My first 100 days as Numero Uno have been fantastically tremendous as we begin to make progress to clean up the mess that I inherited.
Terrorism, crumbling infrastructure, public television (so boring), China, the war on coal, political correctness, people we have no idea who they are coming into this country, the whole deal.
You’d never know this if you watch MSNBC or CNN, which — and we have proof of this — are owned by the man who owns The New York Times, Famous Ray’s Pizza, some check-cashing establishments and that bunch of losers, the New York Knicks. Sad!
His name is Mr. Wong, and he has had it in for me since I refused to sell him an apartment in my building because he cooks everything in fish oil, and his very unpleasant journalists have ripped me since Day 1, which does not bother me in the slightest.
They’re like an anthill in the Rose Garden. Stomp! Stomp! Bye-bye!
And he is very stupid. Very, very stupid. His New York Times is written by robots run by a laptop computer in Toronto. We have photographs that will be released as soon as they are audited.
Never miss a local story.
These robots keep saying I’m unpopular, my White House is in chaos, I am guilty of conflict of interest, my intelligence briefings come in the form of flipbooks because I read at a fourth-grade level — FAKE NEWS! I read 1,000 words per minute, that’s why I flip the pages.
I love being POTUS. I love the security cordon around me. It means that nobody can walk up to me in the street and say, “Hey, Don, remember me? Studio 54?”
Doesn’t happen. No sitting in a restaurant listening to some illegal foreign waiter reciting the specials in his unintelligible accent. I go where the food comes pronto, steak, well-done, served by an American born in America.
And after dessert, no sitting around while people you hardly know reminisce about their childhood in Kansas or wherever. Who cares? I signal Secret Service with a finger in my right ear and I am out of there.
Wong lives in a very substandard 14th-floor penthouse on West 39th Street, not a desirable neighborhood, and the 14th floor is hardly a penthouse. More like a pigeon coop. Sirens day and night, helicopters flying tourists around.
Now that I am president, no helicopter with their irritating whump-whump-whump can come within a half-mile of me unless it is a Marine helicopter and I am inside it.
Wong owns two motels in West Palm Beach, the Wayfarer and the Beachcomber — you hear the toilet flush next door — no comparison to Mar-a-Lago.
Every foreign leader who’s come to visit me there says it is “Number One” and “world class” — fresh fruit in every room, bottled water from Trump Springs, Egyptian sheets. Other places have sheets with an 800-thread count. Mine are 8,000. Only the best!
I don’t miss New York a bit. It’s a hellhole. People lying in doorways, sleeping on park benches, like Calcutta or something. You get stuck in traffic, bums knock on your window and people jaywalk in front of you.
Now this helicopter is at my service day and night with a young Marine in dress uniform by the steps, at attention, and gives me a tremendous salute. I’ve seen the salutes they gave Obama and they were nothing like the ones I get.
Tremendous respect. The military was hanging their heads before and now they’re holding their heads up, thanks to me.
I have tremendous respect for the military. Great people. I did not serve in the armed forces due to a painful foot injury that made it hard for me to stand at attention, but as a young man, I found that dating in Manhattan was like being in Vietnam.
I went out with beautiful women, I was a soldier going over the hill, there was herpes around, crabs, syph, you name it.
If I were to start dating again, I have people who would subject those women to extreme vetting. No women from Iran, Libya, Somalia, Sudan, Syria or Yemen. No vegans. All bags will be searched. Remove your shoes. Golfers, go to the front of the line.
I am 70 but I feel like 17. Wake up every morning with a big grin on my face. Anyone who thinks otherwise is just bitter about the election. So sad.
Nyaa nyaa on you. I gotta go.
Garrison Keillor is an author, radio personality and weekly columnist for Washington Post News Service.