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“I’ll admit it. It’s been a tough week. On the way down to Atlanta, they ran out of diet Coke on the jet—imagine that, on my own damn jet. Can’t get good help these days. And then getting fingerprinted is never much fun. The guy with the ink pad was so sloppy he almost got that mess on my French cuffs.
“But taking that mug shot was more fun than I thought it would be. I love snarling and smirking. I love bending those eyebrows and looking nasty. That photo alone will net me a least 15 million bucks. And believe me, that money isn’t going to campaign costs or legal fees. Allen Weisselberg taught me well. It will be laundered, hidden, and eventually spent by guess who. What a shame they didn’t want photos in New York and DC. Coulda made me a few more bucks.
“But in this bad week one thing brought me joy. Real real joy. I turn on the news and there’s this big story about that Russian guy. His name’s Pigoshen or Prigopen, whatever. He’s that guy with the Wagner Group in Russia, the one who tried to cross my friend Vladi. He gets on a plane one day, they fly for a few minutes, and then boom! The whole thing came down in little pieces. Oh, so sorry. No survivors.
“That’s why Vladi is my hero. He does what he wants when he wants. You give me crap, man, and you’re gone. Better get a food taster. Better get that jet inspected before it takes off. Ya, know, sh_t happens when you mess with my man Vlad. He goes on state TV, says how sorry he feels, and the message goes out, clear as day: Don’t mess with me.
“And that’s the trouble with this country. You can insult and mock people all you want, you can ruin their lives and their reputations, try to make them poverty-stricken, but if I had my way, we’d be more like Russia: You mess with me, you fear for your life.
“Sometimes I like to daydream. I lie down and close my eyes and imagine the US of A as I’d like it to be. January 2025. President Trump takes office, the revenge tour begins, and people start dropping like flies. But here you can’t just bomb a plane, you gotta do it with style—make the punishment fit the crime—and believe me, as President I’ll arrange for it to happen.
I can just see the newspaper headlines and stories:
Tallahassee, Florida. Ron DeSantis, out walking his dog, was attacked and killed today by an alligator. Some in Florida mourn.
Indianapolis, Indiana. As Mike Pence, newly re-elected Governor of Indiana, was being sworn in on the Indiana Fair State grounds, a sudden and unexpected thunderstorm moved in today. As if it were an act of God, a bolt of lightning came out of the sky. President Trump relays his sincerest condolences.
New York, NY. Allen Cohen, former fixer of the Trump organization, was killed today in a mugging in broad daylight on Broadway and 42 Street. Strangely enough, the muggers did not take any valuables, however they were seen laughing out loud as they fled the scene.
“The others? Let me me think.
“Poor Chris Christie. He’ll die on the operating table during liposuction surgery.
“Vivek Ramaswany, that amateur trying to imitate me: Food poisoning from eating bad beef.
“Adam Schiff: Real simple. Swallowed up during the tragic earthquake in LA.
“Melania, if she ever tries to divorces me: VD.
“And although he wasn’t such a bad guy, Anthony Fauci: COVID.
“It’s pleasant thoughts such as these, fantasies of retribution against those losers, that keep me going. And, hey, sometimes dreams come true, don’t they?”
Thanks, Ed! I read it with pleasure as I sipped my morning brew.