by Alec Baldwin
MITZI: Presidential to-do list
Song, “I DON’T PANIC / I COMMAND, I MAKE DEMANDS / MAKE OTHER PEOPLE SCARED / ME-DERSHIP 101,” © 2017 by Donald J. Trump.
MITZI: Presidential to-do list
Invite Kanye to Southern White House to discuss Trump rap album, advance warning for club members.
Focus is why Jared and other people have been very nicely offering to stop a terrible Enquirer story about Joe and Mika if they’ll publicly apologize to us.
Focus is getting Obamacare repealed now and replaced by whatever. “You’re not ‘moving on’ from repealing and replacing,” I told Ryan and Priebus. “You’ve got nine days, two weeks tops—or else, Reincey.” Which scared him, but I noticed actually made Ryan smile.
Focus is why I told my financial and economic guys weeks ago we need to announce our fantastic tax plan before the hundred days are up, biggest tax cut in the history of this country and one of the biggest ever anywhere in the world—almost no taxes. What the plan has to do, right away, I told them, is get rid of all the taxes that are there only to hurt the successful people—the “alternative” tax, the terrible new tax on stock market winners that pays for collapsing Obamacare, the tax that takes away the money you want to leave to your kids when you pass away, et cetera. I have another idea, which my financial guys are too scared to propose this time around. After any American is murdered by an illegal immigrant or a terrorist, the victim’s family would never have to pay taxes of any kind again. Even sales tax, because we’d issue cards that say TAX AMNESTY: ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT MURDERER VICTIM, which they’d present at the cash registers, or enter a code if they shop online, although in any case, no more taxes, ever. But even before we do that, our tax and economic plan is going to make America like it was when everybody lived in nice homes and almost nobody got murdered and the dads who didn’t do the dirty work always wore ties. But our plan will also make America like you’ve never seen it before, like on The Jetsons.
AFTER I ANNOUNCED we were about to announce the amazing tax plan, my financial and economic guys claimed to my face that I’d never told them about the hundred-days deadline—which is so not true that I laughed as hard and long as I’d laughed since one of Tillerson’s people mentioned a real African president named “Omar Bongo.” My economic guys got the message and while I was still laughing rushed out of the Oval and got right to work on it, since they knew they’d screwed up. They finished the plan in a few days, which is all they needed—as anybody who’s ever paid for a term paper the night before it’s due knows.
The rush also made it more exciting for everybody. We were ending our show’s first season, one hundred days, thirteen weeks, and excitement is so important in any finale episode—like on Day Ninety-Seven when I said I was going to pull out of the Clintons’ disastrous trade deal with the Mexicans and the Canadians, which everyone knows destroyed our economy. “No more NAFTA”—and everybody got excited! Ivanka said she had a strong feeling the president of Canada and the prime minister of Mexico would both call me the next day literally begging to make a better deal—and that’s exactly what happened, boom, boom, one right after the other! (I’m glad to know now that Ivanka inherited some of my “special” mental powers. I think Barron is developing them, too. On Easter Sunday I was kind of talking in my mind about North Korea’s nuclear to my brilliant MIT uncle, Professor John Trump, who died right before my first appearance on 60 Minutes, before I was forty, so sad. Suddenly Barron says that I’m like Professor X, the star of X-Men—or Professor X and Magneto combined, which Barron says would be the best. I need Barron around more. So smart.) Anyhow, on Day Ninety-Eight, Trudeau and Piñata both called and caved and said they’d change NAFTA to make America first.
On Day Ninety-Nine I realized we’d done nothing at all on one of my very important promises during the campaign—that we would sue all of the lying women who lied that I “assaulted” them. Unfortunately I can’t do this by an executive order, because what didn’t happen didn’t happen when I was a private citizen, which also means I can’t use my White House counsel or the Secret Service or FBI on it. Ivanka begged me to wait until 2018 to announce it, but I told my personal lawyers to start all the background work, investigating if it was Hillary or Obama or both who hired those disgusting women to come forward and tell their lies. By the way, I’ve never “sexually assaulted” any woman in my entire life. Sure, once they give me the sign, I’m no sissy, because, quite frankly, most women want that Robert Mitchum–Jim Brown type of man, which is a major reason I’ve always done so well with the ladies. But according to the women I know, other women these days are being brainwashed by PC to call everything “assault,” which is so unfair and disgusting.
