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 think 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.
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.
THE MAC ʼN’ CHEESE BITES WERE FANTASTIC, but all weekend I was cooped up with the First Lady and three of my grandchildren, and it was too cold to golf. Watching the news shows Sunday morning with Ivanka and Jared was horrible. It was suddenly like everything on TV was one big Internet video jiffy looping over and over, Hillary and Comey, Comey and Hillary, Hillary and Comey, over and over on every channel all at once, even Fox News. Hillary saying Comey won the election for Trump, Comey saying Trump made him nauseous during the election . . . and then the French woman, Le Pen, Marine One, she lost, she loses big-league, and even though it could have been rigged, everybody on TV saying it’s bad for Trump, the French rejected Trump, Putin likes her and she’s a loser so Trump is now a loser.
I realized I had no choice. Comey was a major, major enemy, and I had to “kill” him—kill in quotation marks, the kind of quotation marks I put around “wiretap,” the kind that mean you’re being sarcastic but still serious. I talked to my top team, even the vice president, and they were all for it—Ivanka pointed out it was like a perfect random sample of Americans confirming my judgment: Mike Pence the Midwestern evangelical, Don McGahn the tough Irish New Jersey lawyer, Jared the smooth Jewish Ivy League media guy, my private personal Trump security chief Keith. It was like The A-Team, and then when Rodrigo said he agreed I should can Comey—he repeated his proverb about a snake in every forest—I even had my Mr. T! Reince was kind of a nervous Nelly, but I got him to go along when I said, “Fee-fi-fo-fum, somebody’s gonna get fired this week,” which was another example of those sarcastic but serious things I sometimes say. (General Kelly told me today he didn’t want Reinceʼs job, but I’ll keep at him. Management 101.) Jeff Sessions had his very smart number-two, Rosenberg, Rothstein, whatever, write up the press release of our “reasons”—which I have to tell you made me laugh, since it was all about how Comey had been so unfair to poor, poor Hillary during the campaign. And boom, get him out of here, bye-bye, Comey gone. I felt a little better for a day or so.
HALF THE JOB OF BEING PRESIDENT is meeting with foreign officials, right? So, what, I was supposed to cancel my meeting with the Russian secretary of state and the other one, the big fat one, the ambassador, just because it was the day after I fired the nut job Comey for not stopping the fake Russia stories and finding the leakers? Of course not! It would’ve been very rude and very weak. It was a good thing I didn’t cancel, I can tell you that—because that day the Russians and I were figuring out how to combine our intel with their intel and Israel’s intel, although I never once mentioned Israel, to stop ISIS from pulling off another 9/11.