THE AMERICAN PEOPLE UNDERSTAND

The birds are starting to make their noises. So many birds in Palm Beach.

The sun isn’t up yet.

What I learned yesterday disturbed me so much I had a rough time sleeping, rougher than usual, only three hours instead of my usual four or five.

The kids and the First Lady aren’t going to be happy. But none of them are here. And it’s Saturday, so Vanks and Jared are on shutdown for Shmegegge until nighttime.

And if I don’t tell the world, who will? As someone said yesterday on Air Force One, it’s one of my destinies to be America’s first whistle-blower in chief.

“Obama wiretapped me in Trump Tower last fall! My office! Possibly my private bedroom! But they found nothing, because NOTHING TO FIND, so couldn’t prevent my landslide victory! As someone on AF One said, it’s McCarthyism!”

Need to trim eighty-one characters. Tweet.

I see sunlight.

“When a SECRET COURT turns down your ‘wiretap,’ even if you’re the sitting ‘President,’ OBAMA, I’m pretty sure it’s ILLEGAL to go ahead and ‘wiretap’ a campaign for president before an election! DISGUSTING NEW LOW!”

I probably shouldn’t include his name. Ivanka and Jared and the First Lady will hate that. Also, it’s seventy-five long. Okay, trim. Tweet.

The sun is up. I feel a little better. And I know I’ll feel even better if I do name him.

“It’s disgusting and historic what President Obama did—to tapp my private personal telephones during our highly sacred election procedure. Much, much, much worse than Nixon & Watergate. Very bad (or VERY SICK) dude!”

Tweak, trim, and . . . tweet, wham bam!

MITZI: Presidential to-do list

When you have as many followers on Twitter as I do, as soon as each tweet gets beamed up, it’s amazing to watch the “likes” and “retweets” roll in, live tallies, like a hundred a minute. Sometimes, quite frankly, I lose track of time watching that, realize a half hour has gone by and the meeting with the intelligence briefer or whatever is suddenly over. It’s what Tiger Woods means when he talks about “getting in the zone.”

I feel much, much better now.

In the bathroom I see another important piece of news that demands a response—Arnold Schwarzenegger is now pretending he quit as host of New Celebrity Apprentice because of the show’s “baggage.” The president of the United States is “baggage”?! So rude and unpatriotic, especially for an immigrant allowed to become an American without any vetting, even though his father was a Nazi. I need to tell the world that Arnold was fired because of his ratings.

I know the haters and pundits are going to hit me now for hitting Arnold right after I revealed that Obama committed major federal crimes and may be mentally ill—the ratings of a TV show, they’ll say, aren’t as “important” as my exposé of this terrible secret attack on our election process. To that I have three answers. First, both are about telling the truth, which Donald Trump happens to believe the American people deserve to know. Second, any president has to be a world-class “multitasker,” as Ivanka says, dealing with a completely different kind of problem every minute—and then be able to leave it all behind and clear his head as he tees off—at 9 a.m. sharp—on the fabulous first hole of Trump International Golf Club in West Palm Beach. And third—morning, Anthony, how’s it hangin’? . . . third, whatever it was I’ll remember and talk about later.

I SHOT A FIFTY-NINE this morning, one of my best scores ever. It’s freaky how well I’ve been playing. Two holes in one today, one of them on a par four, birdies and eagles on most of the others, which is so incredible, almost, what do you call it, supernatural. It made me think that all that praying for me, from all those millions and millions and millions of Christians all over America, is actually working. I’d ask Mike Pence, but then he’d start in. Anyhow, it’s a shame that issuing press releases or even mentioning my scores on Twitter would be “bragging.” I think it would cheer up America—we’re winning!—but Ivanka and everybody says no.

I was in a fantastic mood when my African American Secret Service agent Anthony and I walked into the Mar-a-Lago Club tonight. “What the heck, Willll-bur,” I said to my commerce secretary/SVP biz dev, Wilbur Ross. Everyone at the presidential table chuckled. “This was supposed to be a guys’ weekend—who’s this hot tamale you brought along for us? She’s just the right height for Jeff!” Everyone laughed hard, including Mrs. Ross, whose name is actually Hillary. “Pardon my French”—I whispered, but loud, you know—“who doesn’t like to fuck a Hillary, huh?” Pardon my French, but they laughed hard! I’ve known Wilbur and Hillary for years. She’s his third. Most of us are on our thirds—me and Mnuchin (treasury secretary/EVP finance), Bannon has had at least three. For almost seventy, Hillary Ross looks fantastic, an eight or probably a nine for her age, which by the way is another way I’m actually so nice to women—over forty, I have a very fair formula in my head for calculating their scores, like handicaps in golf.

You know how Abe Lincoln had his “team of rivals”? I didn’t either until I heard Charles Krauthammer or some professor mention it on Fox while I was picking my cabinet. That’s why I did the favor for Ben Carson, one reason, but not many people know that Wilbur Ross was also once one of my tough, tough rivals. It’s too complicated to explain all the details, but way back, during the first Bush Administration, some Wall Street types expected me to pay a ridiculously unfair interest rate on $675 million they’d invested in my fantastic Trump Taj Mahal casino. Wilbur was their guy, and the two of us negotiated a very, very nice deal where Donald Trump, the person, didn’t declare bankruptcy, because I never have and never will, and everybody got to walk away happy.

