ready for the holiday season. Wishing everyone a Merry Christmas and a happy and healthy New Year.” And as soon as this fucking Christmas is over, I can leave this fucking White House and divorce tubby moron, gets lots of pre-nup alimony, and finally have sex with handsome studs, go shopping, and go on Dancing with Stars.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Be sure to visit the Donald J. Trump Presidential Library. Keep grope alive!