Tag Archives: Politics

Sean Spicer: “I Just Work Here, Okay?”

By Jesse Saunders

4/12/2017 #35

For Immediate release from the office of the Press Secretary, Sean Spicer. The following press briefing concerns the steps taken to create the Trump™ Wall, as well as the duties of the Press Corp and their expected treatment of the office of the Press Secretary. This press briefing is due for immediate release to all media organizations with a rating of “Not Shitty” and higher.

​​​​James S. Brady Briefing Room

3:05 P.M. EDT

Mr. Spicer: Sorry for the delay guys, it’s pizza day. I was supposed to kick this off with my pal Kellyanne. She’s really busy and is doing important business things, key business events and duties. So my goal is we bang out your stupid questions first today and then I’ll drop a vital piece of information as Kellyanne walks in right on cue, and then she’ll talk to you as your editors struggle to put together a half decent non-sensationalized story. So hopefully this all works out.

Before I take questions, I’m gonna shake things up – I’m gonna call on my New York Times buddies. Saw what you guys said the other day, alright. Not even gonna bite. I do so know who Hitler is. He’s my favorite golfer. If that’s controversial, then I don’t want to be PC. Sure, he’s not perfect, but who hasn’t had dealt with a little marital strife? We can’t all be Pence. So he cheated on his wife, at least he played an honest game! Great numbers, that Hitler. I remember when he won the masters, god I love the masters, golf is the only American sport. Don’t even understand why this was a story…making this a race thing when my favorite golfer is half-black.


Go ahead.

Ask the question.


NYT: That’s literally not anywhere close to who Hitler is?

Mr. Spicer: Okay.

NYT: …Actually, this is a great segue into our question is: what the fuck is wrong with you?

Mr. Spicer: I’m sorry? Do you not like golf?

NYT: Seriously, “At least Pol Pot just killed nerds with glasses?” What the fuck is wrong with you dude?

Mr. Spicer: H’okay then. It’s like that. Alright. Listen guy, I just work here, okay? There’s this assumption going around that I enjoy being around you people. You, in your weird ivory high road tower — you hacks at the Times are almost as bad as “Democracy Dies in the Darkness” over there. Yeah that’s right Washington Post, I know you snuck into this briefing. Maybe next time try to be a little less conspicuous and just leave the merch table in the van, hmm?

WaPo: Point taken…

Mr. Spicer: You all can’t just throw questions at me and expect that I’ll answer them, that’s a very New York way of looking at a problem.

NYT: But that literally makes n—

Mr. Spicer: I understand what you’re trying to say but I literally do not care. I just work here day in and day out while you take Buzzfeed quizzes on your phone, that’s right I fucking know about your phone CNN Mike. Do you think I have read a history book in my goddamn life? Do you think I understand the socio-economic crisis plaguing the global economy? No, I fucking don’t. President Trump has been in office for over 60 days now, and you think I enjoy any of this? I mean, I do because I used to work at a Dennys and its just nice to come home sometimes and not smell like syrup. Have you ever worked at a Dennys? Have you ever woken up every morning, rode your bike six miles, and then spent eight hours serving eggs in all-too-bright single-parent purgatory? I mean, my coworkers were actually pretty great but all that is beside the point. I hate literally all of you, I hate that you don’t care about my opinion in music. What I don’t hate is the American taxpayer, unlike you MSNBC Karen. Whatever. Press Conference over.

NYT: What?

Mr. Spicer: Thanks guys, I look forward to seeing everyone except the organizations I have now deemed “Kind of Shitty”. Take care.



3:25 P.M. EDT


By Trevor Parrish and Quin Asselin

An article from the “Trump Presidency” side of our issue, What to Expect When You’re Electing.

I’d received a job late one Thursday night, from the League of People with No Hair but Who Really Wish They Had Some. Trump was a hairless menace giving us a bad name with that rug, and he needed to be stopped. There was only one cue-ball who could break in and put an end to President Trump’s tyrannical-mean-and-not- so-nice reign (By the way, I’m bald by choice, I choose to shave because I think it looks dashing.) That one person was me, your very glabrous thirty-ninth President of these blessèd United States of America, Jimmy Carter. Just as all ex-leaders of the free world, I can dissolve into water vapor as it passes through an Ionic Breeze Quatra (as seen on TV.) I slipped in through his sniffles in the night. I made my way to the location of a normal human’s brain and lay in wait for hours.

