You Can't Spell America Without Me

by Alec Baldwin

  “Right, General Kelly?” I said to my Homeland Security SVP. “You worked for Obama—they probably wiretapped you, too, when you hit them on Guantanamo and letting ladies in the infantry, am I right?”

  Kelly just smiled and shrugged.

  “Well, Mr. President,” my counsel said, “it was good you put quotation marks in the tweets around ‘wiretapping.’ That gives us some definitional leeway.”

  “Right,” I said. “Exactly right, Don. Important point. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I use quotation marks so much in the tweets, like with ‘rigged’ and ‘dudes’ and ‘evil.’ The extra spice and punch but also that definitional leeway, I love the definitional leeway.”

  Bannon chuckled, which made me wonder if he thinks I didn’t know what “definitional leeway” meant. Steve is tough but he can also be kind of a prick sometimes.

  I COULD HAVE GONE PUBLIC ABOUT THE WEIRD BEEPING TIFFANY’S IPAD MADE THAT DAY IN CLEVELAND DURING THE CONVENTION WHEN SHE TRIED WATCHING THE BIG VIDEO BY OBAMA AND HILLARY’S FRIEND BEYONCÉ.

  “The other thing,” I said, “is that I could have gone so much farther than I did. I could have gone public about the weird beeping Tiffany’s iPad made that day in Cleveland during the convention when she tried watching the big video by Obama and Hillary’s friend Beyoncé. I could have gone public about Barron’s school having a teacher whose father was a bigwig in the CIA under Bush. I could have gone public about the window washer incident.” The Rosses hadn’t heard about the window washer. “At Trump Tower, day before the election, twenty-sixth floor, right there on the other side of the glass, an Arab guy, earphones with red wires leading to something in his pocket. I had Anthony take care of him. We kept that one quiet.”

  Everybody was sort of looking at their plates. They were probably nervous that a waiter might overhear top-secret things.

  “Hey,” I said to my attorney general, “you’re being awful quiet over there. Cat got your tongue, Mr. Mouse?” Sessions looks like a talking mouse in a cartoon, right? “Just because you ‘recused’ on investigating the campaign doesn’t mean you can’t talk about it! Right, Don? No? Okay, Jeff, plug your ears! Better yet— Hillary, take the attorney general down to a cabana for a few minutes, teach him how to be a real man. Kidding!” I’ve stopped calling him “Jeffy” ever since he recused. Management 101. By the way, those eight cabanas on the beach for Mar-a-Lago Club members are unbelievably lavish.

  Don was still worried the media and the Democrats in Congress would keep demanding “proof” that Obama did to me even worse than what Hillary and the Democrats claim the Russians did to her. “I’ve got it,” I said. “The letter he left for me in the Oval. Obama admits the whole thing in there. And apologizes for it.”

  For like five seconds, maybe ten, nobody said a thing.

  “I’m not saying he did say that in the letter,” I continued, “not in so many words, like in a deposition or something. But I could say my strong belief is he basically confirmed it in the letter.”

  Don was shaking his head. “Obama would deny it immediately.”

  “So?” I said. “It was handwritten. You think he made a photocopy? I doubt it. And I say I can’t show it because of executive privilege. No? Then because it’s private and confidential. Like my taxes.”

  Don was shaking his head again. “Obama says, ‘Go ahead, Mr. President, you have my permission—release the letter I wrote you.’”

  Okay, Obama didn’t say “Hey, Don, I wiretapped you, sorry about that.” He’s a writer, he’s a lawyer, he’s clever, he’s sneaky. But someday, when all the papers are in the archives, historians will see that between the lines he was definitely confessing.

  My good mood was over. Like I say, the ups never last long. It’s always something. “Well, Bannon,” I told him, “this started with you. You called it—what did you say—‘a huge attack on democracy,’ ‘the largest abuse of power ever.’ So if we have a problem it’s your problem. Up to you to back it up, gather up the evidence, find the proof.”

  I STARTED THIS MORNING with another up at Trump International Golf Club. Four hours playing on one of my fantastic courses is as perfect as life gets, like I’m dreaming—actually like heaven as heaven has been advertised all these years. There are ten reasons for this, which I considered turning into its own book, Donald Trump’s Guide to Heaven on Earth or Heaven Is for Winners, but I don’t have the time, so I’m giving it to you here at no extra charge.

