They say I wander the halls of the White House at night, like Nixon’s ghost, muttering at paintings and shaking my fist.
Well, so what? A guy’s gotta let off a little steam every once in while. It used to be that I could have Cohen or Weisselberg or some other flunky round up a call girl for me so I could relax. Those were the good old days, Diary! That’s how I got together with that Stormy Daniels. She’s a POS now, but whew, when I was bedding her, she was hot! A real slut—my favorite kind. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for me—nothing. And that includes golden showers.
When I was first elected I didn’t know if the Secret Service would help me get girls, or not. I mean, I had to be careful, you know? You can’t just say to them, “Get me a prostitute.” So one day, a few weeks before my inauguration (the biggest ever, by the way!), I said to the head of my detail (I’ll call him “Bob”), “Bob, uh, does the president ever get any privacy?”
“What do you mean, Mr. President-elect?”
“You know, time alone—out of the spotlight—where not even my family or my aides know where I am or what I’m doing.”
“Well, Mr. President-elect, we can make that happen. We can make anything happen.”
“What if, uh—now, Bob, give me an honest answer—let’s say I wanted something that was, uh, out of the ordinary, and required a little discretion.”
“Do you mean, like, marijuana, Mr. President-elect? I’m sure we can arrange that. We did for President Clinton. Or cocaine? We occasionally helped President Bush out with that.”
“No, no, Paul, I don’t do drugs. I mean—”
“President Obama liked to slip out of the Residence at night and go to We the Pizza with his daughters, sir. He’d just walk in unannounced and they’d order a pepperoni pie and—”
“No, no, Paul, it has nothing to do with food. It’s—it’s, well, more personal than that.”
“I don’t understand, Sir.”
Well, Diary, “Bob” was too stupid to figure it out, so I had him replaced. And the next guy, “Al,” was a lot smarter. Every once in a while, he would get me a girl. See, Cohen would find them for me, and let “Al” know, and “Al” and his men could get them in to me, in Mar-a-Lago, or Bedminster, or the White House, wherever—even in Helsinki, believe it or not. But now that Cohen’s gone and Weisselberg’s AWOL, I have no one I can trust to get me girls. That’s why I’m frustrated.
Look, what’s wrong with a POTUS talking to paintings of presidents anyway? Those are my peers up there on the walls, for chrissake: Jackson, Washington, Lincoln, McKinley, Reagan—good Republicans. (I had the White House ushers take down Clinton’s and Obama’s pictures—didn’t want to see those losers’ faces every damn day.) I can imagine the fuss the fake news would make if they knew that. But they don’t, and they won’t, because my White House doesn’t leak.
I’m gonna get that failing New York Times, I guarantee it! Just you wait and see. Traitors. They committed treason by running that op-ed lie. And that “anonymous”—why, he’s declared war against the United States. Firing squad offense, and we’ll do it right in the Rose Garden, where I can watch from the Truman balcony, hopefully with some KFC and a hot babe. That will be a good day. As for that Jew, Woodward, it’s too bad Nixon didn’t take care of him, back in the day. Maybe, someday, I will.
Rudy just called. He’s worried about Don, Jr. All I can say is, if that sunovabitch Mueller tries to lay a glove on my namesake and oldest kid, I’ll…well, I’ll cross that bridge when it comes. Sometimes, Dear Diary, I get so pissed at all this fake news. These Demon-crats, led by the Clintons, they’re trying to get me any way they can: lies, smears, innuendoes. And that Obama. Man, why can’t these ex-presidents just shut up and play golf? I’ll tell you, Obama’s the worst president we ever had. He really messed up the Bush economy, which had been doing so well, and it’s only because of me that this amazing Recovery has been so successful. So, yeah, I know I’m venting, but like I said, sometimes a guy has to let off a little steam. If only I could get a girl up here, a nice porn star. Dammit.
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