On the morning of Day One Hundred, when I got my weekly Filipino proverb along with my bacon and Ovaltine—Ang umaayaw ay di nagwawagi, ang nagwawagi ay di umaayaw, which is a lot of words for “Succeed or die”—I decided to call the president of the Philippines, where it was like dinnertime the night before. I love that international time travel thing. To be quite honest, it’s military leverage we have over Kim Jong-un if it ever did come to war, a thing that our generals and “intelligence” and other presidents have never realized we could use to our advantage. America First also means we get the days first, because it’s still Friday in Korea when we’ve already moved on to Saturday in America. Which reminds me of a picture book I had when I was young, The Relativity Express, Christmas gift from my MIT genius uncle, Dr. John Trump, about a train that travels so fast it goes back to cowboy times, which gave me the idea in fifth grade of traveling to the early 1900s and buying up certain real estate for nothing because none of the sellers would know their properties were going to become super valuable. After I found out that kind of time travel was impossible, I lost interest in science.
Rodrigo told me that President Duty-Free speaks English, which was great. And it turns out his first name is also Rodrigo, which is spooky, but made me feel like we were friends right away. Good guy, great guy, wonderful energy—told me his last name is actually Dirty Tea, very polite about that, but that if I ever called him Duty-Free again, he might “mistake” some of our Manila embassy staff for drug dealers. He was joking, and we had a good laugh—but I told him I very seriously loved the fantastic, unbelievable job he was doing with his drug problem and wanted him to teach us how to stop ours. He made shooting sounds, like we did when we were kids—“Pkew! Pkew! Pkew!”—which was very funny. He also said he hoped I wouldn’t start a war with North Korea—or at least let him know in advance so he could get out of the Orient ahead of time! Funny, funny guy. Great chemistry, so I invited him to both White Houses, and told him when he comes my senior steward and special international minority adviser would fix him some bull’s penis soup with chicken toenails and crickets—which my Rodrigo swears they actually eat, which does make you wonder.
IT’S RELATED TO WHY I WAS SO ATTRACTED TO MY WIVES—NONE OF THEM SPEAK ENGLISH PERFECTLY, SO IT WAS NEVER LIKE THEY WOULD BE JUDGING ME.
Around the end of the first one hundred days I also made everybody excited when I said Kim Jong-un is a smart cookie and tough and that I’d be honored to get together with him. Xi said that’s how to get him to do what you want, duh, but I also really think Kim is a smart, tough young guy. Like the good Arabs, Ahmet Ertegun in Turkey and General Sissy in Egypt, like Putin and Xi. I enjoy these guys because there’s no bullshit involved, no fake “principles,” it’s all totally honest—and unlike the Europeans and the pretty boy gym rats who run Canada and Mexico, they don’t try to make it like I’m not as smart or sophisticated or nice as they are. It’s related to why I was so attracted to my wives—none of them speak English perfectly, so it was never like they would be judging me.
By the way, speaking of not judging, you know who else I’ve developed great relationships with? The leaders of Africa and South America, who supposedly don’t like America. Well, they like me, whi
ch means they’re finally learning to like America. It’s been secret until now, Ivanka and Jared made me pinky swear I’d keep it secret, but every month or so I do the FaceTime with Bob Mugabe, who’s been head of Zimbabwe for thirty-seven years, just about the longest in the world, which is so impressive, and he speaks perfect English. Also Nick Maduro, the head of Venezuela, not such good English, but he sells us oil, so much oil, as much oil as Saudi Arabia, which most people don’t know, and he also understands Venezuela could be a beautiful resort country again. We have good chemistry, Bob and Nick and I.
