Wednesday, October 14, 2020

Donny's Journal

 From the Journal of

March 23: Waxing Indignant

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 what 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 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 TREMENDOUS 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. Sound familiar? (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.

. . . . . December 5 RUDY'S A GAS!

Rudy farting made me laugh so hard I shit my Presidential Diaper. In the middle of an election hearing in Michigan, the Rudester passed gas not once but twice. I want to say that the lamestream media edited in the sound effects but I know Rudy, and he is so full of gas he could be a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. (Which we didn’t have this year because Mike Pence screwed up on Covid.)
The press was not kind to Rudy, that I can tell you. Buzz Feed showed a clip of Jenna Ellis, his assisting attorney, giving him the side eye at the first toot and then kind of laughing after the second one escaped. This made the news as far away as New Zealand.

Darrin Camilleri, a member of the Michigan House of Representatives, led the questioning. “Your team has now lost 39 court cases in the aftermath of the election . . . Yesterday we learned that U.S. Attorney General William Barr has similarly found no evidence of widespread irregularities. If our local clerks, state and federal judges around the country, and the highest ranking law enforcement official in the United States cannot find any substance or any merit in any of your arguments, why should we?”

Rudy responded with a resounding air biscuit.

Of course this is not the first time Rudy has looked like a buffoon—and I am not talking about his press conference over by the dildo store. A few weeks ago at another hearing a brown liquid began to drip down his sweaty face. I joked that he’s so full of shit he’s leaking.

The one question I have is this: How can Rudy be full of shit and full of gas at the same time. Wouldn’t he just explode?

. . . . . December 9 OY VEY What is it my Jewish daughter, Ivanka, says when she’s feeling put upon? Oh, right: Vey iz mir. Well, vey is mir bigly. No one has been more put upon than me, that I can tell you.

Every lawsuit I brought against the states in my rightful quest to overturn the election results was dismissed. Then Mr. Fartbag went and got Covid just when I needed him most (not that he has accomplished much, but he’s so incompetent he makes me feel better about myself, plus my dentures are tremendously better than his veneers). And then the damn Supreme Court dissed me with one-sentence: “The application for injunctive relief presented to Justice Alito and by him referred to the Court is denied.” I don’t understand most of those words, but I know a No when I hear it.

What’s the point of installing your own people on the Supreme Court if you don’t own them? I could have saved myself a lot of tsouris (Ivanka taught me that one) and just let the Court shrivel like Mike Pence’s testicles. I expected the Frat Boy to be my Yes Man. What does he do? He says No. And Mrs. Jesus? I just gave her the job of a lifetime for an actual lifetime. And she refuses to hear my case? What a bitch. Plus she’s not even a three.

Now any normal person would accept this loss, but I am not normal. I am abnormal, and I mean that in the best possible way. I will not let it go. If I can’t be President of the United States, I will do my best to undermine the country. My next move will be to pardon anyone I have ever met (except for the undocumented workers at Mar-a-Lago). I will even pardon myself. “Pardon me, Mr. President, you’re pardoned.” I like the sound of that!

But then I think about New York State and I feel sick. I can’t pardon myself for state crimes. And there’s no one to get me off the hook. New Yorkers hate me. Andrew Cuomo hates me. And Letitia James, the Attorney General, is out for blood. She has 67 sealed indictments that will be opened on January 20, 2021. If I get a year for every charge, that’s—let me do a quick calculation--almost 60 years in prison. 

I won’t be at the inauguration, that I can tell you. I plan to take Air Force One (my last trip on that big bird) to Mar-a-Lago that day, so just about the time Joe is putting his hand on the Bible, I will be at the podium for my “Trump in 2024” rally. I may have to rethink the MAGA idea, though. Maybe MAIA—Make America Infectious Again. That will undermine Joe’s efforts. Or how about KACA: Keep Americans Clueless Assholes. Or my favorite, GRIFT: Go Republicans in Full Throttle.

My only fear is that while I'm rallying, I will be arrested and brought back to New York for trial. Oh, the unfairness! After I pardon my kids, the entire West Wing, my Cabinet, all my donors, and any republican senator who needs it, will I be the only to end up in jail? There goes my 2024 run. There goes my hair. There goes the rest of my life. 

Oy, vey iz mir. . . . . . December 11 TIME OUT

Excuse me, Time Magazine, but I am still here. And I am still president. And I won the election. Why would you ever give your "Person of the Year" cover to those two losers, Joe and Kamala? Am I angry? Bigly, that I can tell you.
I was one of four contenders, but Time was not kind. This is what they said about me: “Since losing the election, he’s baselessly claimed that there was fraud and falsely said that he’s the winner. His Administration has been highly criticized for its response to the COVID-19 pandemic.”
Baseless? I have a base. A tremendous base. There are millions in my base. Sure, among them they have a few dozen teeth and a combined IQ of 70, but they are my base. They love me, that I can tell you. They’d vote for me again, multiple times, if I asked them to.
Who else was in the running for the Time cover? Dr. Fauci, that’s who. Now I am really pissed off. Some little dago with a Brooklyn accent should get the cover before me? My accent is full Queens, and I am taller than Fauci—and much better looking. (And I'm not eye-talian.) I have more money, too. And I’m still the President, dammit. As for the fourth contender, the Movement for Racial Justice, what the hell? That’s not a person!  And what about the white race? Where’s our justice? Nobody has been treated more unfairly than white people, especially white men. I am doing my best to infuriate the ones with guns, that I can tell you.

And as if that’s not enough, Germany has decided to weigh in with their magazine. This week Der Spiegel (which translates to Duh, who can read it? It’s in German), called me “Loser of the Year.” And I didn’t even make the cover. My head is going to explode! You know what they wrote? They wrote that I refused to concede the election and that I’m “a man who ... was never concerned with the common good, but always with one thing - himself."
Tell you what: With all the money I’m raising for my “recount,” I’m going to start my own magazine. I’m going to call it Time for Me. I will be on every cover and in every feature, except for a column called “Losers.” Everyone who ever said bad things about me will be in that column. Yes, that “Losers” column will be long, but the coverage of me will be bigger, much bigger, tremendously bigger. Every issue will focus on me. There will be articles about Me at Mar-a-Lago. Me in the White House (OK, outside the fence; we’ll crop out the secret Service with guns drawn). Me in Trump Tower. Me with big-breasted glamorous women. (I wonder if Stormy is available?) Me at my golf courses. We’ll Photoshop the pictures of me golfing so that my butt doesn’t block the solid-gold golf cart. (OK, gold plated, but it’s still gold.) And we’ll do a Special Issue on my wedding to Ivanka.

Of course I will be the Time for Me Man of the Year. (None of this “person” business.) Man of the Year. Every year.  I might have Friends issue  so that I can include Putin, Duterte, Erdogan, Little Kim, and even America’s Mayor, Rudy Giuliani. And a special Nostalgia Issue so that I can include Mussolini, Hitler, and Genghis Khan. We’ll Photoshop me in.
OK, I am feeling much better now.

. . . . . December 12 BENCHED!

Screw the Supreme Court. Jenna Ellis, Rudy’s assistant lawyer (who has been spreading Covid at all the Christmas parties, my kind of gal), tweeted that our case is not over. “The corrupt Supreme Court is in the pocket of the Democrat Party. We are going to appeal this to The Hague andUnited Nations!”
Yes, we’re fighting on! But not like that.

First of all, I don’t know what the Hague is. Sounds vague to me. And after the things I said about the UN, I don’t think they would rule in my favor. I mean, I did call it weak, incompetent, and an underperformer and said their marble looked cheap. (I offered them a makeover with better marble and gold trim but they never got back to me. Losers.)

I think it should go to a tribunal of TV judges instead. Get Mark Burnett on this. We’ve got a tremendous reality series here, even better than The Apprentice. Picture it: Judge Judy, Judge Mathis, and Judge Wapner sitting at a gold plated  bench with diamond-encrusted gavels. Adding Wapner will really boost the ratings because he’s dead. We’ll bring in the Long Island Medium to reach him via séance.
No, wait, instead of a tribunal we’ll have nine judges—our own Supreme Court. We’ll call it the Tremendously Supreme Court Everyone Says So. To Judges Judy, Mathis, and Wapner, we’ll add Kim Kardashian (she’s in law school); Ted Cruz, because he was willing to try my most recent case before the (Un)Supreme Court, and I don’t even care if his wife is ugly (I don’t have to sleep with her); and Joe Pesci, who was recommended by Rudy.

Ivanka will bring tremendous class to the bench, plus she can design the robes (cleavage for the women, broad shoulders for the men, no RBG collars for any of them. (We can sell them on QVC and make a fortune, too.) Also my daughter, Tiffany. It’s time to give the poor girl some attention, and she did graduate from law school. No, scratch that. I’m giving that spot to Omarosa. She said I had to, and I’m afraid of her. (Sorry, Tiff.)

The Chief Justice will be the Honorable Rudy Giuliani. Before he ascends the throne, though, he’s got to get a makeover to be more telegenic: hair implants, a better dye job, and matching teeth.

Of course I will have back-up justices for when I start firing the original team. I’ve got Uncle Phil from Fresh Prince of Bel Air, Judge Roy Snyder from The Simpsons, Judge Sardine from Sponge Bob, and Judge Reinhold who’s not only an actor but he has played a judge and he has the perfect name: Judge Judge.
Once we win my case and I’m back in the Oval Office, we can film in the Supreme Court Building. Who cares if they don’t like the gilding. That’s their problem.

