IF I ACTED “PRESIDENTIAL” I’D LOSE MY SPECIAL POWERS

When I was president of The Trump Organization, growing it into an exceptional global business, among the world’s best according to many experts, no executive of mine would dream of embarrassing me. And I don’t mean just my children—I mean the people without any Trump genes whatsoever. So now as president of the United States, why do my guys second-guess me in public all the time? Especially the generals I hired for the non-general jobs—who I hired because I thought their whole attitude was loyalty, chain of command, obeying orders, yes, sir. So why does Homeland Security put out an untrue report about our ban on terrorist immigrants, claiming that “country of citizenship is unlikely to be a reliable indicator of potential terrorist activity”? When I announce we’re deporting the baddest hombres back to Mexico in like a perfect military operation, why does my Homeland Security general have to say, “There will be no use of military in this”? One of the big Trump foreign policy principles, even before I was in politics, was that I would’ve taken all the oil from Iraq on our way out—so when my defense secretary goes to Abu Dhabi, why does he have to say, “We’re not in Iraq to seize anybody’s oil”? And also say on the same trip, we won’t tear up the Iran deal, as I’d promised we would, because “we have to live up to it and work with our allies.” As soon as I hired him, Mad Dog became Tame Dog, Nice Dog . . . Scooby-Doo? At least Mike Flynn never contradicted me—and then as soon as I give General McMaster Flynn’s old job, why does he go all Hillary and announce that “radical Islamic terrorism” isn’t a nice thing to say?

Wow, I just realized: At The Trump Organization, I wasn’t only the president—I was also chairman. I’m going to have my White House lawyer look into whether or not we need a constitutional amendment so I can be president and chairman of the United States. I’m pretty sure we can just go ahead and do it by executive order, or maybe have Congress pass a bill to make it more official.

Speaking of making the government run more like a great business? In the executive order that’s about to change the cabinet guys’ titles, we’re also going to tweak the White House branding. If the failing establishment doesn’t want The Trump Organization to acquire the complex to make it as beautiful as it should be and lease it back to the government at cost for a limited period, fine—but we can still give the place some Trump flavor. Here’s an exclusive sneak preview of the new logo that’ll be going on every White House letterhead and Web site and sign and piece of merchandise very soon:

Rodrigo told me he loves the new logo, by the way, especially the gold version. He also told me “Filipino” isn’t racist, it’s what you’re supposed to say—even though it also always sounded to me like an SUV model, a cheap one, “the new . . . Chevy Filipino!” By the way, Trump is very, very popular among the Filipino Americans, amazingly popular, way beyond the other Oriental and minority communities—who, by the way, also voted for me much more than they did for Romney, which the fake media has covered up. As a White House employee, Rodrigo says he doesn’t vote on principle, but his father and brother-in-law voted for me, although it was in California, so it didn’t count. Sad.

Exclusive preview of our new White House logo.

AS A BUSINESSMAN I was never like other businessmen, including being much, much more successful than 99 percent of them, but did anyone ever complain I wasn’t “businesslike”? No, apart from a few incompetents and cheats whose ridiculous bills I negotiated. I wasn’t like other people on prime-time TV, because every word they say is scripted for them and their shows never last for fifteen years, but nobody ever said I wasn’t a huge star. Now I’m president—but because I’m different from any president ever, at least since log cabin times, the pundits and phonies and haters and elitists and fake media complain I’m not “presidential.” Which is offensive. To be perfectly honest, that’s almost like a racist thing to say.

I prove them wrong over and over, of course. I can be presidential. It’s the easiest thing in the world to be presidential. When I gave my first big speech to Congress, with the bouncing electronic ball added to my teleprompter screens (my invention, already applied for a patent), literally everybody was like, “Oh, look, he said ‘our children will grow up in a nation of miracles’! Trump is so presidential, very presidential, completely presidential, he’s amazing!”

Fine. But nobody else can be Trump! If I acted “presidential” all the time, I’d start losing my special powers, kind of like Superman if there were kryptonite powder mixed into all the paint everywhere in the White House—not enough to kill him but just enough to weaken him and turn him into a normal human. If I acted “presidential” all the time, the press and the haters would pretend not to hate me as much, but the people who really love Trump would start loving him less. Trust me on this.