The door to Trump’s Head Office opened. A figure walked into the room and flicked the light switch, nearly brushing by me, your very handsome thirty-ninth president, Jimmy Carter. Just to be safe, I receded back into the wall disguising myself as a portrait of your very crafty thirty-ninth president, Jimmy “The Body” Carter. Presidential powers come in handy quite often. A large computer, lining the inside of Trump’s glistening, supple forehead whirred to life:

Booting up program: Trump.exe…
 Stamina.exe: Done!
 WaterLevels: 98.7% at 96°C

“Oh my gawd it’s like a sauna in here,” cried the little green monkey turning the crank shaft that drives Donald Trump’s brain, “they don’t pay me enough for this shit.” His voice was raspy like a little green monkey with a raspy voice. He ate the banana that Melania had supplied for him today. He was staring at the screen that was giving him instructions for his 16 hour shift. The work area in Trump’s head got especially hot during interviews. He finished turning the crank, the inner workings of the motor continued behind him.

Loading Wall.txt
 Topic: Walls
 “Wall? (Y/N)”

“Of course we should build a wall. We need to keep illegals out of our country!” he walked off from the crank and scrambled over to his desk, hidden under piles of documents. He rummaged through a mound of papers, overturning them to reveal various birth certificates, some skewed penis size graphs, and his glasses. Boing-Boing was near sighted after all.

Warning: Nostril Pressure Critical

The monkey who was both green and little scrambled to the pressure release valve. After taking a quick reading of the gauge, he solved a level 8 Sudoku puzzle which of course relieves the pressure in most traditional Meiji period architecture. You know.

Following what had to be hours of various menial tasks, the exhausted little green monkey collapsed onto the mail cart, spreading an obscenely-sized ocean of letters across the floor. For a moment, he lay there utterly still. In the next several moments, he did the same exact thing. He was out cold.

Art by Joseph Kolb

I knew the opportunity as I saw it. I’d been eyeing the TD Bank pen propped up against a little sculpture that read “Donald Trump’s Candy Crush High Score: Probably 10.” I had already stolen 7.5 pens from various pigeonholes throughout his noggin. Being rather skilled at espionage, your very… discreet thirty-ninth president, James “The Jim Jam” Carter slurmped out of the wall and dropped like a hunk of moist pasta onto the ground. Each and every one of my newly formed bones ached but there was no time for pain when you’re me, your very perseverant thirty-ninth president Jammin’ James. Like democratic lightning, I flew towards the desk and claimed my prize. But then I gazed upon the treasure of all treasures.

I was transfixed. It felt like this former Georgia governor’s eyes were finally failing him as he descended into death and had subsequently awoken in some far off paradise. Before me was a Red Carbon Delta Momo 30th Limited Edition Fountain Pen with 18Kt Fusion Nib and Black Rhodium finish. I was so preoccupied with signing my incredibly presidential name that I scarcely noticed the admittedly-smaller-than-average Screamin’ Green (76FF7A) monkey who was, of course, wearing a shirt, stirring behind me. You lose the presidential power of eyes on the back of your head when you leave office.

Art by Joseph Kolb

It was at that moment I felt the distinct pain of a monkey’s wrench to the back of my skull. It was a monkey wrench to be precise. I wheeled about to see a monkey wrench himself up off the ground and rush towards the “Jimmy B Gone™ spray located beneath the toppled mail cart. Jimmy B Gone™… my only weakness. I knew if I was gonna survive I’d need to get out, and fast. I sashayed over to the door at a normal human rate and went for the handle. As I slipped through the the door I looked back. The Boingster had only just regained his footing. Just before I finished my escape I smirked and jeered, “enough of that monkey business.” Text appeared on the computer screen one last time:

Mmm... Agreeable Data!

I did not know that it spoke.

Your very frugal thirty-ninth President,
James Earl Carter, Jr.