The ratings will be tremendous, that I can tell you

. . . . . . 

December 14
I am not happy, that I can tell you. After everything I have done to secure my rightful win, I flunked the Electoral College. This is Wharton all over again, and I don’t mean Wharton Waste Management in Bethesda.

Joe has now won so many times he’s like the 54th president of the United States—and he hasn’t even been inaugurated yet. And then I find out that Norton, I mean Billy Barr, has resigned. Oh sure, he said he wants to spend more time with his family. That’s what all the losers say. Who’s going to cover my ass now? Even Scott Baio doesn’t want the job. And on the home front, Melania won’t let me near her and Ivanka keeps reminding me that I am not her husband.

It’s a good thing I have a big ego, because if I didn’t, I would be crushed. Waaah! Who am I kidding, I am feeling like a flat tire, but I wouldn’t admit that anywhere by here in my journal. My ego is now the size of my penis, and that has been shrinking with every recount. It’s now so small it’s like an inverted belly button. Waaah!

Oh wait, there’s more. The (Un)Supreme Court will not roll back marriage equality. I blame Ruth Bader Ginsburg for this. Jeez! First I learn the Mexican kids have to be returned to their parents, and then the polar bears are safe from Arctic drilling, and now queers have the same rights as everyone else? Amy and the Frat Boy have been a huge disappointment so far. That’s what I get for not giving them enough money.
On top of that I find out that Michigan congressman Paul Mitchell is leaving the GOP. Today he wrote, “I have stated publicly numerous times that when entering the political arena, a person must be willing to accept winning and losing with grace and maturity.”  Fine, go back to selling your hair products. However, I won’t be buying any of them. Who’s next, Senator Vidal Sassoon?

What is wrong with this country? All I can say it’s a good thing I have my Proud Boys to shoot people and set fire to things. I am very proud of them, believe me. Wait, did Joe just call me President Chump?
I want a recount!

. . . . .


“Let me leave you with this plea: Resist.”

Preparing for her departure, Secretary of Education Cruella Devos urged the career staffers to fight whitened tooth and manicured nail against any Biden administration attempts to overturn her legacy.

In brief remarks during a virtual meeting, Mrs. Devos reflected on what she called her "numerous accomplishments” and urged staffers of the Education Department to “resist the efforts of the liberal elite to reestablish equality in education.”

One of her greatest achievement, she feels, is jailing students and graduates who cannot repay their student loans. “Why are they being so difficult? All they have to do is ask Daddy to pay off the whole thing,” said Devos, whose personal holdings include large investments in debt collection agencies.

She is also extremely pleased with her removal of equal opportunity protections for students with disabilities, as well as gay students, transgender students, and children of color. “When I walk into a class, I want to see the beaming white faces of well-dressed, well-fed children,” she says. “I want to see a crucifix in every classroom, with ample Jesus time for prayer and the singing of hymns. But not gospel music. I don’t want anything suggestive of black culture. I also don’t want to see Black Lives Matter signs or rainbow flags. If the flag is not red, white, and blue, it does not belong in the classroom.” (She has made exceptions for confederate and nazi flags.) 

But perhaps her greatest achievement, she said, is protecting school-age rapists and abusers. “Those poor boys are victimized by being called rapists by mean girls. Look at what happened to poor Brett Kavanaugh.”

She continued: “In everything you do, please put students first. And by students I mean the white able-bodied kids, especially the christians, and most especially the boys.” Then she flipped a deaf staffer the bird saying, “Here’s your sign language,” before ending the meeting.

Rumors that Devos has put out a hit on Dr.Jill Biden are being investigated by the FBI in light of the outgoing Secretary’s recent comment that she wanted to “scrub the Dr. out of that bitch.”

Career Education Department staffers have reportedly requested a sage cleansing and multicultural, non-denominational purification ritual in the department’s offices. 

“If I had to grade her, it would be an F-minus,” said a staffer who returned the Black Lives Matter rainbow flag to her desk as soon as she closed her laptop. "This place needs to be hosed down before the new boss comes in."

. . . . .

December 17 HOMELESS

Dear Vladie, Can we come and live with you? We are about to be evicted from the White House, and now our Mar-a-Lago neighbors are telling us we can’t live there. We can visit, but we can’t actually move in (even though I already have a private residence there which they don’t know about).

First the city of Palm Beach told me I have to remove the helipad by the time I leave office, since it will no longer be used for presidential business, and now this. Yes, I signed an agreement with Palm Beach sometime in the 1990s that gave me the right to turn Mar-a-Lago from a personal residence to a private club, as long as it would never be my personal residence again. But that was a long time ago, and I shouldn’t have to be held to it now. And in order to get my way on something—I forget what— I signed over development rights to the National Trust for Historic Preservation (I must have been high on Adderall when I did that), so now it’s National Historic Landmark that cannot be altered. I’m feeling a little fucked.

Mar-a-Lago is a nice little cottage. That’s what they call the big estates down here. Can you believe I bought it for $7 million from the family that owns Post Raisin Bran, Shredded Wheat, and Honey Bunches of Oats ? Never mind, you probably had borscht for breakfast when you were a kid, so those cereals mean nothing to you. But this is interesting: Did you know that Mar-a-Lago is Spanish for The-Rules-Don’t-Apply-To-Me?

Anyway, we want to live there and have it be a club and keep our helipad and continue to clog up traffic with our limos. We also want to build a dock since we’ll be there full time. The neighbors are saying no, no, no—bigly. I mean tremendously bigly. They are filing lawsuits, and their lawyers actually seem to know what they are doing, plus none of them are farting or dripping. It would be really embarrassing if the Palm Beach police had to come in and physically remove us, the way the Secret Service is going to have to do at the White House.

I know you’re going to ask me why we don’t just live in Trump Tower. New Yorkers hate me and my family, that’s why. (Have you seen the “Ivanka Not Wanted” posters up all over Manhattan? I’m sure you’ve got them on your surveillance.) And they boo me whenever I’m there. I mean, people stand in front of Trump Tower holding giant signs saying nasty things about me. Damn that freedom of speech! One guy shows up regularly with a poster of a giant turd with a little yellow hairdo on top and flies buzzing all around it. That’s supposed to be me. I do not have flies, that I can tell you. (The hair looks good, though.)

There’s also the matter of the 67 indictments that will be unsealed on January 20. The New York Attorney General wants to bring me to trial and find me guilty and put me in jail, that I can tell you. So even if jail solves the problem of where I will live for the next few years, I still need a place for all my gilded stuff plus Mrs. Robot and the boy—and maybe my other kids and their families in case New York State goes after them. And people say I’m not a family man. (Eric and Tiffany don’t have to come.)

I’m guessing we’ll need about 90,000 square feet in the Kremlin. Melania said that’s 8361 square meters, which doesn’t sound like much, so maybe a little more. What’s a few more square meters between best friends, right Vladie? Melania also says to tell you she has the perfect trees to decorate Red Square.

We can talk about a dacha when I get there.

Your very best friend, Donald

P.S. We love the Russian winters

. . . . .

December 18 OH, SHIT!

I was not planning to leave the White House unless the Secret Service dragged me out, but now that the shit has hit the fan over the cyber attack and "We want them infected," I’m thinking I should slip out in the middle of the night and not come back. I’m just not sure where to go. Can I sleep in my golf cart?

First, about the cyber spying. I know Russia did it. Even the Republicans are calling it a national defense failure and pointing a finger at Putin. But if I blame Putie, he’ll slip me a polonium cocktail when I least expect it. You know what they say: It’s not paranoia if they’re really after you. Even Svetlana, I mean Melania, mocked me for being so fixated on keeping immigrants out at the Southern border that I let an entire country in through cyberspace. And to think Putie was holding the Pee tapes over me. That’s nothing compared to the shit I’m in now.

Then some reporter found out about my plan to get everyone infected with Covid. I believe in herd  mentality—I mean immunity—even if the real scientists don’t. So what if my top guy at the CDC used to run the ferris wheel at a traveling carnival. In a suit he looks like a doctor. And I believe my "doctors." They tell me what I want to hear. 

And then Pfizer told the fake news press that it has tons of vaccine—millions of doses—but no one in my administration has told them where to put it. I can tell them where to put it, believe me. How can we infect everyone if we prevent them from getting sick in the first place?  I will blame this on Pence. He’s got no future in politics anyway. It’s back to India for him. I mean Indiana. That’s in the US, right? At least Indiana won’t try to keep him from living there.

I am not happy with the press right now, that I can tell you. “We want them infected” is not going to reflect well on me. And I was doing so well as President before then.
At least Joe will inherit these messes. I’m leaving a lot of shit for him. I’m not kidding. Wait until he finds all the dirty Presidential Diapers I left in the Oval Office.

. . . . .

December 22 COOCHIE COUP I have to hand it to Mike Flynn. He came up with a really good idea to help me overturn the election. I’m going to declare Martian Law.

When those little red aliens land here, they will deploy their Martian ray guns, seize the voting machines, and bring them to me. Now these are aliens I like. And they’re not illegal because I’m bringing them in. Let’s see Joe and Kamala try to fight them off.

