Photo illustration: Yahoo News; photos: AP
An open letter from Donald Trump
Dear Republican voters:
I’m pretty tired of these losers in the media saying I don’t really want to be president and I’m just here to star in another reality show. Like anyone would shoot a TV show in Iowa. Give me a break.
It’s true that I am undeniably magnetic. I mean, seriously, I could slurp Lucky Charms in front of a camera for an hour every week, and the ratings would be phenomenal. If you knew how much money NBC had already offered me to turn my campaign into a show, you just wouldn’t believe it. Like I need to save primetime from “The Mysteries of Laura.” Right.
No, I’m serious about making America great again. But you know, I watched Paul Ryan talking on the news a few nights ago about the “requests” he’s made from House Republicans before he’ll accept the job as speaker, and a couple of things popped into my mind, which is not unusual, because I have a phenomenal mind, I really do, and things are always popping into it like you wouldn’t believe.
First, what happened to his lips? It’s very strange. I mean, I haven’t made fun of his appearance, because he’s not dumb enough to run against me, but seriously, no wonder he and Romney got smoked. America’s not voting for a lipless Eddie Munster with eyes from “The Exorcist,” even for a worthless job like vice president. I’m just telling it like it is.
And second, if Paul can just go around making demands — that’s what they are, trust me, I know demands when I see them — then why can’t I? Let’s be real: If I’m not the Republican nominee, this whole party is disappearing faster than Jay Z’s streaming thing. You think Marco Rubio’s going to beat Hillary? The boy in the plastic water bottle? Get real.
So maybe I’d like to second Paul’s list of requests in order for me to accept the nomination, with a few small tweaks. Here’s my list:
1. The next president should be a visionary, not a day-to-day guy.
You know who cares about bill signings and Cabinet meetings? Losers, that’s who. If I had to spend seven seconds in an actual conversation with the secretary of transportation, I swear to God, I’d grab a Glock from the nearest Secret Service agent and shoot myself.
The president ought to spend his time thinking big, not screwing around with details. Like dealing with aliens. I’m not talking about Mexicans here. I’m talking about this thing I saw on CNN about the distant star that’s got this weird blinking, and the NASA people think it could be intelligent life.
So now you’re going to have all these “extraterrestrial Americans” demanding special protections and work visas. You think Uber’s hurting the taxi drivers? Wait till you see a driver who can levitate the car. Try competing for a factory job with some guy who regenerates limbs on his lunch hour.
Look, someone’s got to be thinking ahead about an intergalactic wall. I can’t be running to the Situation Room every time some Malaysian plane goes missing. I wouldn’t do anything else.
2. I’m open to some rule changes, as long as they’re good for me.
This whole nomination process is just a joke. Clearly I’ve won. But not only is the party going to make me do more debates, now they tell me Jeb is still around. It’s just ghoulish, standing next to a dead man like that. It’s very awkward for me, honestly.
And I don’t see why the party had to do away with all those “winner take all” primaries, which is going to drag this thing out forever. This is America. We celebrate winners. We don’t give you three-sevenths of the World Series trophy when you blow Game 7. You don’t get 10 percent of a lottery ticket for being one number off. It’s not like I have to take some sizable chunk of my income from a brilliant land deal and just hand it over to the government.
Not that I don’t pay taxes. I do. I pay so many taxes, it would make you feel ashamed if I showed you. So I won’t.
Anyway, I’m proposing we cancel the primaries and hold a single, national vote next week. But like my buddy Paul says, whatever we do, we do as a team.
If you’re not on my team, just be warned, I’ll probably sue you.
3. There will be no motions at the party convention. In fact, no convention.
The whole convention routine is ridiculous. We need a roll call of the states? Like anyone cares what Rhode Island thinks about anything? I got more viewers for an “Apprentice” rerun than they have in the entire state. It’s like a rest stop between Atlantic City and Nova Scotia. Pathetic.
And who carries placards anymore? You put “Trump” on a placard and carry it over your head, you know what people are going to see? A picket line at the Taj. Is that the visual you want?
Look, instead of actually airing all those speeches, we should just have me berating the pathetic vice presidential wannabes, and then let people vote at home. The ratings for that would be off the charts. We put that out to bid in Hollywood, and the haul we get will make the Koch Brothers look like a couple of Buddhist monks.
But either way, I can’t be in Cleveland. I looked at my calendar the other day, and I’ve got a Miss Universe board meeting that week. There’s only so much real work I can miss.
4. Family comes first.
Ivanka is almost 34, and that’s a very formative age. She’s unbelievable. Like I said publicly, if she weren’t my daughter, I’d definitely ask her out. I know that creeped some people out, but let me tell you, if I were gay, I’d hit on myself. It’s unbelievable, the pheromones in this family.
But look, I just can’t be traveling all the time. These places we stay in Iowa and New Hampshire — I’d be embarrassed to call them hotels. The pillows are filled with foam. There’s no Brazilian marble anywhere. You know what the live entertainment is? Watching fat people elbow each other at the breakfast bar.
Plus I detest shaking hands. For years I refused. You get so many germs that way, you can’t imagine. Chris Christie comes out of the men’s room before the last debate and shakes my hand. Did he wash first? I don’t know. The whole debate, I’m feeling like a giant, sweaty, orange paramecium.
So if you want me to be the nominee, you’ll have to be all right with me staying home just like Paul, OK? Someone told me Abraham Lincoln did that, and I’m way huger than he was.
5. Every single Republican must vote for me.
I don’t mean every delegate. I mean every voter.
Actually, the only Republican out there who might not vote for me is Carly. She’s still mad because I made fun of her face. She’s lucky I didn’t talk about her printers. I mean, have you ever tried unjamming an HP? No wonder she ran the company into the ground. I keep expecting Carly to stop talking in the middle of a sentence and then just start beeping until someone turns her upside down and shakes.
But I need Carly’s vote, too. You can’t make America great again if we’re not 100 percent united. “Make America Middling Again” is not a hat I would wear, and neither would you.
In closing, let me repeat that I would happily serve as your nominee for president, so don’t get the wrong idea. It’s just that I don’t especially want the job, because it seems kind of horrible. That’s all Paul Ryan is saying, too.
Maybe Paul and I can even help each other out. I know so many Botox doctors, you wouldn’t believe. But that’s entirely up to you, and I await your answer by the end of the week.
Your future president,