Recently I said NATO was obsolete. However, now that I have thought about the subject with the leader of NATO at the podium next to mine, and with Russia continuing to run amok in Syria, the Ukraine, and all areas of international conflict, I now believe that NATO is not obsolete. What I said in air quotes was “NATO would be obsolete if I said it was obsolete.” Notice the quotes, which means that I didn’t really mean what you heard me say. So, let Shawn Spicer know this: Let it be written; let it be dunced. Stop the presses, my adoring, historically hysterically unsurpassed mass approvalists of me. I have yet again promised psychic alchemy and economic utopia but farted Chanel # 5 and you like it. Say it with me, “We Like It”. I call it ‘the fart of the deal’, which means that I call the shots and you like it.
How can I operate so intuitively and seemingly without a conscience? I am flexible. No one is more flexible than I am, believe me. I do not allow memory, morality or history to get in the way of my visions and prevarications. You see, a good memory or accurate history only confuse the flexible man who lives in the here and now. By operating in the here and now, I can believe –like an extreme right wing Republican– in locking up women who have abortions without considering that I was once a pro choice Democrat. I do this seamlessly, automatically even, when I need the Christian Right extremists’ votes, just as you might blink when a speck of dust litters your eyeball. Blink away the dust in the wind reflexively and all is new.
This is why I am so successful in making deals: I forget or conveniently deny previous offers and/or counteroffers. I operate without a past, no ledger or accounting sheet, no tax returns or messy out of court settlements are gonna get in my way. I promise big, no, huge, future returns. I turn up the volume like a brass marching band, and you get swept up in the martial music; you march with me, forgetting or choosing like me not to remember the chasm ahead of us. March on, my automatons, no one loves sincerity more than I do. Trust me. Ah, Chanel #5 in the morning is a most glorious odor.
When the truth becomes a super heated butter knife, and it’s rug cutting time, I deflect the other party (ies) with crap I throw out of my speeding escape vehicle. I never pull over or slow down. Never apologize or own responsibility that can be pawned off onto others. I only know how to accelerate, attack, and/or hit back. Slowing down or pulling over is for losers who want to go back to jail. Facts are for losers. Honesty is a prison that holds down the strong. I prefer heroes who are not captured or inconvenienced by real world struggles. I, for instance, was never a POW because I avoided service due to my flat feet and my father’s money. My heroes are super beings such as I am, who slip from the gravity of rules or boundaries and conventions. In my biography, Mein Trumpf, (Amazon $29.95) I detail how I alone could command Valhalla. On page 278 I quote myself,
“It’s really amazing to be so great and unchallengeable. I always knew I was special, like the bull on Wall Street– magnificent, bronze, immovable, virile, good looking and aggressive. I knew one day I would mate mightily and conquer the lands of silk and honeys. Like Thor I would thunder across the universe while lesser beings would shiver in fear. Believe me, no problem there. Look at these hands. Nothing tiny here.”
And on page 198, “I did not go to Vietnam because I had a business to build, an empire in real estate to establish. I knew I would one day solve the economic injustice and unfair tax burdens that caused the Vietnam War to begin with. I made deals with Ho Chi Minh in the Hotel Hanoi. Ho was a nice man, a close friend, who did not want to offend me. He was polite and warm. So, indirectly, although some lawyers would say DIRECTLY, I resolved the Vietnam War single-handedly and never got credit for it.”
As for my tax returns, that was so easy. Some people say I lied, Okay? I gave a fake answer to a fake reporter who had blood in her eyes, her ears, her… whatever. I am not responsible for them quoting me in their fake news stories and trying to crucify me on factual crosses of accountability. Great men cannot be nailed down. Only weak men are crucified. Reporters and the media are truly awful petty people who tear the great men down. Sad, really. Like Bill O’Reilly, Mike Flynn, General Petraeus– we have all been assailed by tiny ants, infected by viral pests who envy our status and virility. Sure, we talk locker room stuff and grab women’s genitalia, but what straight man doesn’t? My pal Steve Bannon once told me that we should have bronze sculptures made of the four of us in a fountain at the White House. You know, like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I’d be scaled to sixty feet while they remained merely mortal sized, but these great patriots deserve a seat at my fountain, if for no other reason than to bathe in my glory.
Lately I’m getting annoyed at Assad and Kim What’s His Name in North Korea. They are so arrogant and want to play by their own rules. What’s even worse is that I can’t build a hotel in Damascus or Pyongpang with my name on it. Those guys are so self aggrandizing. Really, it’s sickening. They have grabbed control of their respective countries and shut down any accountability. Their fake news is even faker than our fake news. Terrible. They have ignored or rewritten history to shine their behinds. It’s sad. Really sad. Neither of them can Twitter like I do. Tiny hands. Plus their wives cannot hold a candle to Melania. So hot. So I’m gonna bomb the hell out of them. Eric and Ivanka think it’s a good idea, and Ivanka is always right because she goes to Jared.
It’s great being me. Being me is great. I am great. I need to get back to my executive orders– renaming and branding is what I do best. Let’s see, Trump Canyon, Mt. Trumpmore, The Statue of Trumpity, The Donald Gate Bridge, Lake Donald J. Superior. A great country needs a great brand: Trumpmerica! Yeah. God I’m brilliant.
People love me, I think, because I say what they think I say, which is hypnotic, erotic and often psychotic, but trust me like you would with your little sister in the sauna, never despotic. You have my word.