My campaign is all about me, Donald Trump, image marvelous, savant fabulous, God wonder. I don’t gotta say anything but boo and the press goes all atwitter. O’R on Fox loves me. I can feel every kiss (Backside only; don’t spoil the make up.) They have me on for interviews to voice the contrary. I eat it up: Live guest from the same time zone in New York City, down the street. No one has to wake up late, or get up early to talk to me.
Fox has given me billions in free advertising, but their ratings haven’t improved over what it was before. That network is run by a bunch of losers. I’d fire them and many of their bleeding reporters.
Because I’m great, and I’m greater than America and Americans will do what I tell them, I must respond to the Petition that Trump Builds Border Wall. I will answer truthfully and straightforwardly, as much as any New York Citier can.
I’m a modern guy. No terrorist is coming after me. I look scarier than hell. No one has ever been so original as I am when I put together my horror-face. I am not completely uninfluenced. I used Zero Mostel as a model – as well as the phony business, the creative accounting and the double chin.
Do you know of the time I give to make myself alarming to other human beings? Old Vladimir Putin was frightened out of his wits in the green room where I met him – much more frightening than meeting Carly Fliorina and her face in a private meeting. In truth she looks like one of Santa’s elves.
Just for the record Carly does not spend much time to look like she does. Remove all the cosmetics and paint from my mug, and I’m as white as a stop light with a broken green lenses. (The orange light in the middle looks like my hair.)
I have to start from that base, get it sparkly clean, like glasses in a washer after the right dishwasher soap is used. Next they put on a base, which no one ever sees. Unprotected it does not last long. So more goop goes on. I’m painted like a Rembrandt, except the old Dutchman never used one color. He employed loads of color, whereas I want my skin to appear smooth. I use lipstick, eye liner, and shadow. I know all the secrets of the super models. That’s how I know Heidi Klum is only a 9.9999.
Whatever happens my lips can’t look old. I hate people with wrinkled and cracked lips, especially old ladies. They look demented. Thin lipped guys like Ted Cruz are equally absurd. His face looks like the skin is so taut that it is stretched over a frame for drying. It must come from his island heritage, when his ancestors were cannibals.
Get the nose right because cosmetics dripping off a proboscis, or bleeding from warm orifices there, is prominent and unsightly. The nose is the biggest feature of my face, far bigger than my mouth. In school I was known as old elephant nose. It overwhelms my puny eyes, but not so much as my overlarge ears. Elephants have big ears too. That’s what the brushoever of my orange hair mostly covers.
My nose is done separately and it is dried. The reminder of my face, the cheeks, must be painted carefully but under a light breeze from a fan making the job easier. Erase removes the lines caused by my jowls. Otherwise, I look like a walrus. Crow’s feet are easy to remove. My face is a menangre. It looks like I’ve never laughed or squinted in my life. My periodical lines are so grooved and set that they they hurt when I smile.
On the campaign trail Hilary has that perfect plastic smile revealing a huge set of teeth. She looks like The Joker’s Bride from Batman, the new sensational sequel.
While doing makeup, I close my eyes. I hear nothing because my eyes are closed. I say nothing because a resting God does not speak. It is his presence that makes the scene awesome for the little human beings around. My son – I’ve told the world how great he is. He’s a godling, who should have the Great label attached to him because he is my son. He’s done nothing on his own. I don’t trust him to make business decisions, but he cab make political small talk.
He worships me. I am a rock, a hunk of brass, an immovable, insensate deposit of pure ego. My eyes are closed. People say I appear asleep. Erect a statute atop the Wall!
I have fabulous orange hair like the moron who shot up the movie theaters in Colorado. That kid is a real loser.
I’ve very proud of my locks, wavy and long, covering my head and keeping me company. I don’t know how bald guys do it. I’m happy to be part of the Republican field where everyone has hair, except Rand Paul whose hair is taking isolationist positions, frills and curls edging toward his forehead.