“One of the most effective press conferences I’ve ever seen”—that’s what the brilliant and legendary Rush Limbaugh, the No. 1 nonfake media anchorman in America, said about my first solo press conference as president. Thank you, Rush! But as always, the ups, as great as they are, only last a little while. Of course the rest of the media, the fake media, the lying media, the nasty un-American media said my press conference wasn’t “presidential.”

They say the way I tweet “isn’t presidential.” What they mean is that presidents aren’t supposed to tell the straight truth the way I do—about crooked and disgusting Hillary, about dopey Obama, about the illegal “popular vote,” about the illegal leaks and disgusting fake news and witch hunts. As I say, acting “presidential” is so easy—like on Twitter, when I want, I can go for several days at a time using no capital letters and being completely positive and nice, so positive and nice. If I want.

But I’m not dumb. I see what the Democrats and the media are up to when they start saying, “Oh, look, he’s being presidential.” It’s like they’re trying to get me drunk, seduce me, make me their puppet. They want me to take my eye off the ball—balls, plural, so many balls to juggle as president, important balls. Like after my great speech to Congress, they wanted me to ignore that they forced Jeff Sessions to “recuse” himself from the Russia hoax. But I didn’t fall for their trick. Instead, I just picked up my phone and tweeted the truth. It means they don’t think I’m being “presidential” again, because I’m showing my true self. I’m Trump. I only know how to do things one way, my way, the Trump way.

VOICE MEMO: Presidential to-do list

I’m not going to lie. For a day after my big speech to Congress, I was on top of the world. People said it was the best speech ever made in that chamber, a hole in one, a grand-slam home run, like being intimate with Ursula Andress from Dr. No and Princess Di at the same time. I’d convinced some of the sick haters that I deserved respect.

But those were the same people who pushed Jeff Sessions to recuse, recuse, recuse, which would make Comey, and the FBI literally out of control—so the day after the speech to Congress I called Comey, I’m very nice, very respectful. “Mr. President,” he said, “I can’t tell you you’re being investigated.” I took that as a no, I wasn’t being investigated, but then made him confirm it because he’s a sneaky lawyer. When I told him again how important loyalty is in any organization, including the government, especially the government, he refused to get on board. And then the next day Jeff did recuse. Which was so wrong, because it made Jeff look weak and guilty. Which makes the president look weak and guilty. Jeff is a little on the weak side, I’m afraid, and for all I know he’s guilty of something. Trump is not guilty of anything, or weak.

VOICE MEMO: Presidential to-do list

The afternoon Jeff recused while I was grabbing a snack (chicken tenders) in the restaurant in the West Wing basement—“eating your stress again,” Ivanka always says—I ran into Mike Pence. Hadn’t talked to him for quite a while, so I unloaded, told him I felt like hurting somebody. He smiled and nodded like the dads on TV shows when I was a kid, who always seemed so fake, or like the one “nice” coach we had at military school. “Well, Mr. President,” he finally said, “the wiles of the devil can be seductive.” I didn’t know where he was going with that, so I stood and said “Amen, Mr. Vice President,” which always makes Mike happy.

Back upstairs in the Oval, Reince tried to cheer me up, too. He knew my feelings about the White House servants—that except for Rodrigo, I felt I couldn’t completely trust them because they don’t work for me and can’t really be fired on my say-so.

“Piece of good news, Mr. President. I found out you can terminate the chief usher anytime you want. She’s not civil service.”

“The Jamaican, the lady butler?” I asked. “Yeah, right. Maybe I ‘can,’ legally, but I’m sure Obama put her in there just to mess with me. She reminds me of Whitney Houston’s mother. Did you know Whitney was my friend? Went to her wedding. I’d heard about the drugs, but I never knew she was broke. No wonder, though, with that terrible, terrible reality show she and the husband did, on cable, for peanuts, looked like crap. So sad. I was invited to the funeral. I couldn’t make it. You know at the inauguration ball I had the band play ‘I Will Always Love You’ because she and I were close, right?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“But the butler, you know, the Jamaican, she managed Ritz-Carltons, she might be one of the . . . what did you say it was?A quarter? How many of the blacks voted for Trump?”

“Eight percent, Mr. President.”