I have already notified Elon Musk to get his rockets ready. Guardians of the Galaxy—I mean the guardians of Space Force—are standing by. We’re going to pick up the Martians at the International Space Station and bring them back here. They will do the rest.

I haven’t told Rudy yet, but I’m sending him to Mars as our Goodwill Ambassador. Well, actually we’re sending him in trade. The Martians think he might be a good source of natural gas. This will also solve his problems with the investigation into his dealings with Ukraine. You want Rudy? Sorry, he’s on Mars.

Oh, wait. It’s going to take them two years to get here?  Flynn didn’t say anything about that! I thought it was going to be a few days at most. That’s not going to work! I want a swift coup, not a slow train wreck. I need something fast to make up for the 30-plus un-wins I‘ve endured so far. The last thing I want is to look like an idiot, that I can tell you. Mike Flynn is the idiot! I’m taking back his pardon! He’s guilty! He even said so. Lock him up! The 2024 election will be gearing up by the time they get here. We need something now!

Mitch McConnell suggested a Plan B. I told him it was stupid and called him stupid, but now I see that his plan just might work. He has a direct line to the Lizard People.(He’s one of them. Kellyanne, too. Also, Fox News, most of the Proud Boys, and just about all of those white supremacists. I mean, have you seen them, the way they flick their tongues? One time Kellyanne lost a contact and I saw her real eye with the weird shape in the middle.)  Anyway, Mitch said he can summon an army of Lizard People within the week. They can seize the voting machines and I can change the numbers. No one will mess with them or me. By the time anyone can contain them, I’ll be sworn in for a second term as the country’s rightful dictator. I mean, President. The people want me, everyone says so.

A Lizard People coup is the best news I’ve gotten since I won Alabama!

Melania wants to know if she can skin a few of them. She said she’d like to have a new handbag made and some high heels. Sure, fine. Maybe now she’ll sleep with me.
And considering how ineffective Rudy was in all those court cases—I mean did he win even one of them?—I’m thinking we should send him to Mars anyway. And I do not mean Mars Lighting Industries, which is located in a strip mall between a urologist and a proctologist, even if he is a dick.
At last, victory will be mine!

. . . . .

December 25 BAH, HUMBUG!

I no sooner leave Washington DC than that little weasel at the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases is celebrated for his birthday with “Dr. Anthony Fauci Day.” When he left his office there was a contingent of First Responders waiting to cheer for him. Who authorized this? Heads will roll when I get back to Washington. If I decide to return, that is.

Where’s my day? I didn’t get anything for my birthday. When a large group like that gathers for me. it’s because my campaign pays them.

I am beginning to think people don’t like me.

And to make matters worse, Santa didn’t bring me what I really wanted which is, you know, another four years in a job I don’t really want. Also, some jerk at Mar-a-Lago put a lump of coal in my stocking. I’d fire the entire staff for this, except that I don’t speak Spanish. Besides, Melania isn’t going to cook and clean. She can’t do much in those high heels, that I can tell you (although she can move away from me pretty quickly when Little Donny is in the mood, believe me). Fortunately, the Colonel delivers, so I’ll never go hungry.

And if it gets dirty in my suite, well, there are a lot of room at Mar, believe me.

This 2020 was really not a good year for me. And I’m pretty sure 2021 is not going to be so great, either. Melania will divorce me, those New York State indictments are burning a hole in my brain, and Barron speaks to me only in Slovenian. I think he’s telling me to fuck off, but I can’t be sure.

Well, Merry Christmas to me from me.

. . . . .

December 31, 2020

I like to ring in the new year with a bucket of chicken, a handful of Adderall, and some porn as I look back on my achievements for the year. This year, as I prepare for my departure from the White House due to my un-win, I have four years to reflect on. Oh, I have achieved a tremendous amount, that I can tell you.

I drained the swamp. That was huge. Huge! Then I filled it with extraterrestrial creatures. No other president has ever done that, believe me. I made many excellent extraterrestrial picks. These are some of the best: Steve Mnuchin comes from a planet whose people have no faces or vowels. I gave him a mask to make him look human and added some vowels to his name. He says he’s still getting used to both. Cruella Devos comes from a planet of Lizard People who have no education, compassion, or eyebrows. She maintains the traditions of her home planet. Wilbur Ross was traded for a can of Campbell’s soup by his people, a race of ancient dinosaur-like creatures who travel the galaxy in search of groceries. Mike Pompeo and Billy Barr came here from a gaseous anomaly far out in space.

Since I believe in equal rights, I made sure to include subterranean creatures as well. Brett Kavanaugh and Nikki Haley are the only two willing to go on record as having hatched from locusts, but I can tell you that there are others quite at home in the swamp. Agriculture Secretary Sonny Perdue began life under a pile of cow manure. I can’t take credit for Mitch McConnell, however I can tell you that he is descended from a family of radioactive turtles. And I know for a fact that Jeff Sessions lives in the trunk of a tree. He says he’s from a marsh, not a swamp, but that’s just splitting hairs. (Not that I know anything about splitting hairs. I’m more into weaving and gluing.)

People say my administration is not diverse, but in addition to the extraterrestrials and the subterraneans, I have also given time to the nearly dead and the undead. Ben Carson’s life signs are so low that doctors can’t tell if he’s still alive or has crossed over. Nice guy, though. Quiet. In the undead category is my son in law, Jared. He claims he’s not undead, just slender and devoid of facial hair, but Ivanka has confirmed otherwise. I asked her about sex. I mean, I asked her if she had sex with Jared and she said no, that what she really gets off on is power. (That’s my girl!) Since she’s going to be stuck in Florida—New Yorkers have told her to stay away—she’s planning to run for Governor. Wait until that brownnose, Ron DeSanctimonius, finds out. He will shit his pants. (Hey, Ron, I have a supply of Presidential Diapers that I can let you have at a discount. That's as close to the presidency as you’ll ever get.)

Also in the never-gonna-be-president category is that little rodent senator from Missouri, Josh Hawley. He says he’s going to object to the certification of my Electoral College votes, but it’s not me he cares about. He’s just trying to raise his profile. Just you wait, he’s going to run for president in 2024. Out of my way, Frat Boy.

But I’m diverting, or is it degreasing, from my achievements. In the vampire and religion category, I made some very good choices. My personal attorney, Rudy Giuliani, is a top-of-the-line vampire. The best. Have you seen him ooze? Tremendously oozy, that I can tell you. Rudy claims he’s not a vampire, but he naps upside down in a closet inside the Oval Office. He can sleep through anything. Kayleigh McEnany found him one time and claims she fell in love with him on the spot. They’re now an item. She’s a little rat, so I guess it will be a mixed marriage. She’ll be Rudy’s fourth wife, if you include the first marriage to his cousin, which was annulled after 14 years. (Those Catholics, you’ve got to hand it to them. They know how to pretend stuff never happened.)

Stephen Miller is my other vampire, although he prefers the term “satanic intercessor.” He’s the one who convinced me to put those kids in cages, but now that he’s got a kid of his own, he’s had a change of heart. Just kidding. He makes his baby sleep in a toolbox.

As for religion, Amy Coney Barrett was tops on my list for the Supreme Court. I didn’t know her from Adam, or should I say Eve, but my advisers said she was the christian-est. She’s from a sect that’s even more christian than the Pope. She has a direct line to god. Mike Pence and Mother are very uncomfortable around her because they feel they have the direct line to god. (I mean, Pence actually gave up his penis for Jesus.) And my personal pastor—what’s her name, I forget, the loud blond with the tight clothes—says that she has the direct line to god. With all those people calling, you’d think they’d all get busy signals.

I have many, many more achievements, believe me, but my chicken is getting cold.

BTW, I said I was preparing for my departure from the White House. I lied. Just as soon as I finish this bucket of chicken I am going to Super Glue myself to a wall in the Oval Office. That’s Vladie’s idea. He said that way, if they try to remove me, the whole building will come down. 

. . . . .

January 2, 2021

Big shindig at Mar-a-Lago: My Dad’s New Year’s Eve Party. It had everything: Vanilla Ice, Rudy Giuliani, Judge Jeannine Pirro, Matt Gaetz—A listers, every one of them—plus Tiffany, and the greatest assortment of silicone breasts east of the Hollywood sign. (Don’t tell Lara I said that.)

Everyone was tanned, so we didn’t need any people of actual color. Well, except for the servants.

Five hundred people showed up. Everyone was dressed to the nines. I don’t know where that expression comes from, because I saw a lot of 10s.  All the men looked handsome in tuxes accompanied by their young wives with blond hair, cleavage, and see-through dresses slit up to there. I can’t wait to have a trophy wife of my own, but Dad says I’m not old enough yet. (Also, Lara would kill me.)

My bro, Don Jr., was there with his girlfriend, Kimberly Guilfoyle. I’m no makeup expert, but if she wears any more eye makeup, gravity being what it is, she’s going to fall forward right on her face. I hope that mascara is smudge proof.

Oh, here I am talking about mascara when there was some really big news: Matt Gaetz, our Florida representative, got engaged to his girlfriend, Ginger Luckey. Luckey guy! (See how I made a pun there?) I love it when heterosexuality is on display like that. She’ll be his starter wife.