To get my fur this way, I never arrive harried. We begin in the first thing in the morning, just after mid-night. Only my coiffeur knows for sure. I get great financial advise. They know the look. It’s a campaign so my hair will be texturized but always snaps into place.
The next step is graduation along with jooge, massaging the hair between the fingers and at the roots (without pulling hair out) to give each strand lift. This allows hair on the head to be tamed, unlike upsweeping pit hair which has no body and is busted going every which way. I prefer this preparation to the bed head which looks like then hair has never been tended.
It’s the only way to get Gisele Waves, swishing, controlled hair emphasizing movement rather than volume. It is preferable for me to look this way because Gisele Bundchen is a Ten, where as Heidi Klum, Kraut throughout, is a 8.999. I should tell Heidi that Shirley Temple’s hair looks better than hers, and that Volkswagen wasn’t the only thing that Hitler got wrong.
I have to cover my obesity because I’m fat. I’m not as bad as William Howard Taft, close but not tubby. My tailor does his best. I tried wearing a girdle, but it squeezed my butt skin and caused it to sag. I was becoming very cheeky and jowly. Someone told me to lay off the booze and butter.
I never take off my jacket because fat hangs from my wrists. Sometimes, I lose my watch in folds of flab.
I’ve been told to stop eating Kobe beef, Danish bacon and Milpitas ham. Why should I? I owe it to my constituents to remain fat in body and mind. I can be as fat as I want. Just ask Hilary. The alternative headlines on November 9, 2016 will read:
FAT GIRL WINS PRESIDENCY or FAT JERK WINS
A Mexican dissed me. He called me Poncho. I’ve never been so offended.
Devote time to how to appear and what to present. I’ve married three times because of a silly silverware, jewelry monogram: IT. Everyone these days believes IT means Intelligent Technology. Once, IT meant IT, like the IT girls, actresses who exuded sex until they got fat like Clara Bow.
I dated all sorts of girls to become IT. Ibbie, Iekikai, Ianthe, Ifer, Igone, Ihintza, Iiner, Ilaria, Ilean, Imke, Irmhild, Impi. Just open a New York City telephone book! Not all of them were blondes. With my first two wives, I lost my mind. Screw the monograms, I wanted love. That was a bad deal. There was a lot valuable stuff that I could no longer control. It would go to my no-good fifth cousin who owns a string of gas stations and actually has ten billion dollars. So I figured divorce is like a bankruptcy – cut losses, fire them and cast them adrift, start again, and make new deals. Along with the bankruptcies I’ve had two divorces.
I considered marrying someone who’s name began with a J, Judy. But people would laugh at me thinking I did not know how to spell and my confusing i with a j. My third wife’s name begins with an i; I gag on the name. She knows nothing of Intelligence and Technology but she is a blonde.
When I pout, I look determined. Who wants to confront me because I look ready to cry. No one wants to hear that or watch me throw a fit.
Pouting is the most effective way of telling other people I’m not pleased and I should have more attention. I don’t like other candidates, the men and that woman, who are more articulate and more intelligent than I am. About a lot of issues I couldn’t pour piss from a boot if the instructions were written on the heal.
I know how to use my phone, and I can tweet, twitter and twurb. Twurbo is when thumbs go into overdrive and spit out words faster than the mind can conceive them. The message goes out. That circumstance also happens with my mouth – it’s called tomba.
New York City business is big time. It takes style, presentation and pretty girls. I haven’t seen a Ten in New York City, Heidi Klum is only a seven. There are iron ware pierces covering bodies everywhere. I like some of that, ever so bold, that I can grab and hold. At my age chaining a girl down is the only way to stop my frown.
With pouting I may wrinkle my chin, looking like soup of used shark fin. But my forehead has no wrinkles, unlike Carly’s krinkles.
I know I’m fat but I don’t look it. I’m 80 pounds overweight, and I blame my bulk, flab and blubber on Coca-Cola, eating whale and using Acumen’s pills. Everyone is wrong but me. Pot is no good for you – you want to eat after each toke. Horse and crystal are the best to lose weight, much better than the pharmaceuticals.
