My plane is very big and very special and it has just arrived for the Nato summit in England where I am very popular. And the Boris guy who wants to be me, so badly by the way, is calling already.
“I get it,” I’m saying, “because I am a very stable genius. I’m the smartest person in the room. Even when I’m by myself. Everybody says! Who? I don’t know. Empty room. What were we talking about?”
Boris says we were talking about me staying out of the UK election.
“Sure,” I say. “Even Melania gets it. She’s not confused. She just looks like that. I’m too popular. It would be like having God on your side. Like I do. I think he admires me. You know what? It’s mutual. Whataguy. Speaks to me sometimes. In dreams. Great horns!”
Boris doesn’t say anything.
“Or the Queen!” I say. “I’m like the Queen.”
“In a way,” says Boris.
“Although secretly,” I add, “I bet she’s on your side, too.”
“Oh totally,” says Boris.
As I tell the press conference, I don’t want your NHS. You could give me it on a silver platter and I wouldn’t take it. I wouldn’t even take the platter. I got more platters than you would believe. Mine are gold. Also, I’m impartial. Boris is a great guy, but I have absolutely zero preference between him and your Bernie Corbyn gentleman, who is a threat to your nation and would be so bad, so bad. Him? He might be great, too. It’s possible. Stranger things have happened. Like that show about the talking horse! What even was that? So I’m gonna stay out of it. So far out. The outest. Am I doing this right?
Actually, what I want to talk about is Nato. You know, my friend Emmanuel Macron said it was “brain dead” and I just think that’s so nasty. And I used to love that guy. Not in a gay way. I don’t care how it looked. But you guys are so ungrateful. There were wars! The worst. We’ve all seen the films. It’s like I told Angela Merkel. If it wasn’t for Uncle Sam, you’d all be speaking German. Don’t look at me like that. Such disrespect. My brain is fine.
Melania is trapped inside her new cape. So yellow. I’ve got a break between meetings and I’ve turned on my phone, and there are 17 voicemails from Nigel Farage. Sad. Also, there’s a fun video of all the guys getting accidentally caught chatting on camera.
“Ha!” I say. “They’re trash-talking some chump who had an incredibly long press conference! I wonder who?”
Woody, my ambassador, is curled up at my feet eating from a bowl. Literally like a dog.
“Could be anyone,” he says.
“Am confused,” says Melania.
“We get that,” I say.
“But husband,” she says. “They are talking about you.”
The FAKE NEWS MEDIA is writing that I overreacted, but I didn’t. I just publicly called Trudeau “two-faced”, derailed everything and flew home, tweeting about it.
“Dad!” says Donald Jr. “I tweeted too! About Trudeau being two-faced! Like in this picture of him, in blackface!”
“I don’t like the guy,” I say. “He’s nasty. And he’s a liberal. And he says mean things about me. But you gotta admire his tan.”
Boris calls, to debrief.
“I’m not happy,” I tell him. “So much disrespect. Macron, Trudeau. Merkel. Even the Turkey guy. Who I just pardoned! For something. I think. Terrible people. Even that Italian, whatsisname.”
“Conte,” says Boris.
“Wow,” I say, impressed despite myself. “You Brits don’t hold back.”
“Anyway,” says Boris, “so grateful. Greater love hath no man, and all that.
“Strong bond. Athens to your Rome, and what have you. Top show.”
Then I tell Boris I know perfectly well he was laughing with the rest of them, and he goes quiet. Then I ask him how he’d like it if I did go public, but backing the other guy. Calling him the British Trump. Telling people he was just like me. And kept doing it for the next week.
“That,” says Boris. “Would be amazing.”
*According to Hugo Rifkind