The Unsettlingly Plausible Fake Autobiography Donald Trump Doesn’t Want You To Read. (I assume)

This is an excerpt from “Trumped Up: The Unsettlingly Plausible Fake Autobiography Donald Trump Doesn’t Want You To Read. (I assume),” which makes this post a pretty obvious bit of self-promotion. But hey, it’s a blog post.

Look, I’m the best.

You all know this: everybody all knows this. You want to talk about making money? Boom, I’m the best at that. Business? Boom, again, best at that. Managing a media empire? Marrying gorgeous women? Being the best presidential candidate in history?

Boom.

Boom.

BOOM.

But I’m not here to get praise from you idiots: I don’t need it. It’s like that jackass Kanye West said in one of his stupid songs that I didn’t listen to because I don’t like singing along to idiots: “I don’t need your pussy, bitch, I’m on my own dick.”

That’s me.

And I may be on my own dick, but I’m no asshole: I want you to know everything about me. About Donald Trump. The Donald. I’m amazing, and while I don’t care what you serial rapists think of me — look at you! Very few of the millions of you reading this are going to be important, historically or, really, in any other way at all, so what you think and feel and do with your tiny, pathetic little lives doesn’t amount to a termite’s dick — I DO need you to vote for me, because while I can buy a lot of things, I can’t just straight-up buy being President of America.

But man, if I could? I would. I would buy the shit out of that job, and I’m rich enough I could pay for it in cash. Cha-fucking-ching, give me my receipt.

So here’s the part where I use this to show you what kind of President I’ll be, and what kind of world I’ll create in my image, by telling you about all the bitchin’ stuff I’ve done, what my platform issues are, and how I’ll make everything better. Bit of a spoiler on that last one: a lot of people are going to get killed, and it’s going to be awesome.

So this is the intro to my book, in case you haven’t caught onto that, in case you’re just some loser writing a major television dramedy — what the fuck is that for the name of a genre, anyway? Dramedy? It sounds like something you get from some chick who’s trying to blow you so she can get her green card. Careful facefucking that slut, bro, she might give you dramedy, and your dick will fall off.

It’s a comedy with dramatic elements, Danny. Just like every other comedy ever. Your genre designation is redundant.

You fuck.

Anyway, this is the intro to my book. This where I describe — like I just did, with expert precision — a bit about myself, what my book will entail, and what you’re going to get out of it. I don’t know how many of you will understand it, because I’m so much smarter than you all, but I’ve got to write it anyway, because that’s what goes at the beginning of a book like this. Which is what this is.

Prepare to be amazed, mouth-breathers.

The Early Days of a Legend

How do you start the story of history’s greatest man? Honestly, it’s a little daunting. Not too daunting, though, because I’m The Donald, and I can handle anything this crapsack world will ever be able to throw at me, and my brain is smart, like an intelligent cat.

Like a cougar, maybe?

Yeah, I’m like a cougar. That’s good, I like that.

I’m Donald Trump, and I’m a cougar.

Fucking Rrowr.

I was born in 1946, to a man whose middle name was Christ, and a woman whose greatest act was opening her legs so my dad could drill a baby into her. Which sort of makes my story like a certain biblical tale I won’t name, only without the rape, or the angels.

Stop trying to rape angels, you stone-aged fucks!

Also, was it a coincidence that World War II ended right before I was born? I doubt it: the entire planet would’ve been so busy watching me be awesome and adorable that nobody would have been able to focus on murdering Hitler, so my birthday saved Poland. Obviously.

Anyway, my childhood was normal and common, something that all of you idiots can relate to — growing up in the lap of luxury, with a tax-and-draft-dodging-immigrant-real-estate-tycoon for a father and endless resources at my disposal, running from stretched limousine to stretched limousine on the sidewalks of Queens. Or delivering newspapers from said limousines when the weather was bad, because screw you, rain. Rich people only get wet when it’s raining hundred dollar bills.

Nobody can deliver newspapers like me. Believe me.

I went to the Kew-Forest School in Forest Hills — go Trees! — until those assholes kicked me out because they couldn’t handle the wonder that is The Donald, the assholes.

Typical conversation I’d have with my teachers:

Teacher (Suckbag): “Little Donald, did you do your homework?”

Me (Awesome): “No, I don’t need to.”

Teacher (Dildo): “Why not?”

Me (Amazing): “Because math is for cocks.”

Teacher (Vaginal Lint): “One day you’ll — ”

Me (Astonishing): “I’ll pay some drone to do it, right after I’ve bought this school just so I can fire your stupid ass.”

Teacher (Sweaty Taint): “Fuck you!”

Me (Awe-Inspiring): “FUCK YOU!!”

When I was thirteen I left the school and went to the New York Military Academy, because my parents thought I had a bad attitude and wanted to direct my energy in a “positive manner,” as though accurately describing the future lives of my teachers wasn’t being positive.

How do you like the soup line, Ms. Tinkerbottom?

It’s pretty remarkable that they could give birth to me but not understand a single goddamn thing about me.

In some ways my parents are like dogs who dragged their asses around the living room carpet and made the shape of some complicated math formula with their shit, only to get scared and run into a wall.

People say I should say nice things about my parents and thank them for all they’ve done for me and all they’ve given me, but all they ever did was give me a chunk of the $300 million my dad was worth when he died. And before you assholes say anything about that, I have four brothers and sisters, so that shit got cut 5 ways. I didn’t get the even whole $300 million! And yet, even despite that massive setback, I’ve still managed to parlay that into a net worth of $4.1 billion — which none of you tits have done, or will ever do, even if someone gave you $300 million and you just invested it all, earning interest for the next 30 years — so you can eat my orange cock.

More to come!