  THERE ARE NO SURPRISES ON A GOLF COURSE YOU’VE PLAYED A HUNDRED TIMES, AND ALMOST NOBODY EVER SAYS ANYTHING YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND.

  First of all, I own the course, which is wonderful for me. Second, it’s beautiful in a way everybody thinks is beautiful, not like Angelina Jolie who to me looks like the young Martin Landau, or like one of those artworks that some people say are beautiful but most people know really aren’t. Third, it’s perfectly groomed, which you could say is part of beauty, but to me it’s so important it’s a separate thing. Fourth, you’re with guys who either paid $250,000 to join and $30,000 a year to play or friends of those guys—people who want the best. Fifth, the caddies—a lot of them African American and Hispanic, doing a simple job well, very polite, quiet unless you ask them something, for only $100 a day—what I spend every second, which is amazing, right? Sixth, you hit a thing so hard with a steel club that if it were alive you’d kill it, but then on the green you just tap it and it does exactly what you want and disappears. Seventh, there are no surprises on a golf course you’ve played a hundred times, and almost nobody ever says anything you don’t understand. On the other hand, my eighth point: It doesn’t all come easy—and I don’t mean just the sand traps and water hazards, which are real challenges but also beautiful and perfectly groomed in their own right. I mean challenging like our fifth hole at Trump International in West Palm Beach, where the fairway narrows and the vegetation gets very dense and thick with the palm trees, almost dark, like in the African jungle, and you’re an explorer, where natives could suddenly come out of the trees and attack you, and the caddies might help fight them off or might run away or, scariest of all, suddenly feel like chumps and join up with the natives and massacre you. Ninth, there’s a happy ending: After you go past the beautiful two-story waterfall we built on the seventeenth hole, the clubhouse comes into view, which is home sweet home, with the marble foyer, the big gold and crystal chandelier, the antique statues of baby angels, and the greatest onion rings in Florida, probably in America. Lastly, number ten, somebody wins, and usually it’s me.

  In fact, this morning it was even more like heaven than usual, because I shot even better than yesterday—fifty-seven, with two holes in one and like ten inches short of a third. I think three is the all-time world record, which I asked Anthony, my great African American special agent, to Google on the way back to Mar-a-Lago. By the way, Anthony finally admitted he didn’t vote for me, but he swore to me he didn’t vote for Hillary either, it was the first time he didn’t vote for president, which actually made me choke up.

  Anthony looks so great, so fit, so hard, so tough, I’ve decided I want my entire Secret Service detail to be all African Americans all the time. Which would be such a win-win—highlighting my civil rights reputation and also extra scary to any bad guys thinking of attacking me. Anthony told me there are like three hundred black special agents. It’s a visionary idea, so people will complain, but it’s totally doable. Exciting, right?

  But then I came home and watched all the Sunday shows I’d TiVo’d. They were bad, so bad, so full of weakness for our side. Of course all the fake media reporters and pundits came out against me on my tweets about Obama wiretapping. Of course Obama’s “intelligence” chief Clapper—what a name, huh?—and of course Obama’s Democrat CIA guy Panetta came on the shows to go against me.

  The only person who works for Trump we put on any of the shows on any of the channels, including Fox, is Mik
e Huckabee’s daughter? Nice girl, more calm than Sean, I don’t have Ivanka’s issue about her weight, but all she does this morning is keep repeating about the wiretrapping, “It was on the BBC, it was in the New York Times.” Then the elderly guy who was W’s attorney general for a year, pal of Giuliani’s, he’s supposed to be on our side and goes on TV saying, “I don’t do tweets” and “tweets are bad” and “somebody in Trump Tower may have been a Russian agent” and “there’s nothing to prosecute except the Russians”?

