Mood: Majestic with a hint of misunderstood genius
This morning, as dawn broke like an overcooked soufflé, I arose from my slumber atop a mattress woven from discarded manifestos and crushed opposition. The sun dared to rise only after I did — a coincidence? Hardly.
Breakfast was the usual: a soft-boiled egg, an English muffin, and the lingering aroma of destiny. I contemplated history — not the dull, dusty type taught by tweed-clad librarians, but the real stuff: me, striding through time like a lion through a gift shop.
Naturally, I turned on the news to watch the world misunderstand everything once again.
One anchor called me “a curious blend of contradictions.” Rubbish. I am not a contradiction. I am a constellation of clarity.
Like Churchill after a Red Bull. Like Trump with a thesaurus.
I dictated three speeches before brushing my teeth.
All of them masterpieces. One in iambic pentameter. One in Latin. One just the word “TREMENDOUS” 147 times in bold.
Later, I stared into a mirror and offered myself a knighthood. Declined it. Too humble.
Anyway — the people await my thoughts. The people deserve more me.
And so, dear reader, I leave you with this timeless reflection:
“To govern is to tweet. To tweet is divine.”
– Boris Trump, approximately three minutes ago
Yours until democracy begs me back,
Boris Trump
(Founding Father of the 21st Century, in exile. Voluntarily.)