Three a.m. is such a lonely time. I hate it. The sidewalks on Independence Avenue are empty except for the police cars. There’s nothing on the TV except guys with disgusting abs peddling gym memberships and combination apple-corer/wine-bottle-stopper/cummerbunds. No commentators to challenge. No recaps of those inspiring shots of me coming down the steps of Air Force One and waving to the crowds. My worshippers have all gone to bed. It’s just me and my demons. Three a.m. is a preview of death.
Once upon a time I would have waked you up and we could have talked. Now you are sleeping with that Jewboy. (Sorry, honey; habits are hard to break.) Melania, bless her, may have gotten a Number Ten body, but nobody has yet put her up for a Nobel Prize in political science. She yesses me to death, and she enjoys my physical attributes but she doesn’t get the same charge I do out of stirring the pot and honing the knives. And Pence says he’ll quit if I don’t stay off Twitter, so who the hell am I supposed to talk to? I don’t trust Kelley as far as I could throw him, and the boys of my posse are either the usual blinkered military mental midgets or so flabby-rich that they have no idea what it’s like to have to fight for your place at the table. Not to escape poverty, of course, Daddy insulated me from that, but for rejection by those mealy-mouthed bluebloods who have been living on their Princeton and Yale degrees and Yacht Club memberships while I have had to fight for recognition. Do you know how many golf courses I could have built by now if I had had the foresight to be a Whiffenpoof instead of a Fordham grind and a Wharton MBA?
So I pace this apartment at three am and try to think up ways to show them up. All their degrees and memberships and blue blood aren’t worth shit when it comes to stirring up a crowd. “Facts”, they say they want. There’s no such thing as a fact. There are slogans that work and there are slogans that don’t work. “Lock her up!” is sure-fire. “Show me your tax returns” is just plain boring. Who wants to read a tax return? His own or anyone else’s. “Build that wall!” is a killer — it makes no sense but it resonates with half-remembered echoes of Saint Ronnie and it creates a vision of “other” people being denied a free ride on my money. A winner.
I may have mentioned to you at some time or other that I am a winner. Everyone else is a loser. To what extent they are hopeless losers (like Christie or Jeb or Mitt or Hillary) is perhaps debatable, but I will be the judge, and if I have to create my own facts to do it that’s not a problem. If people wanted to be governed by facts there wouldn’t even be political parties. We would all agree on everything. I may or may not try to salvage what’s left of the Republican one. Haven’t decided yet.
But now, because of the stupidity of all these losers, I am in the hot seat. I am the President. I have to make the decisions. And even though I make fun of Pence, sometimes he’s right. Decisions have to be based to some extent, however distant, on reality, or they won’t work. And reality bores me stiff. He says if I turn the whole thing over to the generals, they will keep us safe. Generals! A bunch of frozen-sphinctered time servers. They sit so upright in their damned chairs you’d think they were made of cardboard. They haven’t dared to fart since they graduated from West Point. All they know is, “Give me bigger weapons to play with and I’ll kill anyone who won’t listen.” You want a fact? If you kill everyone who won’t listen who is going be left to dig your sand traps and plant your zoyzia grass and manicure your greens? After you kill off all your workers will you then start incinerating your customers, too? Who will then be left to pay for the memberships and the greens fees?
“All right,” Ryan says, “then leave it to us politicians.” Hah! Spineless amoebas with nothing on their minds but their peckers and their perks. Anemometers with legs. And social-climbing wives. Wave a few votes or a few dollars in front of them and they come crawling like ants to sugar. They don’t want to make decisions; they want to duck decisions so they can never be held responsible for anything. Even I am better qualified than they are.
I hate the whole idea.
So this morning I had an inspiration. It’s true. I am the President. This can be seen as an opportunity like no other. How did Rod Blagojevich put it? “This is golden.” I can outsource the job.
You know and I know that the President is so hemmed in by congressmen, civil servants, and lobbyists that he can’t accomplish anything, even in four years of trying. Look at poor Barack. And even what little he got done we are about to reverse. So how much real difference does it make who is President? But that’s not the popular perception. What people see is Air Force One. What they hear is “Hail to the Chief” until it becomes an earworm. What they admire is the title “The most powerful man on the planet”. They are awestruck with envy. And that’s not just the ordinary guy. Every little tinpot African dictator in his shitpot country dreams of qualifying for treatment like that. And not just African tinpot dictators. Tinpot dictators everywhere. Russia. North Korea. Turkey. The Philippines. And now, apparently, China.
So what if we were to divide the job up into one-day segments and auction them off? “Be President for a Day”. How much damage can one man do in 24 hours when everything he deals with today can be reversed tomorrow? Let him fly around in AF–One to his heart’s content. Put the Marine Band in a C5M and let them land first and be ready to play on every tarmac as he arrives. Give him the big bullet-proof limo with the flags on the fenders. Let him shake hands with Prime Ministers and government leaders wherever he goes. Let him grab at their wives’ tushes or pussies if that’s his pleasure. Bring girls to the back cabin through the “Kennedy bomb bay”. How much do you think Putin would be willing to pay for that? Or Duterte? Or Erdoğan? We could probably wipe out the national debt the first year. And I could go back to what I know. There are still over a hundred countries on this planet in which there is as yet neither a Trump golf course nor a Trump hotel. Even working around the clock with no political distractions it will be a hard race. I want to leave office with 200 golf courses. I may even learn to cure my slice!
Three am is such a damn lonely time. Maybe you should ditch that Kushner jerk and come back home where we could talk like we used to. Vanka?
Vance Weaver 