Mar-a-Loco, July 13, 2025 — The sun hadn’t yet burned off the smell of taxpayer-funded meatloaf when I was led through the gilded vestibule of a Florida Versailles to the place where history now oozes like swamp gas: the Interview Room. There, beneath a mural of Trump riding an alligator bare-chested, was the man himself. Glowing faintly orange. He looked like a creamsicle that had been dropped in a litter box and reassembled with gorilla glue.
Me: Bill, it’s as of today, July 13, 2025. And by my count, you have lied to the world 986,720 times. Am I in the ballpark?
Trump: Nope. My lies are the greatest. Nobody lies better. I’m the most terrific liar of them all. Believe me. Even Goebbels is like, ‘Whoa, tone it down, Don.’
Me: Have you slept with Jeffrey Epstein?
Trump: We went camping with the girls. It was a nature thing. I respect nature, especially when it's barely legal.
Me: Do you remember the circumstances?
Trump: Of course. It was the Everybody Get Lost in the Woods Beauty Pageant. The talent competition was... unforgettable.
Me: Were you scared?
Trump: Nah. I’ve wrestled bears in gay bars. You learn a lot about dominance that way. Plus, I always carried Tic Tacs for safety.
Me: It’s been said you and Epstein were tighter than super glue on an eyelid.
Trump: I once superglued my eye shut on a dare. Told Ivanka it was to avoid seeing Don Jr.’s TED Talk. “How to Fail Upwards in 43 Easy Indictments.”
Me: On the anniversary of your ear nick — you know, the one you claimed was a wound from Antifa — you released a photo in camo holding a hairdryer like an Uzi. A photo of ‘resistance,’ you said. Have you always been a revolutionary?
Trump: I’ve been called the Castro of comedy. People say that. Not communist — comedic. I even do Marxist jokes. Wanna hear one?
Me: Please.
Trump: Why did the Marxist only drink herbal tea? Because proper tea is theft.
(He leans back smugly, clearly unaware of how many tea sommeliers died inside.)
Me: Let’s talk Kristi Noem. Would you let her in your room after 7 p.m.?
Trump: No way. She’s got “ghoul” written all over her. You've seen the eyes? Like wet marbles in a haunted doll. And have you heard about her dog? She’s the Cujo whisperer.
Me: Then why did you choose her for Homeland Security?
Trump: She’s got cred and shred. She's like a banshee with a law degree.
Me: Does Stephen Miller really sleep in a crypt below Melania’s quarters?
Trump: That’s a fact. Right next to the bust of Lugosi and a dry-aged turducken.
Me: Do you read to Melania at night?
Trump: Nah. I call her long-distance. She prefers it that way. She’s in Slovenia now — spiritually and logistically.
Me: What’s a conversation like?
Trump: I say, “Drop in,” and she bolts the door. Then I leave her a voicemail that’s just me breathing heavily over the Mar-a-Lago hold music — a loop of Lee Greenwood played on pan flute.
Me: How many calls do you make to the six Supreme Court justices you handpicked?
Trump: I call Amy first. Break the ice with “Nice day,” and she always replies, “Your Metamucil is getting cold.” We have a thing. I tease Brett: “Beer?” He cries a little. Clarence is a different ballgame. We talk RVs. I’ve never been in one, but I’ve condemned many to live in them.
Me: Do you in any way assert your influence over them?
Trump: Absolutely. I remind them — they’re all on the AI Epstein tapes. Even the ones who weren’t born yet. Deepfake democracy. Very effective.
Me: What do you want for Christmas?
Trump: A drone. A stinger missile. And a doctor who can fix my nose. Have a close look. I swear it's delicatessen meat. Pastrami meets plastic surgery.
Me: Last question. In this interview, have you lied about anything?
Trump: (Long pause.) Maybe the Christmas gift. The first part. I already got the drone.
He winked. Or maybe blinked. Or maybe his lashes were stuck together from another dare. I stood, unsure if I had spoken to a former president, a performance artist, or a sentient tub of expired Miracle Whip. Either way, history was watching, though it had one hand over its face.
I think we accept the fact, long past Biden, he’s fried. The Epstein thing will not go away.
He showed up at MetLife for the World Cup. It totally disrupted getting into the stadium. Paid cops, paid state troopers, paid secret service, all so that he can have private meetings with Qatar. So glad they lost to Chelsea.
I was furious with the length of walk because of this, but this piece made me smile. Thanks bill.