The ballroom was huge (Ha, I sound like Dad) and nicely decorated with phalaenopsis and gardenias. I sure hope the florists get paid. And there was tons of food. The menu consisted of, and I’m quoting, “Mr.Trump’s wedge salad” (did his own club just demote him from President?!), plus cheese tortellini, and wagyu beef. “(Wagyu beef” sounds like something I do by myself, but turns out it’s just steak). As usual, the men all chowed down and the women just looked at the food. There was one brave woman with a plate holding three tortellini.  I overheard her telling a friend, “I am going to have to work out for 16 hours tomorrow to make up for this.” 

There was not a mask in sight because. Hey, we’re rich. We don’t get Covid. And there was a no show: my Dad. He and Melania decided to skip the party and fly back to the White House. I’d call him a party pooper, but he gets really upset when we mention anything to do with Number Two. When his term ends he will no longer have access to the diapers with the Presidential Seal and will have to switch to regular Depends—though I understand Melania is having some gold trimmed so that the transition is not too traumatic for him. (I sure hope the leaky poop hole thing is not genetic.)

But back to the no-shows. You know who else wasn’t there? All the folks from his base, the ones who sent him money. Suckers. They paid for the party and didn’t even get to come.

. . . . .

January 3, 2021

I just wanted to find 11,780 votes. That’s all I wanted.

And now the Washington Post is all over me like a cheap suit. I blame Jeff Bezos. He’s the owner of that fish wrap you call a newspaper. 

And I blame Brad Raffensperger, Georgia’s Secretary of State, for not helping. I flattered the bastard. I cajoled him. I even begged him. And, believe me, it is not pretty when I beg. Just ask Melania.

Then I tried threats. I told him: You’re off by hundreds of thousands of votes. You’re going to have to reexamine the votes with people who want me to win, because people have been sent off to the Gulag for less than that, believe me. (Vladie told me to say that.) 

The only thing I didn’t try was bribery, because I know someone is going to say that’s illegal—even though I don’t think it is. I mean I can buy everything else I want. (Well, I order it but I don’t actually pay for it. Just ask all those small businesses in New Jersey that went under when I didn’t pay them for work they did on my casinos.) So it's not bribery if you don't actually pay.

The people of Georgia are angry about Joe’s win. That’s what I told Mr. Riff-Raff. And by “people of Georgia” I mean me. Screw Democracy. I’m the President. I need those votes so that I can win fair and square. 

I mean it would be a shame if something happened to his peaches, if you know what I mean.

. . . . .

January 5, 2021

There’s more than one Trump Tape going around. This one was recorded between Donny and the office of the PM of Scotland.

DT: Hello, Prime Minister? This is Donald Trump, the real and true president of the United States.

Office of the PM: Yes, Mr. President. How nice to hear from you. Allow us to offer our condolences on your recent loss.

DT: It was not a loss. It was an un-win, and I am about declare Martian Law to prevent Joe Biden from taking my job. But that’s not why I’m calling. I am planning to fly to Scotland on January 20 and I’m hearing that some doctor has said I will not be allowed into the country. Can you clear that up?

Office of the PM: Why certainly. It was not a doctor it was PM Sturgeon.

DT: Doctor, surgeon, same thing. But why is a surgeon running things?

Office of the PM: Not surgeon, sturgeon, with a T.

DT: Sturgeon, as in caviar? I like caviar, but you’re telling me a fish won’t allow me into Scotland? Is this a joke?. Is this some kind of demented YouTube prank? Because if it is, it’s probably illegal and someone will pay bigly for this. Fish do not run governments—although I do have a spineless jelly as a vice president and a few sharks in Congress. Now let me speak to your Prime Minister.

Office of the PM: Mr. Trump, we seem to be in a bit of a jumble. Our PM is Nicola Sturgeon. She is neither a doctor nor a fish.

DT: Well, why didn’t you tell me that? But why is a woman in charge? Let me speak to her boss.

Office of the PM: Mr. Trump, now you are being a bother. She IS the boss. Now how can we help you?

DT: Well, I am planning to visit my golf course at Turnberry—it’s a tremendous course, tremendous, have you been there?—and I’m being told that traveling in or out Scotland is not permitted right now.

Office of the PM: Sir, we are in the middle of a pandemic. And whilst you seem to be ignoring it, the rest of the world is not. To enter Scotland you must have a valid reason. 

DT: Let me speak to your Fish Lady if you know what’s good for you.

[There is some muffled conversation at the other end of the line and then PM Sturgeon takes the line.]

PM Sturgeon: Donald, you bloviating mass of fish entrails, you do not threaten anyone in my office. Entering Scotland at this time is absolutely not permitted except for an essential purpose. And coming to play golf is not what I would consider an essential purpose.* If I catch you in my air space I will shoot you down. If you somehow make it through and land, I will impound your plane and your passport. And if you so much as look funny at anyone in my office I will have them beat you to a bloody pulp with your own clubs. Now go change your nappie, because I heard you make a giant bowel movement whilst I was talking. I hear your Mar-a-Lago is lovely this time of year. 

[PM Sturgeon really did say "coming to play golf is not what I would consider an essential purpose." The rest, no so much.]

. . . . .

January 7, 2020

Oh, what a bummer of a day I had yesterday! First Twitter and Facebook locked me out of my accounts. Me, the president! Twitter even said it would block me permanently if I kept posting inflammatory comments about voter fraud. I'm not sure why they called my comments "inflammatory," because that's what happens when my STDs flare up, and voter fraud has nothing to do with herpes, that I can tell you.

Then YouTub  pulled one of my videos down, the one where I said I won by a landslide. Well, I did, but You Tub says I didn’t. They’re not the boss of me. Oh, did I say “YouTub”? I’m sorry, I meant YouTube.  (“You Tub” is what Melania calls me.)

Anyway it was not a good day.

Then I heard that the Republicans lost the Senate. Hey, it’s right where they left it. (Bada boom! When this is all over, I am going to get NBC to give me a comedy show. It will be tremendous, believe me. Tremendous. I haven’t come up with a name yet, but our tag line will be “You’re hilarious.” Because I am a joke, everyone says so.)

I should be angry about the Republicans losing Georgia, but that state cheated me out of the presidency, so I don’t really care. The whole party cheated me. Except for Ted Cruz, and who cares about him. His father killed JFK, and his wife is ugly. So losing serves them right. They did not support me the way they should have. Even Mitch McConnell and Miss Lindsey Graham, the Laurel and Hardy of the Senate, both said Joe is the rightful president! I am so pissed off that I’ve been going through my Presidential Diapers like dyarea on speed. I know I didn’t spell diareeha right, but I just don’t give a shit. See what I did there? I am getting very good with the Presidential Puns. (OK, ready? “You’re hilarious!”)

Something else happened yesterday. I can’t think of it, but it was on TV. Oh, right, a few of my followers invaded the Capitol. I loved it! They do whatever I tell them. I was able to sit on the toilet and watch them on TV. They broke windows and doors, scaled the walls, and waved confederate flags in the halls of Congress. What a show! I love them! They’re very special! There was even a Viking. Take that, Village People, who wouldn't let me use their music at my rallies. And the looting. They did me proud, because wait until you see what I'll do when I leave here.

They also climbed all over the scaffolding that whats-his-name is going to use for his waddayacallit, the thing that happens on January 20 that I won’t be attending.  Some fake news person on TV called my followers “insurgents,” but I don’t see what laundry soap has to do with demonstrations. Fake news! Fake news! 

People are now calling for me to be removed from office. Yeah, right. I was impeached and nothing happened. I’m not worried. You have to be mentally ill to be removed. Besides in two weeks, the Secret Service will hit me with a tranquilizer dart and carry me out anyway. Then I can become a full-time comic.

OK, I’m going to rehearse my act now. What do you think of this one: A guy walks into a bar. But the bar is so low he trips over it.

Wait, here’s another one:  I just flew back from golfing at Mar-a-Lago and, boy, are my arms tired. Get it? My arms are tired from golfing, not from flying, because I fly on Air Force One. I love sophisticated comedy.

OK, one more: I’m going to market a breakfast cereal just for racist white people. I’m calling it Special KKK.

Wow, I am on fire! And I don’t mean my pants. The Adderall is really kicking in now. I love this feeling. It’s like I could do anything: ruin the post office, put children in cages, get people to invade the Capitol.  When you’re the president people let you do it all.

I may tell my detergents to stand back and stand by. All that rioting is bad for my brand. Besides, I have m y Jewish daughter to fight the fight for me. She called the guy wearing a "Camp Auschwitz" t-shirt a patriot.

And Melania just texted me a good name for my comedy show. I love it. She may not sleep with me anymore, but she does have a way with words, that I will tell you. Unique. Very unique. What do you think of her suggestion: Heeeeere’s Donny!

. . . . .