Even though the “first one hundred days” thing isn’t in the Constitution or the laws or other rule books at all, just a totally meaningless test the fake media fabricated to make Trump panic and feel bad, like it used to do about my fingers and hands, now even the pundits and professors are saying I had the most memorable first one hundred days since FDR—somebody showed me the articles, the headlines. And to celebrate we had a tremendous rally on Day One Hundred in Pennsylvania, where I beat Hillary last fall even though no Republican had ever won Pennsylvania. I felt so great, so phenomenal—and I think the new supplements made my Superman feelings last a lot longer than usual, even though Ivanka, who walked by just now as I was saying this, reminded me to “write” that all my pills and capsules are totally natural and organic vitamin-type things.
When I asked Reince why we hadn’t started scheduling two or three rallies a week, like I’d ordered, he claimed he thought I’d said one every two or three weeks. “Two or three every week would be a lot of rallies, Mr. President. An awful lot.”
“Right? Right! Exactly! You saw how happy those people in Pennsylvania were on Saturday, all one hundred thousand of them shouting ‘Trump! Trump! Trump!’ The people love the rallies, Reince. They need the rallies.” The only problem with Pennsylvania was the Secret Service dogs sniffing for explosives—I actually saw them right around my podium. “But as we do more rallies,” I reminded Reince, “don’t forget the new dog protocols, okay?” The canine teams need to go in and be gone at least twenty-four hours before Trump arrives—and I don’t care if that means more uniformed Secret Service overtime. No dogs.
Believe it or not, until now there was never an official American commander in chief uniform! For the time being I only wear it privately—such as here in the Southern White House, doing what Ivanka calls my “mindfulness practice.”
I was on a roll again, so I kept the action going a few days past Day One Hundred, making it all look totally off the cuff, surprise, surprise, surprise, keeping the excitement up—like saying how I might raise the gasoline tax to pay for new everything, highways, bridges, airports, airplanes, ships, missiles, tanks, lasers, computers, the best, all brand-new, and how I might break up JPMorgan Chase and Citigroup and Goldman Sachs and all of the big banks.
And then right at the end of the first one hundred days, the very end, Day One Hundred Five, whatever, Ryan and I guess Reince came through in the clinch on repeal and replace, we won, couldn’t be done and I did it, back from the dead, we had a beautiful party out in the Rose Garden.
MITZI: Presidential to-do list
Song, “REINCE AND RYAN, REPEAL AND REPLACE /REALLY WON, COULDN’T BE DONE, BACK FROM THE DEAD / OUT IN THE ROSE GARDEN PARTY PARTY PARTY,” © 2017 by Donald J. Trump.
I felt so great, so incredible, so amazing, so fantastic, so out- standing, literally unbelievable. So truly, extremely, absolutely, unbelievably, tremendously phenomenal, the best. The best, the best. Just the best.
I HAD TO “KILL” HIM—
KILL IN QUOTATION MARKS
Like I’ve said, even though I always kind of forget it myself, big downs follow the big ups. And I’m Trump, so both are bigger than you can probably even imagine.
During the Rose Garden party, I glanced over at Paul Ryan and he looked evil, like a smiling vampire, not like the kid on The Munsters, who a lot of people say Paul resembles, but like Barnabas on Dark Shadows, actually scary. I reminded myself that Paul always glances at himself in windows and mirrors, which is unvampire, but sort of gay, and people have told me vampires go both ways, biting and sucking men, women, whoever. The First Lady is actually kind of a vampire expert, because vampires originated in her part of the world. In any case, that afternoon Paul Ryan definitely looked untrustworthy, and when I have strong instincts, they always mean something—I trust my gut more than I trust anything, the way other people trust “God” or “science.”
I went to the Oval Office to gather my thoughts and take some supplements. When Rodrigo brought me an afternoon tray of chicken tenders from downstairs, it had one of his little cards with the Filipino proverb—it was Huwag kang magtiwala sa di mo kilal, “Don’t trust strangers,” which I strongly agree with, but it’s also a Cash-22, because deep down, except for maybe your mother and some of your children, who isn’t a stranger?
Rodrigo told me that his boss, the chief usher, had been on his case ever since I made him my senior steward and special international minority adviser. Which made me angry.
“We’re gonna do a scene from The Apprentice, Rodrigo. Ready . . . roll sound . . . action!”
