THE GOLDEN AGE GLITCH: Trump's Own Derangement Syndrome

It started with the pens. Obama’s pens. Gold-plated, slender, "diplomatic" pens that looked like they belonged in a museum for losers. When I sat down at that Resolute Desk, I could still smell the faint scent of Dijon Mustard and compromise lingering in the drawers. He had signed the JCPOA--the "Worst Deal in History," a total disaster, a real low-energy document--with one of those pens. I knew right then, if I was going to fix the world, I had to rip that paper into so many pieces it looked like confetti at one of my political rallies... I have the biggest rallies.

Fixing things is what I do. I’m a builder. You see a wall with a crack, you don't patch it; you knock the whole building down and put up a tower with your name on it in 24-karat gold. That’s logic. That's 'winning!'

So, I ripped it up. I told the world, "Look, Hussein Obama was a failed diplomat. He was going to start World War III just to stay in power. Pathetic." I, on the other hand, was going to bring Peace Through Chaos. It’s a new concept I came up with. Very high-level. Many people tell me it's the greatest thing a President has ever done. They say "Sir" with tears in their eyes... "I just can't stand all this winning!"

But then, the Iranians started doing things. They were moving canisters. I saw it on a chart. It was a very beautiful chart, full of red lines and arrows pointing at things that looked like giant espresso machines. My generals--who are great, but sometimes they talk too much, and they're not so great--said, "Sir, we can’t verify if there’s a threat."

I said, "I can verify it. I have a gut, and my gut is smarter than your satellites."

I had to fix the "Nuclear Menace" that I’d essentially invited back into the room by breaking the lock on the door. It was an overcorrection, sure, but you have to overcorrect when the previous guy was driving the bus off a cliff at three miles per hour. " Sleepy Joe Biden, the worst President ever" I decided to drive it at a hundred miles per hour in the opposite direction. That’s how you stay on the road.

I called for a "Surgical Strike." I like the word surgical. It sounds clean, like a facelift. I told them to hit the places where they keep the bad stuff. But then I remembered--I’m a negotiator. I thought, What if I bomb them just a little bit, and then call them to offer a hotel franchise in Tehran?

So, I ordered the planes up. Then I ordered them down. Then I ordered them to do a loop-de-loop because I wanted to see if they could. The pilots were confused. The Iranians were confused. Even the Fox News anchors looked like they needed a nap. But I knew, the dirty Democrats, didn't want peace.

"Sir," Marco Rubio said, sweating through a very expensive suit, and wearing the Florsheim's that I bought him 2 sizes too big, "we’ve accidentally bombed a rug factory. It was a very high-end rug factory. The global silk market is in shambles."

"Fine," I said. "We’ll fix the rug market. We’ll buy American rugs. Shag carpet is making a comeback. I’m bringing it back." I know rugs, more that anyone about rugs, we'll have the most beautiful rugs made in America, and so many jobs... they will say "Sir" we have never been so successful in America making rugs.

But the Iranians didn't want shag carpet. They sent a drone. A tiny, little drone. It looked like a toy you’d give a loser kid for Christmas. It buzzed around my golf course in Mar-a-Lago. It was mocking me. I could feel it. I told the Secret Service to throw their shoes at it. That didn’t work.

I had to escalate. To fix the "Drone Insult," I decided to send a message. Not a coded message--a big message. The most beautiful big message. I tweeted a picture of a mushroom cloud with the caption: "DO NOT THREATEN THE STABLE GENIUS. COVFEFE."

My advisors panicked. They said I’d accidentally declared war on a Tuesday, which is a bad day for the markets. To fix the "Tuesday War Panic," I announced a "Wednesday Peace Summit" that I hadn't actually scheduled. I told the press that the Ayatollah and I were pen pals. I told them we exchanged "beautiful, very long letters" about uranium enrichment and hairspray.

Then came the "Big Fix." I realized that to truly stop the nuclear threat I’d stirred up, I needed to show them I was crazier than they were. I decided to bomb the desert. Just the sand. A lot of sand. I wanted to turn the Iranian desert into a giant glass mirror so I could see my reflection from space.

"We’re glassing them!" I shouted in the Situation Room, we created with sheets, hung up around the buffet in Mar-a-Lago. "It’ll be the biggest mirror in the world. People will come from everywhere to see it. It’ll be a tourist attraction." It'll make so much money, we won't have to pay income taxes any more; even though I don't pay them now.

The missiles went off. They were beautiful. Like Fourth of July, but with more consequences. But apparently, sand reflects heat. Who knew? The heat from the "Great Mirror Project" created a localized weather system that blew a massive dust storm toward our own allies. To fix the "Allied Dust-Up," I tried to buy Greenland again. I thought if I moved the allies to Greenland, they wouldn't mind the dust.

The Danes said no. Again. Very rude people.

So there I was, sitting in the bunker, trying to fix a war I started to stop a deal I broke to prove a point about a guy I hated. Every time I turned a knob, the machine made a louder grinding noise. Every time I applied a bandage, a new limb fell off. I thought we'd me in and out of Iran in 72 hours; just like Venezuela. I was starting to get bored with these people. I wanted to play with Cuba.

I looked at the map. It was covered in Sharpie marks. I’d drawn circles around countries that don't even exist anymore. I’d renamed the Persian Gulf "The Trump Moat."

"Sir," an aide whispered, "the Iranians have responded. They’ve blocked all exports of caviar. Your Sunday brunch is ruined." That's when they started charging a troll toll, of $2 million just to pass through the Straight of Hormuz.

That was the final straw. To fix the "Caviar Crisis," I decided there was only one move left. I had to blockade the Straight of Trump, yes I renamed it after me, because I'm doing all the work by myself to fix the world. So I ordered my big beautiful ships, to block my straight, then to start the bombing. Not the whole ocean, just the part with the sturgeons. If I couldn't have the eggs, nobody could.

As the explosions rocked the sea, sending giant plumes of saltwater into the atmosphere, I felt a sense of pride. The world was screaming. The UN was holding emergency sessions. My own Cabinet was hiding in the broom closets. But as I watched the chaos unfold on sixteen different television screens, I realized something important.

I had successfully erased everything Obama had done. The JCPOA was gone. The rugs were gone. The sturgeons were definitely gone. The world was a smoldering, confusing, sandy mess. But, I definitely didn't have to look at one accomplishment Obama made.

I picked up a gold Sharpie and looked at a fresh map of the world. It was a disaster. It was a total wreck. It was perfect.

"Get me a Diet Coke," I told the empty room. "I have some more fixing to do."

-Thank you for your attention to this matter. -DJT