Good Luck, America
by Donald Trump
Hey there, America. Remember me? I’m the guy that until about two weeks ago couldn’t keep his mouth shut for more than a few minutes about how great a guy I am, how terrible everyone else is, and also how great I am. Remember? Perhaps you saw me on every fucking news channel, twenty-four hours a day, where they paid more attention to my disjointed, barely cohesive tweets, my history of doing and saying terrible things throughout my life, and even an empty podium where I was scheduled to speak than the actual substance and policy of my experienced, competent opponent, whose name I can’t remember at the moment. If you somehow missed me, well, the next few months of your life are gonna be illuminating, because literally the only thing anyone will be talking about until early January will be me and the stupid things I’m doing. After that, though, you won’t hear too much about me at all, because as soon as I take that oath of office, I’m gone like the Christian Right’s values on election day. That’s right, folks, I have absolutely no desire to do this job, so I’ll be going back to my tower the day after the inauguration. Good luck, America!
Now I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I did just get elected by a slim majority of voters in the states where for some asinine reason a tiny number of people are given the ability to sway the archaic electoral system we still inexplicably use in 2016 despite it having no real point since the abolition of slavery. It’s true, a handful of angry white people in states where voting rights have been trampled and the economy decimated by Republican legislators and free-market capitalism put me, a feckless, self-proclaimed billionaire real estate scion and pseudo-celebrity who had never even visited those states before last year in charge of their futures. And of course, they’re looking to me to bring back their jobs, protect them from the people they fear, and lead them into a new era of white American prosperity and dominance around the globe. But I’m here today to tell you that I’m about as likely to do that as I am to move to a modest three-two in the suburbs of Kenosha. And those idiots will just have to deal with it. After all, they can’t force me to be President. Can they?
Look, here’s the thing: being me is awesome. I get to do pretty much whatever I want, and the only consequences of my immature, self-absorbed behavior are that I occasionally go bankrupt or get sued and have to pay people off with massive amounts of money that I sucker well-meaning donors into contributing to my charitable foundation. Otherwise, it’s all banging models from third-world countries, ogling my daughter, cheating at golf and stamping my name on cheap, ugly products nobody will buy. And of course, the past year of shouting about myself in front of cheering crowds of racists and misogynists and bigots — the kind of people the GOP has claimed don’t exist ever since the rest of the country elected a black President — has been exciting. And I honestly thought that would be most of what I did as President, not that I ever expected to win. But it turns out that the President doesn’t get to do a whole lot of making speeches at high school gyms. So fuck that.
I met with the current President the other day — pretty nice guy, for a black — and even though my handlers had me booked for fifteen minutes with him, I ended up spending a good chunk of the day there, as he explained the ins and outs of daily life as President to me. I’ll admit, I tuned out after about three minutes, but I got the gist. You’ve seen the incessant news reports, you’ve seen the tired, shellshocked look on my orange face. And as the gravity of my recent decisions hit me like a ton of Chinese steel, it dawned on me: being President sucks. You have people constantly coming to you, asking for your guidance, forcing you to make decisions, blah blah blah. I mean, he told me that if a catastrophic tornado destroys some nothing towns in Indiana or Kentucky, and a bunch of nothing people die, I have to make a statement about it, even if it’s the middle of the night. The hell with that! These people can take care of themselves, just like I did.
And let’s be frank here: this job ages you. I’ve seen the pictures. And I’m already in terrible health, no matter what that joker I paid to write that amateurish letter said. I’m almost seventy, and my body is mostly fat and skin. I probably have about another five years left in me on the outside, and that’s if I restrict myself exclusively to golfing. Hell, even the past year on the campaign trail has done a number on my already fragile system. There’s no way that I’d survive one year of the most stressful job on the planet, let alone four. I’d much rather while away my sunset years holed up in my various gaudy apartments, tweeting angrily about whatever takes my fancy that day, letting people that actually want to run the country into the ground do what they will.
So goodbye, America, and good luck. I’d say I hope that the next four years are good for you, but I honestly don’t give a shit. I just wanted to win because Obama embarrassed me at the Press Correspondents’ Dinner a few years ago, and as amazed as I am that it worked, I’m not gonna stick around to see how this all turns out. We had fun together, sure, but the work of governing just doesn’t hold any interest for me. I’m headed back to my ivory tower now. Maybe you’ll hear my voice from time to time when I feel like calling into the Fox morning show to tell the blonde to cross her legs in front of the camera for me. Maybe not, who knows. In the meantime, I’m leaving you in the hands of that guy that looks like the dad from Johnny Quest, Mike Pennies or something. He seems interested in the job.