I am Your Friend

By Your Dearest Friend

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

My Friends,

I am sitting in my leather rolling throne, writing to you now because I don’t know what else to do. I am holding back a scream. I am your friend, and I need you, and you aren’t here.. I am sick in your absence. I am trying to be strong, but it is hard. We are friends – all of us – and yet you are all together, and I am apart, and I am absolutely sick. If you are reading this, then you should already understand. You know that we are a close-knit circle of many friends, and so you know that I am not just being my usual funny (ahahahahaha!) self when I write to you and tell you that I need you to come to me and help me. Come see me at my address, which is 42 Pennsylvania Way, the White House. Ask for Hillary.

I have many issues that I would like to tell you about, but you have to promise not to tell anybody except for the other friends in our circle. That’s a lot of people, and I know we will all enjoy the discussion, except I will not because I have many issues affecting my emotions. You are my friends, and so you know when I’m sad. You know when I’m sad because I will – when I am happy I will – I will finish some sentences with a sound like this! I’ll do some of these! Some exclamations. But I can only exclaim one sound right now: a single scream, so low that it only reaches my friends in the oceans and other places down below.

I will get into the problems that I’m having shortly, but first I want to pretend you are with me. I cannot take the time that we are apart from each other. I miss you. I want to ride atop your shoulders. I want to wade amongst your starving masses. It is 1975 and I am suddenly back at the Steely Dan concert. A man has pulled my breast out for a brief taste, but I wish to be devoured whole. Perhaps you know where this is going, perhaps you do not. That’s okay. Either way, it is time for the pledge:

I am a Friend. I am a Good Friend, and I will stay this way for as long as I know Her. For as long as She is my Friend, I will take care of Her, just as She has taken care of me. I will hear Her scream and I crawl on bare knees across hot coals to find Her.
Am I A Loyal Friend?
Am I A Loyal Friend?
I pledge to be – for Hillary – a Friend Until the End.
Am I A Friend with Heart?
Am I A Friend with Heart?
I pledge to be – for Hillary – A Friend Who Does Their Part.
I’m With Her

Say it out loud now, just as you would if you were here with me. Pretend I am watching, and I will smile my smile steady and wide as if you are living between the cracks of my teeth.

I will explain my issues, and so you will know how to help me. Here is what I have to say: Some of the drawers on this desk are very heavy, and I want to say something about it, but some of these people can’t be trusted. If you’re walking around the inside of my walls, trying to get me to crawl in again, you’re probably not somebody I can confide in. I’ve learned.

I have a tickle in my throat. I would like a glass of water, but the water they put in my house tastes bad. The water in this house has bad minerals in it – toxic minerals. These minerals – the taste in my mouth from them – these minerals are no good. When I lived here before, I had my own bottled water (this was when water was cheap). One night, I was very thirsty and got up for a drink. I went into the big kitchen, but Al was there; it seemed he was always there at night.

“Up for some water?” he asked me, smirking. That was when Al was happiest, before the world got hot.

“I was. But now, I think I will pull out my breast.” I said this back to him, he paused, and I continued pulling out the breast that was once claimed by Daryl Hall, and then later by his friend and partner, John Oates.

This moment of infidelity continues to haunt me. My heart is simply too big to move on from this, my one great mistake. Do any of my friends know hypnotism? Do any of my wonderful friends know the Keys to Forgetting?

I am missing somebody, but I am unsure of how to reach out. E-mail seems impersonal, and the many people who dress me in the morning have told me not to use it. It is hard to always be connecting when time has made looking at each other more difficult, but the sky is far from it’s brightest at this moment. It will be much brighter soon.  Ideally I would like to hear somebody’s voice, but I also do not want to see their lips. Only in my mind would I like to see their lips. In my mind I can always see a smile. I have decided I will use the phone.

What has happened to the man who used to work in this house? He lived near the door and whispered little-known facts to me. He was one of my friends.

“President Eisenhower couldn’t swallow liquids,” he would say to me. “Eisenhower knew about the minerals.” 

His name was Scott and he was Korean-American. He was born in St. Louis. I would like to call him.

