Couldn’t sleep last night — been up crafting my April Fools' masterstroke: Liberation Day, somewhere between a bad acid reflex flashback and a State of the Union. I smelled something dead in the room and, wouldn’t you know it, caught Stephen Miller sleeping upright near the piss pot like Nosferatu on furlough. Dude hums like spoiled hummus.
Doug Burman’s voice looped in my skull: "Get your head on that mountain." I wanted it too — all bronze scowl and pompadour, flanked by failure. But I know what they’ll do: they’ll call it Mount Shitmore, right next to Obama’s pearly grin. I know that look. That’s Comedy Roast face — he's holding in a zinger and waiting for the prime-time drop.
Anyway, April Fools’ 1983. Classic. I got Ivana worked up like a Cold War missile. Sent little Donnie out for socks — white, tube, thick. Slipped six down the front of my Hane’s and did a spread-eagle swan dive into bed. Boom! Cue the bedroom reveal. She lifts the covers and all I hear is: "Your ass smells like three days old broccoli water." No April Fools. Just a cesspool of stink. She said it five times. I counted. That’s when I knew the holiday was cursed.
Let’s pivot to tariffs.
The French? 63% on baguettes. No brainer. You can’t trust a country that softens their bread and their spines.
The Canadians? Cod? They kiss fish. What do I even do with that? Do I slap a tariff on smooches? Maybe an executive order: “Fish Kissing Now Punishable by Deportation to Utah.”
Mexico? Cactus. I heard their workers sew our clothes with cactus needles. I don't know if it’s true, but I’m saying it on Truth Social and letting the facts catch up later.
Now back to April Fools — the meat and radioactive potatoes of this operation.
First: Rudy. I’ll call him, tell him he’s my attorney again. This time, $2 million a year, no questions asked, except whether he wants the blood oath in Mountain Dew or hair dye. Pepsi.
Reince Priebus? New executive order: I’m changing his name to Flonase. Also issuing a formal apology to his parents for the original branding error. He’s still funny looking on Sunday TV.
Pete Hegseth? Fired. Rehired. But this time for Morning Joe. That’ll test the man’s flag-waving mettle.
Karoline Leavitt? I’m announcing she’s pregnant with Elon’s 15th child. Mars-themed gender reveal to follow.
And Saturday Night Live? Leave it on the air. That’ll cause more confusion than clarity.
Meanwhile, people are saying I haven’t been working. Wrong. Wrong. So wrong it’s almost woke. I’ve been golfing, yes. Press conferencing — sure. But most of my effort’s gone into my presidential library and saved every Big Mac wrapper since the 2016 Inauguration. You think that’s nothing? That’s artifacts. People will come. People love greasy nostalgia.
Breaking News
In a bewildering but somehow entirely predictable turn of events, President Donald J. Trump—once again proving the line between politics and vaudeville is thinner than Melania's patience—has signed Executive Order 1776B, officially designating Kid Rock as “White House Pimp in Residence.”
“Finally,” Trump bellowed from a golden podium that once belonged to Liberace’s estate sale, “someone who truly understands the American people, the working man, the barroom woman, and the sleeveless soul of this great country.”
Kid Rock, born Robert James Ritchie but reborn in American politics as an unfiltered middle finger in cowboy boots, stood at Trump’s side, dripping in layers of velvet, gold chains, and attitude. The new dress code? Fedora hats, long scarves, and boots so pointy they could write cursive on their own.
“Pimpin’ ain’t easy,” Kid Rock drawled into the Rose Garden mic, “but with this executive order, it just got federally funded.”
The order establishes the Office of Patriotic Swagger, to be led by Rock, with an annual budget of $420 million and stocked with cases of Jack Daniels and vintage Pontiac GTOs. Duties include overseeing White House playlist curation (“Only vinyl. No Taylor Swift.”), selecting wardrobe accessories for visiting dignitaries, and appointing regional deputy pimps to monitor American masculinity in truck stops and karaoke bars nationwide.
White House insiders say plans are already underway to transform the Lincoln Bedroom into the “Love Den Lounge,” complete with lava lamps, a mirrored ceiling, and shag carpeting sourced directly from a defunct Detroit roller rink.
“This is about American heritage,” Kid Rock insisted. “This is about bringing back real values, like eight-track tapes and brass knuckles.”
This craziness is always being depicted as the Administration (Trump's, of course) vs. the radical Left. What ever happened to the reasonable middle and compassionate conservative? We are not all either hard right or hard left. The middle ground has always kept both Canada and the USA moving forward...not that there are not issues that have been shunted aside because of this compromise. That, however, is for another day.
Thank you ! Best line… 😆picking out wardrobe for visiting dignitaries.