I want to run against Hilary because she’s fat too. She wears those oversized jackets and has to extend her short arms out, moving them like she’s rowing a boat, like the Pillsbury doughboy in the desert. If poked in the stomach, Hilary screams, I tried to joint the Marines before I married Bill in 1975. They told me to join the dog-faces.
Americans wonder what life would have been like had Hilary not married Bill or divorced him. She joined the Martines and fought in the First Gulf War, the Second Gulf War and in Afghanistan? Having a warrior Amazon president like that would be a first! Dolls made in China are now on sale in local sidewalk stands.
No one ever sees me move much or very quickly. If they see me coming they get out of the way because I cut a wide berth, a broad beam and heavy steps. I’m not like adipose like some Mexicans. When people come toward them, get down. I’m going to steam roll those people.
I’m using a steamroller to build the wall between Mexico and the USA. I wish the USA border weren’t so long. I wish the United States of America weren’t so long to say. It doesn’t roll off my tongue like bits of Belgium and French chocolate. I like big breakfasts customary to orange-haired people: Lobster dipped in butter; waffles soaked in maple syrup and cocoa picked by true Africans.
Every day I bleed everywhere because I hate and despise everybody and everything. I hate Mexicans, Chinese, the Bush family, the Cubans, idiots in New York City planning, jerks in New York State planning. I wanted the State to pay for a super railroad between New York City and Albany. No one could ride it; no one could afford the fare. But California is doing it – from Fresno to Madera. That’s forward looking.
I bleed when I don’t get whatever I want. I ordered pancakes with walnuts the other morning, and got waffles with pecans instead. If I were that chef’s boss, I’d fire him. Waffles are harder make than pancakes, and pecans are more expensive than walnuts. I know. I’m in the restaurant business.
The reason for the nut difference is it’s easier to crack a walnut. I’ve seen men crack them with their hands; some nut-cracking women can do it too. And it’s easier to get the entire fruit in one piece from a walnut. No one can crack a thin-skinned pecan and get the whole nut. That’s why they cost more.
And the effect the nuts is the same. No one uses pecans in chocolate chip cookies. If pecan pies didn’t have all that gelatinous sticky stuff, it wouldn’t be worth a damn. I prefer cookies. I ate too much pie and got fat and got an atrocious case of hickies. Soft guey warm cookies with suggestions of firmness to add chew are my favorite.
All that sugar makes my teeth bleed, but thee vampire genes in my family makes the blood indelible.
The first thing, the Vietnam War was a loser! I did not dodge the draft during the Vietnam War. There was a draft and I was of age, but I was not called. Everyone knew I was not suited to the draft, which was good for losers – die hard military families and ghetto kids from Detroit.
I preformed invaluable services to the United States during the Vietnam War. I gushed myself up, got pointers from Robert Durst, used money from my father and began taking ladies out in New York City. I improved my social skills. There were some real yelpers and raunchy hirsute wonders. Pits and legs – I had to buy a lot of razors, but along the way I burned a lot of bras. I was the highlight in the life of each woman. I readied them for the returning sad sacks who lost that war.
It is difficult to describe my hard duty, going to party to gathering, smoking dope and trying to convince a girl sprouting Betty Friedan that I was the love of her life for a night. I would much rather that the girl recite Chairman Mao who was much easier to understand. Does anyone understand what women want?
That was my war, standing up for men. About 15 percent of the girls liked it, the really stupid ones. When I got done, men could hold their heads high and be men.
I mostly stayed away from Americans who were wrong. They said, My country right or wrong. They were stupid too, but someone made me think when he said, My mother drunk or sober. I was conflicted because Mommy was pretty special to me.
I cannot be blamed if Americans are not Presbyterians and patriots. Henry Knox was a big patriot. He fought in the American Revolution. He was a general. He was a man. He went bankrupt but had no divorces.
Knox got through bankruptcy and came out all right. Following his faith he redeemed himself being the good religious man he was. Nobody held anything against him because he was such a swell.