Friends, I know you will help me. I know you will seal your lips in hot wax if I ask. You are all so talented. You are all so important to me, and because I am just like you, I will say to you what I have always wanted to hear from one of my friends:

Your friendship is a blessing. You are loved and you are valued. You are integral to the prosperity of this country. You are funny and you make the people around you forget their bad feelings. You are fashionable. You are self-aware and people admire you for this. When you are not around, all of your friends talk about how impressive you are. When you are not around, everybody misses you. Sometimes we talk about how you might die some day – how you will die some day, eventually – and we get upset, and we talk about what we would say at your funeral. We would discuss your loyalty, and leadership capabilities, and your lifelong battle against the odds to achieve all that you have. We would note how you looked so good for your age, even towards the end, and how your smile never ceased to inspire envy. We would reminisce on your rambunctious attitude – so polarizing and infectious. And the pride you had for your father who was a hard working minister of drapery, as well as a town selectman before he killed that dog with a shovel.

Imagine I am saying this to you and smile together. Stand up, wherever you are, and smile. Don’t be shy – you’re among friends. You’re always among friends now. I am smiling too. I am imagining that you all are saying those kind words to me! You are harmonizing. Scott is there with you, and he has placed me on speaker phone. I am screaming and I am crying, and Scott is crying too. We are all wet with tears, and we are all harmonizing. It sounds good, like a chorus of angels crying over the phone.

I see and hear all of this in my head, a beautiful movie not unlike What Dreams May Come starring Robin Williams. Tears are running down my cheeks now, but I am no longer sad. I am thinking of my friends. I am thinking of the people I love and how they love me. My eyes are closing and I must stop writing. I am ready to see you. I am ready to give everything I have to be with you. I am ready to be a part of you now. You need not come to me, friends. I was wrong to ask so much. I was wrong to demand. It is not necessary now; I am on my way to you. To all of you.

It’s time, Tim. Everything has happened just the way I said it would. This new world will be yours now. This future we dreamed up together – for how long did we dream of this? It seemed impossible and inevitable, and it is both.  Enter the codes, Tim. Enter the codes and deliver us into a beautiful tomorrow.

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.

Student Continues to Use Debate as Excuse 3 Weeks After Event Concludes

By Jesse Saunders

Hempstead, NY – Already ten minutes late for class, local Hofstra Honors College student, Joe Ryan, 21, has chosen to take one last class off to recover from the first presidential debate held at Hofstra University which concluded a little over three weeks ago. When asked about the seven classes he has skipped since the debate Ryan said, “I was just so washed out, ya know? It’s a once in a lifetime experience, and I just need a break.” Ryan is among a growing minority of students who swear they would have been fine if the school’s administration had just given them the day off immediately following the debate that concluded on Sept. 27th, 2016.

Three weeks after the event, Ryan skipping class and the few remaining banners are the only evidence of Hofstra’s third presidential debate. Professor of sociology, Matt Eastwood, remains sympathetic to his students cause. “The students were just so excited, and I mean I’m sure they’ll get their work in on time,” said Eastwood, “Students never take advantage of my relaxed attendance policy.” Eastwood then returned to teaching his class of three freshmen while the last upperclassmen packed up and left.

When asked about his professor while taking a casual stroll to the Acid Fields, Ryan said, “Oh yeah Eastwood is super great… he taught me a lot about psychology? Good guy, his class is in Breslin though which is a little inconvenient for me, but I’ll be back once I get caught up on work I missed in the debate.” Many students joined Ryan in recovering from the stress that occurred almost 18 business days ago, caused by Hofstra’s third presidential debate.

While students are slowly, but totally catching up on the work they missed while preparing for the one-day event that occurred over 23 full days ago, Hofstra administration begins to prepare their application for the 2020 presidential debate. Provost Gail Simmons was happy to comment on how proud she was of students when she was cornered by a Nonsense reporter.

“I couldn’t be happier with our student’s participation, especially our helpful alumni like David S. Mack. Our students and their bank accounts are really an asset to our university,” said Simmons. Simmons, among other administrators, was found celebrating Hofstra’s move up in the Princeton review’s ranking of school’s that have had the most presidential debates, while planning to tear down the student center to make a permanent debate hall.

As the week three at post-debate Hofstra concludes, Ryan along with many other students can be found sleeping soundly, recovering from the historic event that occurred more than seven classes ago, preparing for another day with a new excuse to miss class.