January 8, 2021

Dear Twitter,
Someone has hacked into my account. I tried changing my password but I’m still locked out. (This was my old password: Hairweave10, and this is the new one: BenitoBoy). Let me know if you need anything else to get my account going again. Please resolve this matter immediately.
Yours truly,
Donald J. Trump, President of the United States


Dear Mr. President,
You have not been hacked. We have permanently disabled your account. We had been concerned about your comments throughout your presidency, but fomenting a coup on Wednesday was the final straw. We will not allow you to use our platform to incite violence. May we suggest postcards?
Wishing you the best,
The Twitter Customer Service Team, Tamesha and Abdul


Dear Twitter Customer Service Team,
I had nothing to do with that demonstration. It was not a coup, just a couple thousand good guys who came out in support of me. Yes, I admit they got a little carried away with the vandalism and killing that cop, but it’s not like they flew a plane into the Capitol or anything. I am twitching and scratching. I need my account.
Donald J. Trump, President of the United States


Dear Mr. President,
Twitching and scratching? It sound like you might have Covid again. Please get tested. If you are sick, your presidential preference will get you those top-of-the-line medications that nobody else can get. If you wait until you’re out of office, we’re pretty sure you will end up on an overflow cot in a hospital gift shop with bleach tabs for medication. You know the tabs, the ones that go into the toilet tank.
Again, wishing you the best,
Tamesha and Abdul


I will lock you up if you don’t reinstate my account now! I have followers. They are waiting to hear from me! It would be a shame if something were to happen to that little bird of yours.


Mr. President:
We will put it to you bluntly: The entire Twitter staff said it would resign if you were allowed to keep your account. You are a bully, a bloviating bag of ignorance and hate. You are already responsible for the deaths of five people in that insurrection. We know that plans for future armed protests have already begun proliferating on and off Twitter. We will not be party to that. Also, we are not afraid of your threats. Remember that Hitchcock movie, The Birds?Tamesha, Abdul, and the Twitter Security Team


Last chance. Reinstate me now or you’re dead.


Look behind you. You’re not hallucinating. That’s Nancy Pelosi, and she’s going to do more than suspend your account. Tweet that. Oh, wait, you can’t because we have suspended your account.
Bye forever,
Tamesha and Abdul with The Twitter Security Team and the FBI

. . . . .

January 9, 2021

OK, so I had a watch party while my followers ransacked the capitol. We had half a dozen big screens tuned to different channels. It was tremendous. Tremendous!

I didn’t want the public to know, because they go crazy whenever I do something big like this, but Junior recorded and posted it on social media, so I said that, yes, I did bring together members of my family and a few senior staffers. The “official” word is that is was not a party but a gathering to monitor the event and then to pray over the loss of life, but between you and I, it was to cheer on the insurrection. Death to Democracy! (Vladie said he’s going to teach me to say that in Russian.) 

That will teach the Republican Party to lose my winning votes. Yes, I lost the election, I admit it (only to me) but Mitch the Bitch lost his mojo. He’s now Number 2, and by #2 you know what I mean. Total dookie. 

But back to the watch party. 

“I can’t believe the size of the crowd I’m seeing—all patriots who are sick of the bullshit,” said Junior. He actually believes that. What a dope. Even I know those people are losers--low class, very low class, believe me--but they’re useful to me, so I said what I had to say. I told them I loved them and that they were special. (That Viking, he’s really special. I heard he recently learned to tie his shoes.) 

Junior asked me to tell him that I loved him and that he was special. That boy needs constant validation and attention. I don’t know where he gets that from. What a loser. He doesn’t know this, but when the Feds come after me for this, I am throwing him under the bus. I will tell them that inviting my confederate followers was all his idea. 

And I will tell them that his girlfriend, Kimberly Guilfoyle, egged him on. She’s a bigmouth, that I can tell you. “Have the courage to do the right thing. Fight!” she yelled into Junior’s iPhoneas he was recording, but then she went back to dancing. You can’t really fight in high heels. She’s going to feel like a real dope when Junior dumps her for someone younger. 

The smart one, Ivanka, stood right by my side the entire time. She’s my adviser. She’s the one who looked at a greasy guy wearing a “Camp Auschwitz” t-shirt and said, “What a patriot.” She can't wait to be President. And we all cheered when that KKKer took over Pelosi’s office. Someone, I don’t remember who, pointed out that with such clear photos of the insurgents, I mean orderly protesters, the FBI would be able to identify and arrest them, and charge them with trespassing, vandalism, and maybe even murder. Everyone got quiet after that. But then I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll pardon them.” We went back to cheering on our patriots to the sound of battering rams and glass breaking. 

People are saying that I should personally pay for the destruction, but I pay for nothing. The taxpayers will foot this bill. And I am not a taxpayer, that I can tell you. 

And where was Eric, you ask? To that I would answer, “Eric who?” 

All in all, it was a tremendous event. The news channels—even the Fake News ones—have been covering it non-stop. I love the attention. I just wish I could Tweet about it. 

One sad note: I offer my condolences to the fellow who tasered his scrotum with the weapon he had in his pocket. The shock was so great he had a heart attack. Poor man died for his country. And now he will be buried without his balls. Sad.

. . . . .

January 12

To: Outgoing president, Donald Trump
From: U.S. Marshall’s Office
Cc: Enforcement partners at all levels

Re: Dietary requirements of  the individual charged with the lawless destruction of the U.S. Capitol Building 

While unlawful acts will not go unpunished, we are committed to making sure that hungry prisoners do not go unfed. We provide our prisonerss with food that fulfills their dietary requirement. Most have made no special requests except for chewing tobacco, however the following named prisoners have requested we accommodate their special diets:

Jacob Chansley, aka Jake Angeli, aka The Viking, from Phoenix, has not eaten since his arrest. His mother claims that due to a delicate stomach he eats only organic food. “He gets very sick if he doesn’t eat organic food,” she said, adding that he was breast fed until he graduated from sixth grade. She will spoon feed him until he regains his strength and will, if necessary, sing him to sleep.

Adam Christian Johnson, who was photographed carrying out Pelosi’s lectern, is being held Florida’s  Pinellas County facility. He claims to be on an alligator sausage diet. And by “sausage” he wink-winked, so we are not sure if it is actual reptile sausage or the male portion of the animal’s anatomy. He explained that he needs it to keep his energy “up.” (He used air quotes when saying the word “up.” We are trying to figure out how to proceed. In the meantime, he is getting Jimmy Dean Sausage.)

Richard Barnett, the 60-year-old  from Gravette, Arkansas, who had his feet on Nancy Pelosi’s desk, is a raw foodist. He eats only roadkill—squirrel, possum, and skunk.

Eric G. Munchell of Tennessee, the man photographed carrying plastic handcuffs, claims to be on a macrobiotic diet. We are mystified by his request for wholesome food but will provide him with a diet of brown rice, tofu, and a leafy green vegetable. 

Nick Ochs, c-founder of the Hawaii Proud Boys, claims to be a Proud Poi eater and a member of the Clean Plate Club. We serve poi in our facility. 

Doug Jensen, who is in custody in Polk County, Iowa, has asked to be served “Mike Pence on a platter.” Obviously this is not an option, so we will serve him what the rest of the inmates are eating, such as fish sticks, Spaghetti-Os, and canned fruit coclktail.

Derrick Evans, the West Virginia lawmaker who stepped down, has made no dietary requests, so we have decided to serve him crow.

We will keep you apprised as the list grows.

. . . . .

January 14, 2021

I am hopping mad! I would Tweet about how mad I am, but Twitter has locked me out, so I am yelling at the TV. Also, I peed on the curtains, but now it smells in the royal apartment, so maybe that was not the smartest thing.

I can’t believe I was impeached again. Me! There was a time I could have shot someone on Fifth Avenue and gotten away with it. Now I didn’t do anything at all and I got impeached. This time I think it’s more serious. I may lose all the post-Presidency benefits I’m supposed to get: a pension, health care, a travel allowance, and 72 dancing virgins. And here I was planning to trade in Melania for those girls.

I wonder if anyone believed me when I made a video. What an acting job—tremendous, that I can tell you. I said: “Mob violence goes against everything I believe in. No true supporter of mine could ever endorse political violence. If you do any of these things, you are not supporting our movement.” Do you think anyone could tell I was faking it? I learned how to fake it from Stormy. And Melania. 

Now those low-class suckers are mad at me because I refudiated them. Yes, I was the one who invited them to Washington and cheered them on when they destroyed the Capitol and killed people, that is true. I don’t think they’ll come after me, though. For one thing, most of them are in jail or will be. Besides, I can use Mike Pence as a human shield, even if he’s not quite human.

Speaking of not quite human, I just found out that Melania has been moving our stuff out of the White House for the past few weeks. Well, maybe just her stuff. I also found out that she’s changing her name back to Knavs. I also found out that she’s changing her name back to Knavs and is practicing her American accent by saying, "Donald who?"

I will say this: That insurrection was as as close to an erection as I’ve had since Stormy. And it felt just as good, too, believe me. Well, OK, I was jerking off as I watched the videos of all the damage. Ooh, those battering rams banging down the doors of the Capitol! I’m getting excited just thinking about it.

Speaking of erections, Ivanka is mad at me. She said I have ruined her chances for the Presidency and that the Trump name is now “worse than mud.” She’s changing it to her mother’s maiden name, Zelníčková. I suggested that Kushner might sound a bit less, you know, foreign, but she yelled, “You change yours to Kushner!” She’s even planning to attend the inauguration. She has refudiated me! The next thing you know she’ll be trying to ingrate herself with Kamala and Jill. She certainly doesn’t want to be seen with Bison Man’s mother, that I can tell you.   

Don Jr. is thrilled at my feud with Ivanka, because he thinks he will be able to replace her in my affections. That’s ridiculous. I don’t want to sleep with him! 

One good thing came out of this: I don’t have to pay Rudy. He has done nothing but lose, lose, lose! And you know how I feel about losers. But I will reconsider if he arranges one last thing for me: I want a horse head in the bed of every Republican who voted to impeach me. 