“I think she could be one of those. Maybe you can look it up, confidentially. It’d be good to know if she was.”

NOW THAT I’VE BEEN LIVING in the White House for more than two months, including one of the last four weekends, I finally figured out one of my problems with it, aside from the major one of not owning it. In Trump Tower, it’s like ninety seconds from the penthouse to The Trump Organization headquarters, straight shot, fast elevator, fantastic, almost like I just think myself from my bedroom to my office. In the White House, it’s like some crazy obstacle course getting from where I live to where I work. The private elevator is small and slow and oldfashioned, European in the not-very-nice way. You may not realize that the West Wing, where the Oval Office is, is a whole separate building like half a block away, and walking outside on that colonnade, which can get extremely windy, right after spending a lot of time with the hair spray and combs and so forth, is just asking for trouble.

So last weekend when I stayed in Washington, my great African American Secret Service agent Anthony and I came up with a visionary solution to the problem. We plotted a new presidential route to work, a totally private route, the special Trump route. You know Get Smart, the original TV series from when we were kids? It’s like the opening sequence of that, except very serious instead of funny, so more like a modern Batman movie if Bruce Wayne were elected president—which by the way is a great idea and hereby my copyrighted concept. So now every morning I’m in Washington, after I’ve had my seven pieces of crispy bacon, my American, non-Muslim version of Obamaʼs seven almonds a day, and I’ve finished watching Fox & Friends and the failing bad shows on other channels during the ads on Fox, I take the elevator all the way down to the basement, then immediately step into what looks like a storage closet—but it’s actually the secret entrance to a long underground tunnel to the West Wing. (They built it right before Bill Clinton got elected. I’ve heard he brought Monica down there, and I’m trying to get Anthony, my special agent, to confirm with his older buddies that Hillary used it for her own monkey business with her Middle Eastern assistant who married the pervert Anthony Weiner, which I’ve also heard.) At the very end of the tunnel is a staircase that leads up to a secret sliding door that opens— abracadabra, there I am, right between my Oval Office restroom and the Oval itself, my hair totally perfect, ready to command. Getting there that way feels very, very presidential. We’re looking into having music piped into the tunnel, such as the Mission: Impossible theme, and also installing a moving walkway, like the ones at airports—which would be great, because then during the trip each morning I could get more tweeting done. Same thing when I knock off for the evening—as I’m doing right now, walking out of the Oval—good night, Hopester!—as I give dictation to Mitzi, writing this, my president book, making every second count.

I probably forgot to mention that I named my phone computer. I did that after I visited Ivanka and Jared’s new house the other night. (Rental, five fireplaces, plain decor like they prefer, very nice deal, owner’s from Chile but he’s a billionaire, like me, and has big mining interests here, so he loves America.) I noticed Jared was shouting orders to somebody, but the babysitters and cook were nowhere in sight. “Who’s Alexa?” Turns out it’s their Amazon computer—like Siri in all the Apple phones, and Cortana in Sean Spicer’s phone. The desk in the Oval Office has its own special name, Resolute, so I decided the president’s phone needed its own one-of-a-kind name, too. I picked Mitzi. It’s an M-word, like all of the Trumps’ Secret Service code names, and it’s the name of the first girl I ever kissed, who said I had bad breath and then after ninth grade either moved to Manhattan or died, I forget which, but—whoa, Steve! You startled me.

I just came through the secret “closet” in the basement, and here’s Steve Bannon waiting for me. He and my other Irishmen— General Kelly and Don McGahn—are about to take off with me for a guys’ weekend at Mar-a-Lago. Plus Wilbur Ross, who’s also Catholic and bought and sold half of Ireland the last few years. Hey, and now here’s my fantastic Kosher Steve, who’s flying with us—Kosher Steve is what I call Stephen Miller, who used to work for Sessions and also for Bannon at Breitbart. He’s like Jared but scary—you are, man!—in a great way, a Roy Cohn way, he’s even got Roy’s eyes.

I just found out something very, very bad. I can’t reveal exactly how I found out. But I’m president, and therefore I’m told a lot of secret things, very important secrets, many of them terrible secrets. I’m told that six weeks ago, the failing New York Times accidentally revealed this secret, and an extensive summary has just been posted on Breitbart. Wow.