Wednesday, October 14, 2020

Donny's Journal

 From the Journal of

New post published October 22: Cruella Devos is Going Down

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.

. . . . .


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.”

. . . . .

Next installment on Friday, October 23

Sunday, October 4, 2020

Signs of the Times at Ceres Gallery


Installation view of Signs of the Times at Ceres Gallery through October 17

The installation shots will take you around the gallery counterclockwise, so the artists are identified in the same way, right to left: Rebeca Fuchs, Cheryl Intrator, Summer Bhullar; foreground: Nancy Azara

Late last year, Ceres Gallery in New York City invited me to jury a show they were calling Signs of the Times. Considering the actions of the Instigator in Chief--from putting children in cages to praising nazis to stirring up racial strife--the signs were ominous. I looked forward to seeing how artists beyond my own sphere of experience saw the world. The exhibition was scheduled for spring 2020. Then in what could only be seen as the most ominous sign of all, a pandemic arrived. The exhibition began online and remained there until recently, when the gallery reopened. Let me share some installation images with you, provided by the gallery, and my catalog essay, which I have illustrated here with the artists' submission photos. If you can't visit the show, you can see the catalog, designed by Joann Brody, which contains artists statements and full information about each work.

Juror’s Notes for Signs of the Times

The call for entries for Signs of the Times came just before Covid-19 permeated every mile and meter of our planet. This monstrous virus stopped us in our tracks. What an irony that the biggest sign of all, a global pandemic, does not figure into the artwork on exhibition. Certainly its presence changed the timing of our show. We began as an online exhibition and just now have been able to see it realized in the gallery space. The work I selected for Signs of the Times aligns primarily along social and environmental issues, leavened with a bit of the order and chaos of abstraction. 

We start, as always, with women. We are still under siege, as Kathleen A. Kneeland’s Target, a uterus drawn onto a paper gun target, makes clear. Her tiny pink felt sculpture, Thorny, fights back. Yu Huang’s painting, Where Is Ana Mendieta, remembers the early beacon of earth-body performance art who fell (?) to her death in 1985 (her husband was acquitted of her murder). Sheryl Intrator’s Pussy Hat Flag employs that icon of the MeToo movement, a reminder of the many transgressions against us and, equally important, our great numbers as a political force to secure justice. We are powerful together. This is a message underscored by Isabele Milkoff’s Women’s Power 1 and Joan Easton’s All Women Are Sisters.

Kathleen Kneeland, left and right

Sheryl Intrator

Yu Huang


Isabele Milkoff; Joan Easton

In her monotype, Deconstructed American 5, Toby Sisson expands women’s solidarity into something larger. Her series uses the word ‘American’ as a collage element, its recombinant patterns offering, Sisson says, “numerous perspectives on our country’s national identity.”  Chillingly, some of those identities are not those we would wish to welcome. To wit: In Joel Tretin’s manipulated photograph, a Klan snowman set against the backdrop of a peaked-roof house is an evil American Gothic that seems to get more normalized by the day. Toby Needler sees in her cut-paper work, Reality Never Got in the Way of Their Convictions, the disparity of outcomes between who has power and who doesn’t. In her small linocut, Censorship
A. Bascove laments the repression of journalists, a situation as frighteningly true today as it was in 1992 when the artist made her print. Robert Sherman’s collage, You Are Going Straight to Hell, says what we are all thinking about the other side (of course, they are thinking the same about us). 

Toby Sisson

Joel Tretin


A. Bascove, left; Robert Sherman


One of the unexpected consequences of our social isolation, it has been noted, is that there have been no mass shootings. Two artists, Sheila Wolper and Heather Stoltz, have each created quilts commemorating the Sandy Hook massacre, which took place just over seven years ago. Wolper’s collage of vintage handkerchiefs and image transfers reflects what she describes as “the disturbing disintegration of our society.” Stoltz’s Innocence Lost, starts with Sandy Hook. “In the six years that followed there were 392 shootings at schools in the United States,” she notes. “This quilt includes one piece of fabric for each of those shootings. It is left unfinished.” Sadly, we understand why.

Heather Stoltz; Sheila Wolper

Elizabeth Frischauf 

Nicole Shivers

There’s more. Elizabeth Frischauf’s America Under Gun, a double-sided hanging, mingles guns and stripes with stars and bleeding hearts—“the wreckage of lives and families from a gun-happy, violence/fear-controlled nation.” In Nicole Shivers’ Who’s Balance, a weapon disturbs the equilibrium.