. . . . .

January 20.

Dear Doctor Jill,

Welcome to White House. I write this without Donald see, so I make short. (I would write in one of other 15 languages I speak fluently, but you would not understand even if you are Doctor and I am not.)

First Lady bedroom is far, far away from President bedroom, on another floor. There is good lock on door. Big closets for clothes and thigh-high boots. You will like. There is glam room for daily hair and makeup and next to it a gym with Pilates. Trainer can come and you can have sex with him and President will not know.

In President bedroom there is supply of gold-trimmed Presidential diapers in case Joe need. You may want to replace the toilet in his bedroom, because Donald fat ass have sat on it for many hours of Presidency. Mattress, too. He eat in bed and everything greasy from fried chicken.

Some suggestions:
. Do not use Michelle Obama speeches
. Be careful what your clothes say. It is true I did not care, but I should not have put it on jacket
.The higher your heels, the more they sink into White House Lawn
. Blood-red Christmas trees are in White House basement
. Donald have hidden his dirty diapers all over bedroom and Oval Office. He call them “easter eggs.” Staff have found most of them, but make sure Joe know
. Ivanka will keep trying to get into Oval Office to use phone to discuss issues with world leaders
. If you pretend to like your husband you will end up with big alimony
. Be Best


. . . . .

January 20

Well, I held on for as long as I could—longer than I thought possible thanks to my Q-Tip friends who threatened to kill Senators who opposed me. But now that my furniture has arrived in Florida and whatshisname has taken the oath of office, I am officially no longer President.

In my mind I will always be President—aka Mr. President, aka King Donald, aka Emperor of the Confederacy. I might still be Emperor of the Confederacy if my constituents keep supporting me. I am thinking of starting my own party, the Patriot Party. I would run for President again. It would be tremendous, that I can tell you.

We might even be able to make our own state. If Washington, D.C. can be considered for statehood, then the Patriot Party should have its own state, too. Junior says we should call it Siege, but I’m leaning toward something classier, like The Commonwealth of Trumpland. We’d carve it out of Texas. If I promise Ted Cruz a lifetime Senate seat from Trumpland, I think I can get him to  support me on it. The only problem is that my confederate followers are so low class they make me look bad. Ivanka hates them. She has been trying her whole life to look smart and upper class and then they come along with their body paint, spears, and horns and—in her words—“taint” the family name. (I wonder why the smart people are not part of my base.)

I had hoped for a big military sendoff—a tremendously big one with marching bands and tanks and a flyover with thousands of jets trailing streams of red, white and blue, plus big-breasted blonds on a float showing cleavage, lots of cleavage—but the Pentagon said no. If I were still President I would fire all of them, that I can tell you. I think it was the insurrection that changed their mind. Jeez, a few killings and some smash-and-grabs and they shut me down. That is not fair! 

So I did the next best thing: I had my own sendoff. I invited everyone I ever hired, fired, cheated, bilked, or screwed, and I asked them to each bring five friends. Some of them, like Cruz and Steven Miller, don’t have any friends. I invited hundreds of service members to attend. Since I was still the President at that point, it was an invitation they couldn’t refuse. It was way better than Obama’s departure, and I heard it was way better than Biden’s little inauguration. There were millions of people to see me off at 7:15 am in the below-freezing weather, maybe 10 million. They love me. I didn’t see much press, though. 

Then it was off to Florida.

I’ll tell you one thing: I’ll miss my place in Trump Tower. The gold, I love that gold!  And the views. But New Yorkers hate me. Also, I am not so keen on having to walk into Trump Tower every day past some jerk holding a big sign with me as a turd. Lock him up! If I weren’t so great I would take it personally. There was a time I could have killed someone on Fifth Avenue and gotten away with it. The good old days. In Palm Beach I don’t think I could even kick someone and get away with it. The Palm Beach watch group has its eyes on me. And they’re Republicans! 

By the way, I made a tremendous splash with the Presidential Pardons. Tremendous, everyone says so. I pardoned 73 people and commuted the sentences of 70 other. Steve Bannon was tops on my list. Yes, he is a festering bag of pus—just look at him--but he loves me. I also pardoned people who were convicted of health care fraud, bribery, wire fraud, tax fraud, securities fraud, insider trading, wild-life trafficking, impeding grand jury investigations, bank robbery, selling tainted beef, and conspiracy to murder—all the best people!  I pardoned Jared’s best friend, who cyberstalked his wife during a divorce. Lil Wayne, the rapper, was on my list, too. He loves me.

You know who I didn’t pardon? The Organic Viking and his marauders. I know I invited them to Washington, but they embarrassed me with their actions. How could I have known that if I incited violence they would trash the Capitol? Not my fault.

The pardons that will get me into heaven are the non-violent drug offenders who are serving long sentences.

What’s next for us now, you ask?

Melania will be divorcing me. I knew that was coming. It was written into the revised prenup. She has a new slogan: Best Be Gone. I’m thinking of calling Stormy. She said I was the best sex she ever had. Oh, wait, that was Marla. Maybe I’ll try Tinder. How does it work? Do I write a profile?  I will describe myself as “50-something, a great golfer with billionaire bod and bank account.” And can I say that I’m looking for a “20-something supermodel type, blond with long legs and big breasts. English and green card a plus.” I could reasonably accept a woman up to 25, maybe 26 or 27 if she’s really smokin. By the time she ages out I’ll be dead anyway. The women love me, that I can tell you.

Ivanka will have more plastic surgery. She feels the stress of four years as President has aged her. And she has talked Jared into getting an implant that makes him appear more human.

Junior say he wants to get as far away from D.C. as possible. He was looking for a place in Jupiter. That seems a bit extreme. The commute is seven years each way. Oh, wait, Barron tells me that it’s Jupiter, Florida, where Don wants to live. That makes more sense. 

And what about that Barron? Smart just like his dad. Taller than me already, and I’m six-five.

Eric does whatever his wife tells him to do. Lara is a smart cookie, but not smart enough to find someone smarter than Eric. I don’t know what they’ll be doing.

One thing I will tell you: Do not call me a retiree. I still have my businesses to run into the ground. And I took on another job as well. I’m excited about it bigly. 

I am going to be Florida Man.

. . . . .

February 7, 2021

I have been screaming at Fox News but no one there will take my calls. My Tweets aren’t going through. Ivanka is not returning my texts. And, of course, Melania gives me the side eye whenever I get within 20 feet of her, which is not often, because she is living in the guest apartment with Barron and someone she calls “Barron’s school chum.” I think something is going on. This “friend” has a mustache and he and Melania seem very chummy if you ask me.

Oh, it gets worse. When I called Vladie, he said, “I’m sorry I can’t talk now. I’m going through tunnel,” and then the call ended. The next time I called, someone with a high-pitched voice said, “Vladie? I’m sorry you have wrong number.” I tried Face Timing him, but the call wouldn’t go through. I’m beginning to think he's two-timing me. We had the greatest bromance of all time, that I can tell you.

I even called Joe Biden, because I figured he’d take my call. I said, “Hey, Joe, it’s me, President Trump.” He said, “Is this a joke?” I yelled at him so that he would know it was really me. He shouted, “Shut up, man,” and then hung up.

When Kamala called back—or maybe it was Jill, I couldn’t tell—I shit my diaper a little. Whoever it was, she said, “If you bother us again, I will take Air Force One down to Mar-a-Lago and cut off your balls.”  But the joke’s on her. Marla got my balls in her divorce agreement.” 

Thank god Marjorie Taylor Greene loves me. 

Sure she’s got a horse face and I would never sleep with her, but she’s blond and she worships me. And she carries a gun. Get rid of that stupid elephant. She is the face of Trump’s Republican Party. (She had me with Jewish Space Lasers, but I didn’t have the nerve to say that. Ivanka would have killed me.) 

I had thought the face of the Trump Party would be the Viking—I liked the visuals, so manly—but then his mother demanded organic food for him in jail. What a wuss. I’m glad I didn’t pardon him. KFC is not good enough for him?

So here I am in my extra-large suit in my extra-large suite in Mar-a-Lago with the neighbors throwing pebbles at the window all hours of the day and night. They really don’t want me here. I would resign from them in a minute, the way I did from the Screen Actor’s Guild, but I need to live somewhere. People think I used the Presidential seal on my letter to them, but I faked them out. My eagle is holding arrows and swastikas. No olive branch for me, that I can tell you. 

Mar-a-Lago has enough gold and crystal to make me feel at home, like at Trump Tower, even though the help speaks Spanish and the alligators on the golf course scare the crap out of me.

There is one big problem, though. Since the election, members have been leaving the club. With fewer dues-paying members, money is getting tight. Florida Power and Light said that if I don’t pay the bill, the electricity will be shut off. Me, the most powerful man in the world, and I won’t even be able to turn on the TV to yell at Fox News.

. . . . .

February 9, 2021

Well now that Daddy has been sent off with the full honors befitting a beloved President, it’s time for the spotlight to shine on me. The experience I gained in the White House as Presidential Adviser has prepared me to be the first woman president of the United States.

If nominated in 2024, I will humbly accept.

When I say “if nominated,” I mean that I will work tirelessy to undermine every other potential Republican candidate in 2024. When I say “humbly,” I mean that I believe this is my birthright, just as Queen Elizabeth inherited the throne from King George VI. And when I say “accept,” I mean expect.