While I ate my chicken tenders, I called Reince, who was still out in the Rose Garden—I could watch him as he saw my call come in and put down his beer and got all nervous, which I enjoyed. I told him to fire the chief usher now. Definitely not because she’s African American or a woman or the first African American woman in that job, but because her staff, especially her minority staff, has totally lost confidence in her, and also she may be leaking to Obama, Lynch, Holder, et cetera, who knows.
While I was still talking to Reince, a call came in from Jeff Sessions. Jeff did his nervous, stuttery thing. He reminds me of that kid in To Kill a Mockingbird who pours pancake syrup all over his food. I liked that kid, even though he was a loser.
MITZI:
Pancake syrup boy in To Kill a Mockingbird, who is that?
Mitzi didn’t understand, or didn’t know. Sad. I thought I could totally trust Mitzi.
Anyway, I told Sessions to stop stuttering like a little boy. “Is this about Comey again, his weird stuff in the Senate yesterday, the ‘I prayed to find a third door’ and ‘makes me nauseous’ stuff? I’ve got it cued up on the TiVo here if you want to come over and watch again. Unless you’re too recused.”
He said he was calling about the FBI director, but some new things—Comey just asked for a bigger budget for the FBI to investigate Russia. “And he’s been telling people around town that, that—that you’re ‘abnormal’ and ‘crazy,’ Mr. President.”
I thought it might be another one of those mental tricks, where the things people tell me sound worse than they really are, so I had Jeff repeat it, and put him on speaker so Rodrigo could hear, too. “Yes, Mr. President,” Jeff said, “that’s right, Comey wants more money to investigate the campaign’s connections to Russia, and he’s been telling people ‘the president is not normal’ and ‘the president seems crazy.’”
Trump is not normal? I’m one of the most normal people you’ll ever meet—it’s why all the most normal Americans support me so strongly, because I’m just like them, except maybe smarter and a lot more successful, and my wife is much, much better looking. If you’re worth $20 billion because you built the most successful business of its kind on earth and you get elected president, doesn’t that mean you’re the opposite of “crazy”? I always thought Comey was a freak, way too tall, reminds me of that extremely tall guy who wrote The Andromeda Strain, great book, the last “novel” I read, who died very young, like sixty-six. I wonder if maybe Comey has whatever super-tall-man disease he had. In any case, until Sessions told me he’s been calling Trump crazy, I’d really never realized he was such a total delusional fruitcake. “Wow,” I said.
What was even worse, Rodrigo told me I’d spent seventeen straight nights in the White House, more than ever before in history. I t
hink what I call the “kryptonite” there really was starting to weaken my powers—which, by the way, Rodrigo says might be connected to the lead in the very old White House pipes, like in that hellhole city in Michigan where I campaigned, Fink, Clint, Flynn, that one. I needed to get to a place that I own and totally control. Immediately.
WE CONVOY UP TO THE USS INTREPID ANCHORED IN THE HUDSON RIVER, WHICH IS LIKE MY SPECIAL PRESIDENTIALAIRCRAFT CARRIER KEEPING NEW YORKERS FROM ATTACKING ME.
The closest Trump homes to Washington, D.C., are New York—but I knew they may still be wiretapping me at the Northern White House, Trump Tower, one reason I’ve stayed away, and they’d be expecting me to go there. So I outsmarted them, kept them off guard, zigzagged in a fantastic way, totally like a movie, even more so because I played the special soundtrack Barron put on my phone—I went in Air Force One to an airport named after a rich and handsome president with a beautiful First Lady, then a fast Marine One flight, with the decoy Marine Ones around us, which I love, like we’re on a combat mission, right into a heliport on Wall Street, and then it was like I’m having a commander in chief ticker-tape parade as we convoy up to the USS Intrepid anchored in the Hudson River, which is like my special presidential aircraft carrier keeping New Yorkers from attacking me, then after dark we chopper out to the Trump National Golf Club in New Jersey, to my private villa that I own, on 525 acres which I also own. Anthony told me it’s the Trump property with the most defensible terrain and best weapons-system positions—and the clubhouse, open for me around the clock, has the fantastic fried mac ʼn’ cheese bites.