One could read isolation into Hildy Maze’s Visual Poem-Earth Vermillian; one could also read contemplation—“entertaining the question, not grasping for an answer,” says the artist. In Trump’s Legacy 1: Help, Help!, Raul Manzano depicts our goddess of freedom opening the wire cage of a confined immigrant. With her Going Up, Leila Dorne depicts a Muslim woman and a Jewish woman ascending together to the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, “guarded by an Ethiopian Israeli soldier and serenaded by an African musician playing the djembe drum.” The scene offers, says the artist, “both ongoing anger and the possibility of reconciliation.”


Hildy Maze; Raul Manzano

Leila Dorne

Rebeca Fuchs and Barbara Rugg present images of defiance. Fuchs's  I Dare You depicts a wounded warrior who holds your gaze with determination. In Rugg’s Bound Angle, a seated blue figure remains steadfast, surrounded by final notices, bank statements, and the shards of credit cards. A sign of the times, indeed. Ellen Freyer offers some levity. Her Liberté, Egalité, Beyoncé comments on “a world connected by pop culture.” 

Barbara Rugg; Rebeca Fuchs
Below: Ellen Freyer

The Environment
The inconvenience of quarantine has yielded a positive environmental result: Pollution has dropped significantly around the world as manufacturing and transportation have scaled back. This is a welcome respite for the planet, which—as noted by Marjorie Morrow, Noreen Dean Dresser, and Emily R. Gillcrist in their respective works—has reached a flash point. Morrow’s Even Half of One Degree issues a dire warning. Dresser’s postcard-size collages show us America on fire, her four images underscored by Gillcrist’s vision of our country’s “distressed landscape.”

Noreen Dean Dresser

Above: Emily R. Gilchrist

Below: Marjorie Morrow

The richly organic surfaces of Gregory Wright’s mixed-media works, the wall-hung Bound/Frieze 2 and freestanding Bound/Monument 2, deliver the artist’s distressing message: “Each work defines how environmental elements build, decay, weigh upon, and attempt to destroy us and the instinct to survive.”

Nancy Azara sees things differently. A sculptor and printmaker who has long drawn inspiration and materials from the natural world, gives new life to fallen leaves and found tree limbs. Her Blue Cloud is a stand-in for her own presence and, she says, an expression of “the dogged persistence of life.”

                     Nancy Azara; Gregory Wright

The Pleasure of Abstraction 
Another sign of the times is that artists keep working painting, drawing, printing, building. Katy Ferrarone’s Fall Deep is an attempt, through mindfulness and meditation, to process the emotion of “falling in and out of love over and over again.” Summer Bhullar’s two silkscreen prints, Conscious Heart Living and Living on the Path Towards Supreme Reality are inspired by her connection to a higher consciousness. Carmile Zaino’s Re-Mix/Hard Cider, a combination of photography and digital collage, imposes a new order to her urban environment. In his My Drawing #4, SeungTack Lim uses scrap wood to limn an assem
blage that offers equilibrium without symmetry.

With her Weaving Series August-2, Darla Bjork pulls you into a dense tangle of summer growth. Or is she suggesting a metaphor for the unraveling of our national fabric?

Katy Ferrarone

Summer Bhullar

Carmile Zaino

Seung Tack Lim

Darla Bjork

The last word(s) Caitlin Vitalo’s mixed-media installations are not what they seem. The cheery message in her Welcome mat, Culture of Politeness, has an unseemly side, referencing, she says, “the ways conversations of inequality are often swept under the rug,” while the ecstatic message of her light-and-shadow installation takes a darker turn when we see the full message: Ignorance is Bliss. 

As this exhibition makes clear, even difficult times are assuaged by art. 

Caitlin Vitalo

Continuing around the gallery counterclockwise: two by Summer Bhuller, Sheila Wolper, Carmile Zaino, Raul Manzano; on pedestal: Gregory Wright

Wolper, Zaino, Manzano, Joel Tretin, Isabele Milkoff, Gregory Wright
Foreground: Nancy Azara; on plinth, Caitlin Vitalo

Far wall: Manzano, A. Bascove, Tretin, Milkoff, Wright; left wall: Toby Sisson, Seung Tack Lim
Foreground: Caitlin Vitalo; pedestal: Gregory Wright

Far left: Darla Bjork

Sisson, Lim, Bjork; Vitalo

In small gallery: Emily R. Gilchrist; four by Noreen Dean Dresser

Four by Dresser, Heather Stoltz, Joan Easton


Final view with Nicole Shivers sculpture in foreground

Signs of the Times continues at Ceres Gallery through October 17. The gallery asks that you call before visiting: 212-947-6100. Mask wearing and social distancing are required.

A personal note: Thank you to the members of Ceres Gallery and manager Stefany Benson who invited me to jury their National Juried Show. It was a pleasure to see such a variety of work on a timely these. It was equally a pleasure to work with Joann Brody, who designed the catalog and installed the show.

Installation shots provided by Ceres Gallery. Images of artists' work are by the individual artists.