I know the RNC would like me to dip my Ivanka Trump ™ open-toed pumps slowly into the political waters, like running against Marco Rubio in Florida, my new home state, but I am a Trump. We jump in whole hog. (OK, probably bad use of the language. “Whole hog” would certainly refer to my almost-sister-in-law Kimberly.)

As President I will represent a number of firsts: First Woman President, First Jewish President, First Presidential Daughter to Become President, First Accessories Designer to become President, First Almost-Nude Model to Become President, and First President with breast Implants. With these achievements,  I hope to serve as a role model for all little white girls who aspire to greatness.

Not only that, I will design my own inauguration wardrobe, which will be available on QVC at a fraction of the cost in much cheaper materials.

Jared will be my Vice President, and Daddy will be my Special Adviser to the President. He is as qualified for the job as I am to be president. I would like Marjorie Taylor Green to be my Chief of Staff. I know, she’s uncouth, the complete opposite of me, but she will make my staff do what I want. I mean, she carries a gun. And when the ultra-right-wing hordes come for me, she will protect me from them.(Just as long as I don’t have to socialize with her.)

But I want to empower women, so my Cabinet will be full of the most talented women I know. Jeannine Pirro will be a great Attorney General. She was a strong supporter of my father, and I’m sure she will be of me, too. Maria Bartiromo will be Secretary of the Treasury, because no one knows more about money and softballing the President in interviews. I will tap Liz Cheney as the Secretary of Transportation, because she has plenty of experience being run out of town on a rail. (Daddy is not too happy about that choice.)  Cinde Hyde-Smith, that rabidly anti-abortion Senator from Mississippi, will make a great Health and Human Services Secretary.

I used to be a pro-choice Democrat, but since Daddy’s presidency I have done a 180 and am now an unapologetically pro-life Republican.

Which reminds me, I will institute a new Cabinet position: Office of Graciousness and Hypocricy. I’m not sure anyone can do the job as well as I, but since I’ll be the president, I’ll appoint Susan Collins. I know, you’re thinking she’s a bit long in the tooth for the job, but she has a lifetime of experience. Well, not so much the graciousness, but she is the very model of hypocrisy, that I can tell you. (Oops, I’m channeling Daddy.)

There will be other Cabinet positions to fill and I will look to Fox News to fill them. Fox was a rich source of talent in Daddy’s term as President, and I expect they will serve me well, too.

I have some campaign slogans:
. Make American Blonde Again
. Want to fly? Choose the Right Wing
. Don Jr suggested, “We put the POT in nepotism,” but I eschew drugs.
. Eric suggested “Chew Drugs”
. Lara, his wife, who is running for Senate from North Carolina and thinks she’s the smartest Trump has suggested “Daring, Unbeatable, a Mother, and Bold.” I like it, even if I don’t like her. Can’t you just see it on a cap?

. . . . .

February 10, 2021

Alexander Hamilton here. I have been spinning so fast in my grave that I actually unscrewed myself right out of the ground. Forgive me if I look a bit worse for wear. It has been a while since I’ve seen the light of day. I see that my clothing is hopelessly out of date. Your hooded garments, denim trousers, and soft-soled shoes, while not befitting a stateman, do nonetheless appear quite comfortable. I am puzzled, however, by the Viking attire, which predates me by some centuries.

I have been keenly  following the doings of that bloviating sack of excrement who cheated his way into the Presidency and then sought to do the same for a second term. I have trouble saying the name of this Neanderthal, your 45th  “President.”  This single syllable does not roll off the tongue, but rather lodges itself in the glottis, as if one were trying to cough up a wad of phlegm. 

The original family name is only slightly less difficult to pronounce, but I can write it. (I like these writing implements you have, with their self-contained ink.) There was a Drumpf family from Bavaria, known to the colonists as cheaters and swindlers, who were turned away multiple times from our shores. And yet one member of the family, a young man named Friedrich, made it through in the early 1900s without papers and went on to become a pimp in Alaska. (I may be dead, but I keep up with history.) This Freidrich Drumpf embodies the exception that proves the rule, as he was one immigrant who did nothing constructive. Worse, he spawned a son who proved to be worse than himself, and that son in turn spawned a creature yet lower.

Friedrich Drumpf should have been banished back to Germany, but Germany would not accept him on return. The entire Drumpf line is thus tainted. And now your former President, Donald, and his greedy offspring have dishonored the Constitution with their grift and disregard for decency. I would challenge the patriarch to a duel, but I do not know how to wield a golf club. 

(And I thought I thought Burr was a scoundrel.)

What I was not prepared for, however, is the complicity of your entire Republican party. Are they all descendants of Thomas Jefferson? The hypocrisy! I would have thought that in almost 250 years the government would have learned a few things. Sadly, history does not so much repeat itself as continually regurgitate. However, I do like your JFK, even if he was a womanizer (I know something about that), and your Barack Obama, who is as honorable a man as one would meet. I also like your 46th President, Joe Biden, though a bit long in the tooth. Kamala Harris gives me hope for the future of the country; I should like a correspondence with her.

I am running out of time. I should like to linger to watch the Impeachment proceedings on the Transmission Screen, but what’s left of my bones is crumbling in the air outside the tomb. If someone should provide me with a texting machine, such as would fit in the pocket of my vest, tattered as the garment may be, I could continue to follow your 21st Century politics and, what's more, offer opinion on them.

I wish you well in a world quite different from my own. As regards the 45th President whose name I cannot bring myself to hock out, I will offer one piece of advice. Find him guilty and lock him up.

. . . . .

February 12, 2021

 o think I was worried about the Pee Tapes. I could pee all over Fifth Avenue and no one would care. But the recordings of me threatening and bullying those Georgia officials to find additional votes have me in some deep shit.

All I needed was 11,780 votes to win. Oh, I know I didn’t have them, but I thought that if I threatened Raffensperger he would “find” them and I would win the election. I mean he is a Republican. And he even voted for me (he says), so I naturally assumed he’d do anything for me. How was I to know that the guy has scruples and that Georgia is one state that has the right to tape phone calls without letting the other party know. Republicans don’t have scruples, that I can tell you. (And besides, it’s not a party without urinating Russian models and a lot of Adderall.)

First of all, I should have said I needed 11,782 votes, just in case Joe upped the ante and sked for 11, 781 votes. But I didn’t want to look like I was cheating. I just needed enough to win. (Note to self: Next time, go whole hog. And while you’re at it, put a pig head in Raffensperger’s bed.)

Even Brian Kemp, the Governor of Georgia, said that my demand would “disenfranchise millions of Georgia voters.”  Well, he should know. He cheated Stacey Abrams out of the gubernatorial election. What a hypocrite!

So now, the Fulton County DA, Fani Willis is going to opening investigation into my actions using those tapes as a starting point. First of all, “Fanny.” Ha ha!  Second of all, the tapes. Oh oh. Fulton County’s Grand Jury will convene in March. I could be indicted for a felony, and a felony conviction could lead to jail time.  Can Lady Lindsey, Hairy Ted (with the ugly wife), Josh Hawley (with the ugly life) be on my jury? All I need are seven Trump Republicans and I win. So, let’s see, I’ll also need Kevin McCarthy, Rand Paul, Mitch McConnell and maybe a woman senator—but someone good looking, preferably blond with  big breasts. Like Ivanka, although no one is as good looking as Ivanka,. Everyone says so.

I will invite them to Mar-a-Lago and ask them in person. No more taped conversations for me. Otherwise it could be deja view all over again. 

. . . . .

February 13, 2021

To: President Trump
From: Your Legal Team, the attorneys of Arma, Farkhue, Goode
Re: Recap of Strategy for your Impeachment Defense

Following our less-than-stellar presentation on Day One of the, er, proceedings, we have restrategized and come up with an entirely new plan.(Apologies, sir. After the Impeachment is concluded, we will deliver Atty. Castor to the Proud Boys who are standing back and standing by to receive him.)

We had initially expected to use the “I-didn’t-do it” defense, but given so much video evidence to the contrary—which we could not possibly have foreseen until the Democrats made their presentation—we pivoted to the “She-started-it” defense. This would have allowed us to effectively blame Hillary Clinton for the insurrection. She has proved to be such a strong, all-purpose scapegoat for Republican dissatisfaction, that we felt it would be sine mente, or as you say in non-legal terms, a no-brainer.

Then we realized that you, in your brilliance, Mr. President, offered the best strategy of all, something you used to great effectiveness in your debates against Mrs.Clinton. We’re calling it the “I’m-not-a-puppet-you’re-the-puppet” strategy. Whatever they blame you for, Mrs. President, we will blame them.

This is related to, but is a more effectively concise tactic than, the “I’m rubber-you’re-glue-whatever-you-say-to-me-bounces-off-and-sticks-to-you.” Plus it allows us to present our case in under three hours to fit the window of your attention span.

We will start by refuting the constitutionality of the proceeding. Yes, we know, it was already decided that the proceedings could go forward, but we wanted to cover all court bases. This, in legalese, is known as the “Throw-it-all-against-the-wall-to-see-what-sticks” defense. Legal scholars know it as Omne quod muro deiecit videre multitudinem.