I sat down at the table, but something didn’t feel right, like something was out of balance, and then I realized the problem. I made everybody change seats so that it would be me, then a bald guy (General Kelly), then another guy with great hair (Don McGahn), almost-bald guy (Kosher Steve), another guy with great hair (Bannon), bald guy (Ross), woman with nice hair, Jeff Sessions. I think Bannon thought I did it because I didn’t want him next to me.

“Hey,” I said, “offense is the only good defense, right?” We were discussing how I’d called out Obama that morning for wiretapping me. The two Steves totally loved the tweets. Wilbur said the follow-up right afterward with Schwarzenegger proved I wasn’t “obsessed with the Russia stuff.” McGahn rained on the parade a little, but he’s a lawyer, and both Steves swore up and down that the writer of the Breitbart article about the Obama wiretaps is a very strong guy, their most trusted guy, Harvard and Harvard Law School, and that for sure there was all kinds of proof, confidential sources, et cetera.

“Right, General Kelly?” I said to my Homeland Security SVP. “You worked for Obama—they probably wiretapped you, too, when you hit them on Guantanamo and letting ladies in the infantry, am I right?”

Kelly just smiled and shrugged.

“Well, Mr. President,” my counsel said, “it was good you put quotation marks in the tweets around ‘wiretapping.’ That gives us some definitional leeway.”

“Right,” I said. “Exactly right, Don. Important point. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I use quotation marks so much in the tweets, like with ‘rigged’ and ‘dudes’ and ‘evil.’ The extra spice and punch but also that definitional leeway, I love the definitional leeway.”

Bannon chuckled, which made me wonder if he thinks I didn’t know what “definitional leeway” meant. Steve is tough but he can also be kind of a prick sometimes.

“The other thing,” I said, “is that I could have gone so much farther than I did. I could have gone public about the weird beeping Tiffany’s iPad made that day in Cleveland during the convention when she tried watching the big video by Obama and Hillary’s friend Beyoncé. I could have gone public about Barron’s school having a teacher whose father was a bigwig in the CIA under Bush. I could have gone public about the window washer incident.” The Rosses hadn’t heard about the window washer. “At Trump Tower, day before the election, twenty-sixth floor, right there on the other side of the glass, an Arab guy, earphones with red wires leading to something in his pocket. I had Anthony take care of him. We kept that one quiet.”

Everybody was sort of looking at their plates. They were probably nervous that a waiter might overhear top-secret things.

“Hey,” I said to my attorney general, “you’re being awful quiet over there. Cat got your tongue, Mr. Mouse?” Sessions looks like a talking mouse in a cartoon, right? “Just because you ‘recused’ on investigating the campaign doesn’t mean you can’t talk about it! Right, Don? No? Okay, Jeff, plug your ears! Better yet— Hillary, take the attorney general down to a cabana for a few minutes, teach him how to be a real man. Kidding!” I’ve stopped calling him “Jeffy” ever since he recused. Management 101. By the way, those eight cabanas on the beach for Mar-a-Lago Club members are unbelievably lavish.

Don was still worried the media and the Democrats in Congress would keep demanding “proof” that Obama did to me even worse than what Hillary and the Democrats claim the Russians did to her. “I’ve got it,” I said. “The letter he left for me in the Oval. Obama admits the whole thing in there. And apologizes for it.”

For like five seconds, maybe ten, nobody said a thing.

“I’m not saying he did say that in the letter,” I continued, “not in so many words, like in a deposition or something. But I could say my strong belief is he basically confirmed it in the letter.”

Don was shaking his head. “Obama would deny it immediately.”

“So?” I said. “It was handwritten. You think he made a photocopy? I doubt it. And I say I can’t show it because of executive privilege. No? Then because it’s private and confidential. Like my taxes.”

Don was shaking his head again. “Obama says, ‘Go ahead, Mr. President, you have my permission—release the letter I wrote you.’”

Okay, Obama didn’t say “Hey, Don, I wiretapped you, sorry about that.” He’s a writer, he’s a lawyer, he’s clever, he’s sneaky. But someday, when all the papers are in the archives, historians will see that between the lines he was definitely confessing.

My good mood was over. Like I say, the ups never last long. It’s always something. “Well, Bannon,” I told him, “this started with you. You called it—what did you say—‘a huge attack on democracy,’ ‘the largest abuse of power ever.’ So if we have a problem it’s your problem. Up to you to back it up, gather up the evidence, find the proof.”

I STARTED THIS MORNING with another up at Trump International Golf Club. Four hours playing on one of my fantastic courses is as perfect as life gets, like I’m dreaming—actually like heaven as heaven has been advertised all these years. There are ten reasons for this, which I considered turning into its own book, Donald Trump’s Guide to Heaven on Earth or Heaven Is for Winners, but I don’t have the time, so I’m giving it to you here at no extra charge.