Fort Knox, Kentucky is named after Henry, bankrupt but Revolutionary survivor. If he was a loser, the largest gold depository on earth wouldn’t be named after him. This was all because Henry followed his faith and won the Revolutionary War before going bankrupt. He got greedy, too bad but a reason why people go bankrupt.
Somebody asked me if I knew John Knox. I don’t. Never done a deal with John. He never showed up on my radar. Who is he? Why listen to him? Must be an enormous loser, because he didn’t go bankrupt.
I know how to build things. I don’t always manage them well. Four bankruptcies is more than all the other candidates running for President. That makes me qualified. I know law; I know lawsuits; I know attorneys. I’m not afraid to make mistakes.
I have never had to pay for the mistakes I’ve made. I’ve never been fined. I’ve fired dozens of people especially when they are bright, intelligent, talented and have initiative. It a boss can’t control all phases of an employee, every movement of every day, it’s no good having an independent person around. I’m the master; he is the crumbs on the ground to crush.
Of course, I have people around me who say yes, who agree with my opinion, who anticipate every whim, and who want to please me with their reports. I hear nothing negative – life is always like that. I am right. I am God. Don’t tell me differently. If someone says no, I can’t do anything. So I like people around me to say yes.
I learned this lesson in bankruptcy court. When a corporation goes bankrupt, someone says no, the end, loser! I don’t like that. No one in New York City likes that. The billionaires faulted me for bankruptcies: How can anyone be so lame to go bankrupt? I had tough years, especially when real estate developers kept making much more money than I ever will – like Robert Durst’s family. Now that I’m running for President no one is noticing my poor business judgment has made me only moderately successful.
Everyone says cut taxes and Republicans become excited like plutonium atoms ready to divide and explode. No one can control an atomic explosion – look at the Roskies and Chernobyl. They acted like amateurs – virgins at an Hells Angels’ bar.
I know how to cut taxes, drive up the deficit and the debt will rise through the roof. The adjustments and assumptions Republicans make never produce the revenue and growth to create a surplus. Look at big spenders like George W, tax cuts and big deficits.
Like many other Republican candidates, I don’t care if I add Ten Trillion to the national debt over four years. We have to keep up with the Democrats and show we are as profligate as they. I don’t deny that I would benefit most under my tax plan. What did you expect? I need more money so I can hire, and I can fire people because they are losers.
Giving me more money gives me more opportunity. I’m the guy to decide. No one else especially people who make little or modest amounts of money. Those people will never go anywhere. They should all accept their lot. Telling them the truth saves them a lot of time, stops dreams and eliminates disappointment. That’s a fair balanced approach and establishes why my tax plan is the best: I have considered all these facts and effects, and determined my taxes should be reduced two-thirds.
I am behind Hilary in the polls for the general election. People say I am more dishonest and distrusted than Hilary. I understand all that. We’re both from New York City, where no one trusts anyone. We live by that creed. Get it done no matter how criminal and dishonest. Why can’t the reminder of the country accept our ways?
It makes no difference if I’m on the ballot and I lose to Hilary. There will be no great changes. She comes from my world and understands the significance of the office and the status of her position and the power. She doesn’t care like Barack doesn’t care. After B.O., no black man will be elected president in the United States for 100 years. I wonder why Ben Carson is polling so well. He’s pathologically black.
Hilary and I will carry on the same policies all to benefit out mutual business interests and associations. Bill can run around giving speeches to terror groups, Russians, and Chinese, and gain from Hilary’s decisions. Meanwhile, I will get cheap money, build ugly buildings like the crap erected during the Sixties and just as sturdy. That’s how to make money, skimp on the quality of construction materials. My grandkids will be getting government money to replace Trump erections with their own fabrications.
I prefer the Clintons handle the politics, and I can make loads of money more loot than Bill can get through bribes and corruption. So I don’t worry about getting elected; I’ll never get more than 30 percent of the vote. I’m hated in my hometown, New York City, but I expect that. I’m rich. I don’t care.