Then, we'll go full "I'm-rubber-you're-glue," using as much obfuscation (that means making it unclear, Mr. President), untruth, and misdirection as possible. 

In our summation we will claim that it is your First Amendment right to say anything with no consequence. At that point, we will yell, “Gas! I smell gas! Everybody out!.” It is our strategy that enough Democratic Senators will be trampled to death that there will be no one to vote against you, because you know the Republicans are standing back and standing by with an acquittal.

. . . . .

February 17, 2021

I’m the Teflon Don. No, the Gilded Teflon Don. I sent my crazy armed followers to the Capitol to hunt down and kill Mike Pence and almost got the entire Senate killed in the process. And what do those fools do? They turn around and acquit me.

I want to gloat but I can’t Tweet. I’m going to explode!

I was so excited at the acquittal that I peed on the curtains again. Melania walked in and went crazy. She ripped the curtains down to have them burned. “What are you, dog?” she shouted at me. “Bad dog. Bad, bad dog!” she screamed. Then she rolled up a newspaper and hit me on the nose. When she put a collar around my neck,. I thought we were going to have some kinky sex. I mean, I was expecting the best sex I’ve ever had—woof, woof!—but she chained me to the bedpost and left. I really don’t know why she was so mad about the curtains. I mean, she doesn’t even sleep in the room. She’s pissed at me for something, that I can tell you.

The maid had to call a locksmith to free me. Now I hear the help talking behind my back in Spanish. “Estupido volvió a orinar en las cortinas y Melania se volvió loca. Que pendejo.” I think it means, “He’s so good looking, she’s crazy not to sleep with him,” but I’m not sure.

But back to my acquittal.  

Mitch McConnell—the guy with no chin, two faces, and a forked tongue—votes to acquit and then tells the entire world that I’m guilty. He even suggested that the Department of Justice should pursue a case. What the hell? I don’t know whether to kiss him or put out contract on him. Maybe I’ll do both—one for each face.

Ivanka says I shouldn’t get too excited about the acquittal because New York, Georgia, and maybe Michigan are preparing indictments. (Even she is looking over her shoulder, because all those millions she and Jared made while she was Assistant President, well, even I don’t know how they made them.)

I’m running out of lawyers. I guess I’m going to have to use the same ones from the impeachment, and you know what that means. I’m going to have to pay them for their impeachment work before they take on another case for me.

Ivanka hit the roof when she found out that I found Vander Beek online. “Daddy, he’s an ambulance chaser!” she yelled at me. (I hate when her real voice comes out. It’s whiny and high pitched. Not sexy at all.) Little does she know that his specialty is defending child pornographers. She’s afraid that these “low lifes”—her words, and she was including Rudy—will reflect badly on her when she  runs for President in 2024. I think she peed on her own curtains when she learned that Nikki Haley is probably going to run, too. “But I’m taller and prettier and smarter,” right Daddy?” Of course I say yes. I don’t want to sleep with Nikki Haley, that I can tell you.

Rudy, by the way, has been calling me incessantly for his money. The man shrieks into the phone. I keep telling him I just wired the money to his bank. And then he calls back to shriek that it’s not there yet. My bad, I sent it to the First National Bank of Sit on This. He can go ahead and sue me. Since he has never won a case for me, I don’t imagine he’d win that one. Because I am, what? The Gilded Teflon Don!

 Well, until the next subpoena comes, I’m going to go golf and then order a nice big bucket of chicken.

. . . . .

February 22, 2021

Oh, geez. I just slipped a big one into my Presidential diaper.

The Supreme Court denied my appeal to block New York State from getting my tax records. They’re going to see everything. I am scared shitless.

Yes, I took all the gold-trimmed diapers embossed with the Presidential seal when I left the White House. Joe said he didn’t need them. “I am in control of my sphincter,” he said. I don’t know what “sphincter”  means—I think it’s an Egyptian word—but I’m dropping deuces just thinking about what might happen next.

This is a witch hunt! A fishing expedition! An inquisition! A vendetta! 

I put three people on the Supreme Court to protect me, and what do they do? They rule against me! That’s what I get for putting a rapist and a religious extremist on the bench. And Gorsuch? I don’t even know him, that I can tell you. I should have appointed Ivanka, Don Jr.. and Eric instead.

 So now everything is going to come out. I’m going to end up owing millions. That $750 I paid in federal taxes in 2016 and 2017 is a drop in the bucket. And all those years I paid nothing? I thought I was getting over bigly. And you wonder why I wanted to remain President?

Turns out “Mar-a-Lago” is Spanish for “It’s-back-to-a-one-bedroom-in-Queens-for-you.” And that’s if I’m lucky. My ambulance-chasing attorney says I might actually go to jail! I need a real lawyer. Who’s willing defend me? Rudy, come back!

I will pay you this time, Rudy. I am going to start a Go Fund Me.

What! Rudy has started his own Go Fund Me?

Tiffany, I need an attorney. I put you through law school (with the money I didn’t pay in taxes). You owe me!

. . . . .

February 28

I’m going to headline a Snoring Machine convention this weekend. I don’t snore—I hardly even sleep—but CPAP has honored me with a golden statue, so of course I‘ll show up. I’m bringing that statue back with me to Mar-a-Lago, that I can tell you. (Did you know that Mar-a-Lago Spanish for Land of Gold-plated Idols?)

I had no idea there were so many conservative Republican snorers, but CPAP has attracted the biggest of them—including all the guys who pledge their support for me but are planning to run for president in 2024. At the top of that list is Ted Cruz, who will do anything to get out of Texas. But who can blame him? His house still doesn’t have heat, his wife is ugly, and everyone in his state is up his ass about their $15,000 electricity bills. Jared called him a “schnorrer.” Then he called Mike Pompeo, another attendee, a “chazer.” It’s all Greek to me.

Ron De Sanctimonious delivered the opening address. Since CPAP is being held in Orlando—which is actually in Florida, something I was not aware of—he got to welcome everyone. He told the audience to “stand your ground and don’t ever, ever back down.” He should have realized his words would send the buffet line for dinner into a frenzy. Guns were drawn as attendees jostled for the prime rib. And no one was wearing a mask.

My son Donald Junior and his current irlfriend, Kimberly Guilfoyle, were featured speakers. She danced onto the stage like a stripper and screamed some words of welcome (I never have to turn on my hearing aid when she’s around) and then introduced Don Jr. He strutted out like he actually won an election, but he hit all the right notes: He mocked Liz Cheney, Joe Biden, the Lincoln Project, and Andrew Cuomo. That’s my boy! (Not that I would ever praise him. Keep him hungry, that’s my motto. He’ll do more for me that way.)

I myself am looking forward to tomorrow when I give the closing speech. I will claim my rightful position as President of the United States—I won by a landslide, everyone says so—and praise the MAGA movement. Yes, I know that I didn’t come close to MAGA-ing a damn thing, but that audience will believe anything I say. I plan to lie about Joe—I have some bones to pick, that I can tell you—even though I know his lowest approval rating is higher than my highest one. And I plan to blame the insurrection, er, I mean, riot, I mean demonstration, on Antifa. I’m going to say that they dressed up in Trump t-shirts, carried Trump flags, and broke into the Capitol to protest Joe’s victory. Even I know that’s about as realistic as Ivanka marrying me, but if all else fails, I will blame everything on Bison Boy. Or Eric.

Finally, since he won’t be there, I’m going to call Mitch McConnell a two-faced turd. I mean, he stood on the Senate floor and said that I was “practically and morally responsible” for the insurrection but then said he would back me for President in 2024. So I will say that even if he is a two-faced turd, I love him and also hate his guts. Then after some more blah-blah-blah, I will hypnotize the audience and put them all to sleep. The snoring will blow the roof off the joint. If that’s not the way to end a Snoring Convention, I don’t know what is.

. . . . .

They love me! My followers love me! They’ll storm the Capitol for me. They’ll even kill for me.
But the ones who don’t love me really don’t love me, that I can tell you. Louis Tussaud’s Waxworks in San Antonio had to move me—well, the Wax Me—into storage to keep me from getting punched repeatedly in the face. The San Antonio Express called my face “a punching bag”! Ouch. I’m so upset I don’t know whether to tell my followers to storm the newspaper or the museum.

And that’s not all. After the election (which I won!) Madame Tussaud’s in Berlin tossed the Wax Me in the trash. They made an installation of me in a Dumpster with Tweet signs saying things like “You’re fired” and “Fake news.” Not only that, they placed the Dumpster in front of a fake Trump Tower. And I was surrounded by bags of trash! Is that any way to treat the most powerful man in the world?

The London Madame Tussaud’s changed my clothes. I’m no longer in my Presidential blue suit with the penis-length red tie but in golf clothes. I love golf, of course, but I wear khakis and a white polo. They made me a Glamour Don’t! Wax Me is wearing purple and yellow plaid pants and a lavender golf shirt. Lavender! What am I, queer? One good thing is that they made me about 100 pounds thinner. I like that. But what’s with the breasts. Now I love a good handful, but not on me. The only time my nipples stand at attention like that is when Vladie praises me. And lately, they have been flat as pancakes, believe me.

Melania, my former wife—or maybe she's still my wife; I can't tell because although I'm paying her bills, she's not sleeping with me—tells me I should be happy they haven’t melted me yet.

. . . . .

The End
(Well, maybe not. I'm still in the news. God, I love the attention.)

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