First of all, I own the course, which is wonderful for me. Second, it’s beautiful in a way everybody thinks is beautiful, not like Angelina Jolie who to me looks like the young Martin Landau, or like one of those artworks that some people say are beautiful but most people know really aren’t. Third, it’s perfectly groomed, which you could say is part of beauty, but to me it’s so important it’s a separate thing. Fourth, you’re with guys who either paid $250,000 to join and $30,000 a year to play or friends of those guys—people who want the best. Fifth, the caddies—a lot of them African American and Hispanic, doing a simple job well, very polite, quiet unless you ask them something, for only $100 a day—what I spend every second, which is amazing, right? Sixth, you hit a thing so hard with a steel club that if it were alive you’d kill it, but then on the green you just tap it and it does exactly what you want and disappears. Seventh, there are no surprises on a golf course you’ve played a hundred times, and almost nobody ever says anything you don’t understand. On the other hand, my eighth point: It doesn’t all come easy—and I don’t mean just the sand traps and water hazards, which are real challenges but also beautiful and perfectly groomed in their own right. I mean challenging like our fifth hole at Trump International in West Palm Beach, where the fairway narrows and the vegetation gets very dense and thick with the palm trees, almost dark, like in the African jungle, and you’re an explorer, where natives could suddenly come out of the trees and attack you, and the caddies might help fight them off or might run away or, scariest of all, suddenly feel like chumps and join up with the natives and massacre you. Ninth, there’s a happy ending: After you go past the beautiful two-story waterfall we built on the seventeenth hole, the clubhouse comes into view, which is home sweet home, with the marble foyer, the big gold and crystal chandelier, the antique statues of baby angels, and the greatest onion rings in Florida, probably in America. Lastly, number ten, somebody wins, and usually it’s me.

In fact, this morning it was even more like heaven than usual, because I shot even better than yesterday—fifty-seven, with two holes in one and like ten inches short of a third. I think three is the all-time world record, which I asked Anthony, my great African American special agent, to Google on the way back to Mar-a-Lago. By the way, Anthony finally admitted he didn’t vote for me, but he swore to me he didn’t vote for Hillary either, it was the first time he didn’t vote for president, which actually made me choke up.

Anthony looks so great, so fit, so hard, so tough, I’ve decided I want my entire Secret Service detail to be all African Americans all the time. Which would be such a win-win—highlighting my civil rights reputation and also extra scary to any bad guys thinking of attacking me. Anthony told me there are like three hundred black special agents. It’s a visionary idea, so people will complain, but it’s totally doable. Exciting, right?

But then I came home and watched all the Sunday shows I’d TiVo’d. They were bad, so bad, so full of weakness for our side. Of course all the fake media reporters and pundits came out against me on my tweets about Obama wiretapping. Of course Obama’s “intelligence” chief Clapper—what a name, huh?—and of course Obama’s Democrat CIA guy Panetta came on the shows to go against me.

The only person who works for Trump we put on any of the shows on any of the channels, including Fox, is Mike Huckabee’s daughter? Nice girl, more calm than Sean, I don’t have Ivanka’s issue about her weight, but all she does this morning is keep repeating about the wiretrapping, “It was on the BBC, it was in the New York Times.” Then the elderly guy who was W’s attorney general for a year, pal of Giuliani’s, he’s supposed to be on our side and goes on TV saying, “I don’t do tweets” and “tweets are bad” and “somebody in Trump Tower may have been a Russian agent” and “there’s nothing to prosecute except the Russians”?

And the senators they had on, my Republican fucking senators from the intelligence committee, pardon my French? That you-know-what Susan Collins says “no evidence,” “Trump should turn over any evidence, better yet Trump should just shut up,” so disrespectful. (By the way, Reince just told me she got married for the first time four years ago, at like sixty. Wow. Never heard of a woman doing that.) The kid Cotton from Oklahoma, supposedly conservative—“I’ve seen no evidence,” “I ignore Trump’s tweets.” And little fucking Marco Rubio, pardon my French—I give him a nice tweet when he’s begging to get back in the Senate after I beat him, two days ago I give him a nice ride down here to Florida on Air Force One, find him salsa in the galley for his beautiful in-flight shrimp, and now on Sunday this is what he does to me? I’ve always said Marco was a very dishonest and disloyal lightweight little boy, but he was the worst about the Obama wiretapping, he went on and on, on Meet the Press and also CNN—“no evidence, no one’s presented anything; never seen anything anywhere about that; never heard that from anybody; ask Trump, he’ll answer it, make him explain; I’m not the guy that went out and said that.” Fuck me, I am going to fuck that motherfucking little Cuban choker so bad when he runs against me in 2020, pardon my French. The little Spanish fuck. Pardon my French.

The American people understand what’s going on. They know. This is why I won, even though it’s literally impossible for a Republican to win in the electoral college. The people know all the professional politicians in Washington are scared of the truth, scared of somebody in power who knows the score, scared of me. The people hate the “elite” and now they hate that the elite is trying to make Trump look stupid and dishonest, and make him feel bad. I refuse to let the corrupt elite establishment insiders force me to let the American people down.