A Poem About A Clown

By James Sweeney

An excerpt from “Nonsense 4 Kidz”


There are a few phrases
You’ll hear all your life
If you are so inclined
to spread laughter and light

From families of fortune
and families of plight:
Why the hell’s my son crying?”
Get your hands off my wife!

I’m a clown!” you might shout,
It’s my job to have fun!
No need to get hostile,
but I too have a gun.

And on the Clown’s neck
a tattoo, freshly drawn:
The 2nd Amendment
Keeps the Clown Army Strong

With a honker like his,
and those shoes, flat and long?
A half-balding scalp
and a half-scalped schlong?
Why, it’s clearly no wonder
His smile’s painted on

Yet for all the Clown’s trials,
his oppression unseen
The heart of the Clown
is a curious thing

For it aches still for love
and the tenderness earned
from a boy whose just witnessed
his whole family burn

Now the Clown’s got a camera
and he’s sifting through weapons
For a fun little movie he’s planned on directing
Of a man with a gun, who teaches a lesson

Filming’s begun and its time for a close-up
The boy’s found his spotlight while holding back throw-up
Now repeat after me so they never forget it…

I’m Ted Cruz and I approve this message!

If Elected President, I Will Personally End All Memes


By Zachary Johnson
If elected president by a large percentage of the population who I duped with my clever campaign ads, my first promise to the American people is that I will end all memes. For good.

You might think I’m crazy. I’ve heard that before. I’ve been called crazy my whole life. By everyone. Parents, teachers, lawyers, doctors, the homeless man I snatched up with the grill of my car while on a drunk cruise hopelessly pondering what to do with my meaningless existence. But I learned at a young age that if you can’t join them, beat them.

As the 45th president of the United States of America, I will personally end all memes forever. How do you like that, Jackson Samuels? Am I crazy now? I bet you’re gonna miss ironically posting all of those starter pack memes when I become president. Maybe it’ll make you feel bad enough about tripping me on the playground as a small child. What goes around comes around, buddy!

When I become president, nobody will think that I’m crazy. Even the homeless man, permanently stuck in the grill of my Lexus, will stop shouting at me. Maybe these sons of bitches will start to show me some respect when I take the highest office in the land by running an aggressive campaign fuelled by my own shortcomings and end all memes, forever.

It’s not as if I don’t have the qualifications for this job. I’ve shown that I can achieve goals. In 2011, I started a petition to end global warming, by turning off my lights for one hour each day. It was easy to achieve because I live in perpetual darkness, surrounded only by my loneliness and lack of empathy for other human beings, fostered by a harsh experience with mob mentality at a young age and the lack of an effective support system. I made it through the whole year, and I saved so much energy. Maybe now Obama can get off my back about it, thanks.

Speaking of Obama, I’m going to take his goddamn job. I will not be the second black president, but I will be the first president to ever take a stance on memes. I will ascend to the ivory throne, draped in the tri-color scheme of this grand nation, and decree that memes be abolished forever more. Nobody will think that I am crazy then, because I will be a politician, and no matter how far I go it’s not very likely that I’ll ever be Hitler anyways. Hitler is the only bad guy we can compare bad politicians to, and I don’t even look like him, so I am already less susceptible to campaign attacks than Hilary Clinton.

Then, I’m going to take it one more step further, and kick everyone while they’re down. Not only do I promise to end all memes forever, but I solemnly swear that I will end Lorde’s career, and make her work at Chipotle. That’s right. Goodbye Lorde and hello Ella Marija Lani Yelich-O’Connor serving me my fucking barbacoa. No, I don’t want to try the tofu shit. Sing me “Royals” while you wrap my burrito, and I can tell you that I never enjoyed that song, because I am the Queen Bee, and I also never really understood whether you were being ironic or not.

I am not fucking crazy, and I will prove it by being elected. I do not need your vote, because I have better votes. I know that my campaign message is something that will resonate with the people of the United States of America. I know that my finger is firmly pressed upon the cultural pulse. Elect me president, and I will eradicate memes from this earth like the scourge that they are. I fear what I do not understand.

Vote for me because at the very least I am probably better than Donald Trump.