Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.
My fellow Americans:
In an effort to uphold the dignity becoming the office of President of the United States, I have held my tongue as our new President-elect, Donald Trump, prepares his transition from most powerful man on “Celebrity Apprentice” to most powerful man on Earth. I’ve also kept quiet because mentioning his name in that context makes me literally throw up in my mouth. But I’m running out of time, so while I still have the platform, permit me a few remarks.
Like all thoughtful people who get their news from non-fake sources, I have watched in both shock and horror as Mr. Trump has assembled the least-qualified, most-offensive team of advisers since John C. Calhoun was in flower. Is he trolling us, I have wondered. Can this be real. Neo-Nazis? Anti-government zealots? Wealthy donors with no political or administrative experience whatsoever? You know who was spotted at Trump Tower a few days ago? Dan Quayle! Who’s next, G. Gordon Liddy? Like you, I find myself hoping against hope that he selects Mitt Romney—Mitt Romney! Mr. 47 Percent!—as Secretary of State. Is this a reality show? Is there a number we can call at home to vote some of these deplorables off the island?
Too, I have read your think-pieces, absorbed your analyses on why Hillary lost an election she won by more than two million votes. Like you, I weary of hearing about the plight of rural white Americans. I know times are tough there. I do. But I’m pretty sure the internet works in Alabama and Mississippi and West Virginia, and that anyone with ten minutes of free time and a library membership could have ascertained that Donald Trump is a con man extraordinaire, or might have examined Hillary’s many policy proposals, most of which would have directly helped rural American voters. Too many of them did not. Too many were racist, sexist, stupid, and eager to believe the narrative they wanted to believe: emails and Benghazi and Hillary as the actual devil. I gotta be honest, it will be difficult for me to summon great sympathy as President Trump dismantles the safety net, fucking over the very people who represent his core constituency.
(Yes, I said “fucking over.” I’m going full Bulworth.)
Have I been a good president? I think I have. I think the statistics speak for themselves. Real statistics, I mean, not the invented ones Alex Jones throws around. Unemployment is down, the Dow up. I have not yet come for anyone’s guns, nor have I imposed sharia law. But I fear that if I don’t act now, and fast, the entire Republic will expire.
So here’s what I’m going to do in the waning moments of my presidency—what I hope will not go down as the last presidency in our storied history.
First, what the hell is going on in North Dakota? An oil pipeline? Through land sacred to Native Americans? And the government is hosing people down with cold water in the freezing cold? And worse? Okay, enough is enough. Peel back, folks. Didn’t you people see Poltergeist? Let the Indian burial ground alone! Find another place to put your pipeline. That project is officially done.
Second, Merrick Garland? Get your black robe from the dry cleaner’s, you’re on the Supreme Court. Thanks for being a prince throughout this humiliating process. We’re going to argue that the Senate, by stalling for so many months, tacitly granted its approval. Not sure why I didn’t do this months ago. Like, the day after the election. Better late than never, I suppose.
Third, Edward Snowden? Full pardon. You’re clearly less of a danger than anyone in Trump’s Cabinet. Come home, man. We need you, now more than ever.
Speaking of pardons, Hillary is pardoned, too. For what? I don’t even know. Anything she may have done, ever, while in office. There. Now leave her the fuck alone. You people are like Cotton Mather, and you want to see her burned at the stake. But she’s not a witch, she’s a kindly if dull grandmother whose only crime was wanting to help you undeserving wretches. Enough.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Jim Comey: you are in violation of the Hatch Act. I expect your resignation on my desk before I finish uttering this paragraph. You get the opposite of a pardon. Actually, can we just swap you for Snowden outright? From what I understand, you’re a big fan of Russia. I’m sure Mr. Putin has a nice dacha for you.
And this brings us to the spray-tanned elephant in the room: Mr. Trump. Donald, you’ve assembled a team of bigots and sycophants to advise you, for reasons beyond my understanding. Steve Bannon is a Nazi. Jeff Sessions was too racist for the Reagan Administration. Betsy DeVos wouldn’t know a schoolhouse if it landed on her after a Kansan twister.
Also, and more importantly: if you don’t liquidate all your precious assets, immediately, and also release your tax returns, right fucking now, I will personally make it my mission to criticize every move you make, every word you utter, from this moment until your presidency is over. I will be so far up your ass, you’d think I was Melania’s strap-on. (Or maybe Ivanka’s?) Think you can handle a pegging like that, Lord Cheeto?
Oh, one more thing: Hillary conceded, in a classy manner befitting the leader of the free world. You are still somehow complaining that the election was rigged. And not in the Electoral College way our Founding Fathers intended. Well, okay, fine. The only possible way to shut up that puckered asshole mouth of yours is to do a complete and total audit. We have to make sure those three million phantom votes didn’t really vote Hillary. And also that Russia didn’t slightly tilt the vote in those swing states. You know what that means, fuck-o? It means you’re a slice of orange toast.
And if, by some miracle, the results confirm that you are the rightful winner, well, too bad. Because guess what? I ain’t leaving. You’ve spent the last 18 months trying to tear down all our democratic institutions, all these freedoms and liberties we hold most dear, but you’re operating under the assumption that I will do you the courtesy of abiding by the single most important miracle of the American experiment, something we all take for granted: the peaceful transition of power. Joke’s on you, tangerine rapist-of-teens!
You want the keys to the White House, you best come get them, you whiny little piece of creamsicle shit. See, because I know exactly how to make America great again. It’s easy. I just have to not allow you to occupy the Oval Office. Ever. To paraphrase your alleged buddies at the NRA, you get the nuclear launch codes when you pry them from my cold, dead hands.
This impasse ends one of two ways, Donnie. In civil war, or your resignation. As much as I despise Mike Pence with every bone in my body, he is at least vaguely qualified for the job. You, meanwhile, are an affront to everything we hold dear, and I simply cannot allow you to succeed me.
Are you thinking it over, Billy Bush bromance boy? Let me sweeten the pot for you. We’ll have Jill Stein do a GoFundMe page. See how much money we can raise. All of it goes to you if you resign immediately. She raised four million bucks in four days! You think the American people wouldn’t pay a lot more to have you leave without doing any more damage to our democracy?
You can use the money to buy a great big gold-plated Sybian machine. And you know what you can do with your gold-plated Sybian machine? That’s right, Mr. Trump: you can go fuck yourself.