  And the senators they had on, my Republican fucking senators from the intelligence committee, pardon my French? That you-know-what Susan Collins says “no evidence,” “Trump should turn over any evidence, better yet Trump should just shut up,” so disrespectful. (By the way, Reince just told me she got married for the first time four years ago, at like sixty. Wow. Never heard of a woman doing that.) The kid Cotton from Oklahoma, supposedly conservative—“I’ve seen no evidence,” “I ignore Trump’s tweets.” And little fucking Marco Rubio, pardon my French—I give him a nice tweet when he’s begging to get back in the Senate after I beat him, two days ago I give him a nice ride down here to Florida on Air Force One, find him salsa in the galley for his beautiful in-flight shrimp, and now on Sunday this is what he does to me? I’ve always said Marco was a very dishonest and disloyal lightweight little boy, but he was the worst about the Obama wiretapping, he went on and on, on Meet the Press and also CNN—“no evidence, no one’s presented anything; never seen anything anywhere about that; never heard that from anybody; ask Trump, he’ll answer it, make him explain; I’m not the guy that went out and said that.” Fuck me, I am going to fuck that motherfucking little Cuban choker so bad when he runs against me in 2020, pardon my French. The little Spanish fuck. Pardon my French.

  The American people understand what’s going on. They know. This is why I won, even though it’s literally impossible for a Republican to win in the electoral college. The people know all the professional politicians in Washington are scared of the truth, scared of somebody in power who knows the score, scared of me. The people hate the “elite” and now they hate that the elite is trying to make Trump look stupid and dishonest, and make him feel bad. I refuse to let the corrupt elite establishment insiders force me to let the American people down.

  A GOOD TEST FOR COMEY

  I gave Rodrigo a new title, senior steward and special international minority adviser to the president—secret for now so the press won’t jump all over us. (Before the promotion I did some security double-checking on Rodrigo through Anthony, my African American special agent, and he’s an A-plus.) By the way, Rodrigo doesn’t think the new executive order for extreme vetting we issued today is “racist.” He’s completely for it. There are millions of Muslims in the Philippines, which many people don’t know, actually even more than in America, and they came in hundreds of years ago, before any kind of vetting had been set up. They all live down on the real jungle islands, which many people also don’t know, a thousand miles from beautiful Trump Tower Manila, which is great, because no roads connect, but they’re still a big, big, major problem for the country—uneducated, poverty, violence, worse than Chicago, riots, radical Islamic, carnage. I’m going to brief my “intelligence” briefers about this at my next “briefing.” In the fall I’m going to the Philippines for a big summit with all the countries down there, and I’ll be meeting with President Duty-Free of the Philippines. Duty-Free is a very strong supporter of Trump, very tough guy, he’s taking care of his drug dealers big-league, used to do it personally. The “Asian Trump” they’re calling him, which really shows you how hot the brand is in politics now all over the world. Ivanka thinks it’s okay in those situations that they’re using the brand without paying a license fee, because they’ll be paying in other ways, and I guess she’s probably right.

  But speaking of the Pacific people and the island people—as Rodrigo says, it’s not right to “stereotype,” some are light and some are dark, some are good, some are bad, some are strong, some are weak. But Hawaii sued America today to stop our new, better ban on terrorist immigrants. Hawaii, remember, was foreign until we let it join America when I was in seventh grade—like a year before Obama was “born” “there,” by the way, interesting “coincidence.” And the Hawaiian attorney general who just sued us is named General Chin, I swear, and the federal judge who blocked us there is an Oriental, too, last name Watson but giveaway middle name, Kahala. Maybe I should let Kim Jong-un take Hawaii out and then nuke North Korea. (That’s sarcasm. But that’s also the way it could actually go down. That’s actually a “scenario” I heard about from Mad Dog or one of the generals in his uniform, I forget which.) But also, seriously? The other federal judge who blocked the new vetting rules, in Maryland, is Judge Chuang. I mean, come on. You do have to wonder if this is a long-term play by China—get their guys in place in America, then bust my balls just for fun. China is smart.

  MITZI: Presidential to-do list

  Emperor Xi next month, after a drink, let him know I know about the judges, watch his reaction.

