I’m The Big Guy

By The Big Guy

An excerpt from the “Trump Presidency” side of our issue, What To Expect When You’re Electing!

There’s a few things they don’t tell you when you become President. I guess that’s part of the gig, and I guess I understand. But it’s still a drag, folks, I can promise you that. Yeah, yeah, you get the Nuclear Codes and that sleek new phone. You get a bunch of new dress shoes and a free FitBit. OK. Neat. That stuff is definitely fun for the first couple months, especially for a guy like me who knows how to take advantage of a good thing when he sees it. But the list of things they haven’t given me? That one’s growing longer by the day. I mean really, the key that locks my bathroom from the inside has been missing since I moved in, and I can’t seem to find my son Eric’s lips anywhere! On top of that,  my daughter Tiffany looks like if someone randomized the features on a Sim. I’ll just say it: someone around here is getting fired if this madness doesn’t cease, and I don’t care if it’s everybody or just the person who looks least like my youngest son, the inimitable Barron.

But listen, can I say something for a minute? Look, not to harp on a topic beyond any reasonable degree until it’s just basically opportunistic exploitation, but I have a suspicion that Pence tried to switch keychains with me in the ballroom last week. Am I saying he’s behind this? No. Did I ever say that? I never said that. But, just so you understand more about the situation, mine was made with that lightweight stuff the Russians use and his resembles the sort of weather worn keyring you’d see a groundskeeper carrying in a good movie. So take that information and do with it what you will. And hey, listen, the man is my VP and he has my respect. Can I say that? That’s a pretty nice thing to say. But honestly – if I can be honest with you – we all know he’s a dead-eyed rat from the shit-ridden depths of Hick County. I’ve put actual money down in Vegas that he’ll die before the end of my first term, probably from scurvy. Or a gun.

Moving on –  you all need to really listen now, okay? I can’t get sidetracked here. There are much bigger things at play. Now, what was I getting at? Oh yeah, so back to these Jews and their banks this laundry list of mysteries that expands by the moment am I the only one thinking to myself, “What the hell is going on here?” What is going on here, folks? Something simply needs to be done, and you know exactly what I’m talking about. That’s right, I’m talking about these Jewish people and their vice grip on our wonderful world this cursed labyrinth known as the White House to some, the MAGA Mecca to a select devoted few, and as Barron’s Boyhood Hellscape by my youngest, the boy Barron. Barron loves to use big words around me because he knows I’m hard to impress. I never acknowledge him for it, because then he would feel as though I’m easy to impress, and that would make me feel weak. If there’s one thing I can tell you folks with an honest heart, it’s that I never allow my youngest son to feel as though he’s figured out who or what I am. (That makes me smart.)

Now I feel as though I’ve been twiddling my thumbs trying to get this next part out. Can I say that? Am I allowed to say that? Well, I just did. The thing is, I took all of your money and your votes so that I could infiltrate this little secret club house they call Washington Politics; and while I think you’ve been fairly happy with my accomplishments to date (Adios, gynecology quacks!), there’s one thing you have to know about why I’m sending out this e-mail via a private server. You see, when I first stomped down that Hall of Important Men on my inauguration day, all the Washington rank-and-file thought they knew what to expect. They knew I was a renegade looking to shake things up the way Mike Pence shakes his ever growing Sock-Full-of-Doorknobs at homeless single mothers… but they had no idea I would tell you all the truth. They didn’t think I’d talk about the body doubles, never thought I’d spill the beans on the 50-foot-deep underground breeding complex where every President since Eisenhower has lived out his term, and in some cases, the rest of his life. Remember when I referred to the White House as a “cursed labyrinth flooded with samples of soured jisolm?” Well folks, I wasn’t just being cute.

To get right into the thick of it with you: President Eisenhower believed that through killing enough Nazis, he had earned something like a Divine Right of Kings, more or less making him the perfect man. Oddly enough, Hitler and the Nazis killed way more people, and loved to do their own construction. And they thought they were the perfect men! And I think that I’m the perfect man. And I love construction! Pretty crazy when you think about it folks – three famous leaders, three very intelligent men, all really similar guys when you break it down like that.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, okay, okay. Alright. As someone who is getting pretty close to being God in his own right, I can definitely understand the mindset that Ike brought into the whole ordeal. He wanted to make America a great nation full of great looking leaders, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But even I can say he took things a little too far. He built a vast underground complex, something like the boutique section of a cruise ship mixed with a hospital, except it’s a hospital where every other room you walk into looks like the part of a bukkake set where the camera pans over to all the ugly guys tugging in lonesome unison.

Ike thought that if he just had a little more time to produce samples – if only there were a few more hours in the day – he could fix this mess of a country all on his own. But you see, folks, this is where things got real tricky. Once the complex was built to Ikey’s likey, he knew he had started something that could slowly shape history. He knew that for the first time since the days of Thomas Jefferson, the President of the United States could covertly code the genetics of an entire generation. He knew his life was more valuable than any other on Earth. That’s when he ordered the first true Presidential body double – some recently retired Army seargent who wanted nothing more than to get potentially assassinated  while the real Eisenhower spent hours at a time fighting through what he called “concentration cramps” in an effort to “liberate the juice.” (It’s in the manifesto folks, don’t go shooting the messenger).

I know what you’re wondering: “Was the real JFK assassinated?” “Was the real Nixon a crook?” “Is it so outrageous to assume that Ronald Reagan probably didn’t cum a whole lot?” The answer to all three is, resoundingly, Yes. (Reagan was a Stallion straight through to his final breath). As for all the questions you have about me, well, I’m afraid I can’t answer many of them just yet. The Republicans and Democrats have teamed up to try to take me down, and yet I’ve continued to put this America first. I know that if I just tell the world what I’m doing all the time, you can imagine what would happen. (Bada Bing, Bada Boom. ISIS. You all know what I’m talking about). But I can promise you one thing folks – I don’t like to make promises, but if I can just make a promise right now I’d like to. I promise you this: if you like the way my daughter Ivanka looks even half as much as I do, then you’re going to ab-so-lutely love what this nation has coming.