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Thursday, May 18, 2017

Trump Plans a Trip to Belize

I, Donald J. Trump, am of a sound mind and more sound body, writing this from an undisclosed bowling alley within the White House at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I write this of my own free will. No matter what Crooked Hillary may say, or that Kenyan who messed up the residence in the White House so badly I can't set foot in it. This is my confession.

Melania: It's all true. All of it. I never meant to hurt anyone that wasn't me. I'm so sorry to myself, and my future self, and to Richard M. Nixon, who built this beautiful, wonderful--it's absolutely great, believe me--bowling alley. It's why I locked myself up in here. Did you know--and I know this from the White House usher I fired--Petunia and Dick Nixon had this alley built because they couldn't stand baseball?

I understand. Who likes baseball? A Democrat would've built a baseball diamond in the White House basement, but a Republican thinks smaller. Thinks of alleys. Dick Nixon and his wife, Checkers, thought ahead. "Someday," they said to one another. "Someday we'll all want to live in alleys." So here I am.

Ignore the golden pee
To my sons, Walt Jr. and the other two, I want to say: You have sisters. And I'm not entirely sure which one of you all came from which of my wives, but I do love you all. As a group, you make up the best of my life as a whole.

Except Tiffany. Sorry, but you were the gutter-ball I sent down the lane. Your mother was brilliant in that show about a plain-spoken midwesterner from the future: Buck Rogers Follies. Honey, if only I'd gone after Bernadette Peters! It'd be you instead of Ivanka on my staff!

Or you'd have your own clothing line by now. Whichever. Whichever. It'd be a great clothing line. I know it.

Here's the point. Or the strike. Or the gutter-ball. I'm in the Nixon bowling ball rink because Daddy made a terrible mistake. Okay. I admit it. I did something Daddy shouldn't do. It's true I've spent my life doing a lot I shouldn't do, but now the pins are reseting, and as they do it becomes clear my strikes were actually gutter balls (Sorry, Tiff--we'll always have... something!).

Daddy may have to go away for a bit. But as I always say: I am with you. Mostly because you have my DNA wrapped up with you respective mothers' DNA--you can't escape me.

Haha.

Forthwith, and nonwithstanding, please be advised that you in no way have rights to the trademarked name of Trump, nor do any of you have the right to use Trump in promotional material.

I remain your loving father,
Donald  J. Trump (tm) (LLC)

PS. Please tell Bannon to pick up the pee jars outside the door.

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