  Jeff Sessions was just in here telling me he was nervous about having FBI counterintelligence in Hawaii check out my China theory. “It’d be a good test for Comey,” I said, and after I gave him my “stay strong, tough guy” talk and the special handshake, he promised to do what he could about our Hawaii problems. I’m not quoting him, because I turned off the phone recorder because of something Jeff said about “the big mistake Mr. Nixon made.” I also told him to look into whether that Hawaiian judge or their attorney general had some conflict from back when we were building the Trump International down there. Then I turned my recorder back on—I now do it just by reaching into my suit pocket and pressing the button, as I’m talking, very discreet.

  “Or maybe those guys have been involved in some Honolulu monkey business before,” I told him. “Maybe they fucked me in the Trump Waikiki deal.” Pardon my French. “Maybe we can find out. Understand?”

  He saluted me, which is a thing he does. It’s cute.

  “Whoa,” I said, “this really has turned into a regular hula-hula pupu platter day at the White House, huh?”

  “Mr. President?”

  “Pupu platter, Hawaiian, you eat it? You don’t have that in Alabama?”

  He was confused but he seemed interested. We went back and forth like this for another minute, and I don’t want to embarrass the attorney general with every detail, although someday I might. Bottom line is he thought “pupu platter” was a sex thing. This is another example of how people would like Jeff Sessions more if they got to know him. He’s got his wild side, like a lot of the smaller guys do.

  I’M REALLY GLAD I’ve got Rodrigo with me, because something’s going on with the Asians. And I don’t just mean the ones in Hawaii.

  Late last night I’m in the White House, alone upstairs in the Treaty Room, news shows all reruns so I’m watching Fallon’s monologue, in the bathrobe, the bowl of Lays, the glass of Diet Coke—and suddenly my Special Service secret agent Anthony rushes into the room with his pistol drawn.

  “Mogul is secure,” he said into his cuff. That’s my code name. Then he told me, “Intruder on the grounds, Mr. President,” and just a few seconds later, he said, “Intruder apprehended at the South Portico, sir.”

  See, that is what makes being the president of the United States fun. That was what it’s supposed to be, like in the movies. But actually so rare.

  Also, by the way, when I say I’m the least racist person ever, that incident last night really proved it: A young black guy runs into my den without warning, holding a pistol, and I was completely fine with it.

  Anthony and all the special agents carry a Sig Sauer P229. Great pistol. Big pistol. Before I was president, I carried a Glock 43—small and lightweight, fantastic little pistol. I’ve had a New York City concealed-carry permit almost forever, which is very hard to get, almost impossible, but I have one.

/>   But back to the Vietnamese guy, the intruder—he’s a computer engineer from Silicon Valley. Anthony’s supervisor tells me the guy was actually carrying an Apple computer with him.

  “Very interesting,” I said. “Very, very interesting.” What I meant was that this kid could be one of Obama’s wiretappers. Just two days before, I’d switched to an Apple iPhone. Wow. Wow.

  Then they tell me on his computer he had a letter addressed to me about “Russian hackers,” and also a copy of one of my best-selling books. And then I find out he worked for one of the very major manufacturers of computer chips and security devices, the biggest German one, a company that Russian intelligence hates. And it manufactures computer chips—in Tijuana, in Mexico. Wow! This morning my son Barron said the guy was probably a ninja, and told me that one of the girls who assassinated Kim Jong-un’s brother the other day was Vietnamese. Now it was even more like a movie, but one of the ones where I lose track, like The Usual Suspects, or the Bourne movie where Edward R. Murrow is tracking Matt Damon. I can’t tell you more, or what the Vietnamese ninja’s letter said, but I think we all probably have a pretty good idea what’s going on. The ninja is back home in Silicon Valley, with a government monitor attached to him. And we’re making the White House fence twice as high. I’ll leave it at that for now.

  I asked my Secret Service agent Anthony to show me his Sig Sauer P229 pistol—then ran a surprise drill, testing how he’d neutralize an attacking terrorist or Democrat.

  THEY SAID IT ON THE NEWS

  I’ll get to my big White House meeting with the German prime minister or president or whatever she is, but I’m not going to let the fake media bury this story of the illegal and disgusting surveillance of me by U.S. “intelligence” last fall and for all we know right now. Every time I ask, Anthony and the other special secret agents and their boss all tell me that the Southern White House and the White House and the Northern White House (Trump Tower) are clean. But I’ve ordered them to start “sweeping” more often.