⚠️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER:
This is a fictional rant in the voice of George Carlin, crafted for the purpose of political satire and darkly accurate humor. If your last name is Trump and you're already angry, maybe don’t do a line off the Constitution before calling your lawyer.
George Says: “DONALD TRUMP JR. WANTS TO BE PRESIDENT? YEAH, AND I WANT TO BE MISS UNIVERSE.”
So Don Jr. might run for president, huh?
Well sure, why not.
After all, we’ve already established that the presidency is no longer a job— it’s a franchise.
A branding opportunity.
A fucking family business you pass down with the steaks and the subpoenas.
Don Jr. in politics is like putting a raccoon in charge of your recycling.
He’s got the energy, sure—twitchy, sweaty, “Where’s my dealer?” energy— but absolutely no idea what the hell he’s doing.
He’s not a statesman.
He’s not a leader.
He’s not even a good Instagram troll.
He’s just a Trust Fund Tasmanian Devil with a microphone and daddy issues so loud they qualify as noise pollution.
This is nepotism on Adderall.
You thought George W. was bad?
At least W. had handlers.
Don Jr. has hashtags and a ring light.
This is what happens when you raise a kid in gold-plated elevators, feed him Red Bull and Machismo, and then tell him, “One day, son, all this fascism could be yours.”
Let’s be honest.
This isn’t about public service.
This is about naming rights on the White House and keeping the Trump Empire from collapsing like one of their casinos.
Because Don Jr. doesn’t want to run the country.
He wants to run a podcast with nukes.
George says:
We don’t need another rich, loud, coked-up mascot for fascism and fake populism.
We need a fucking restraining order from this whole goddamn family.
This isn’t succession.
It’s Succession, the HBO series— but written by QAnon, directed by Alex Jones, and funded by the MyPillow guy.
George out.
And if Don Jr. does run, can we at least drug test the debates?
Because I wanna know who’s on stage and who’s on Mars.
The Briefings Are Optional
Washington, D.C. — July 2031
The morning briefing started at 10:42 AM.
It had been scheduled for 8:00.
Don Jr. burst into the Roosevelt Room wearing mirrored aviators and a “REAL PRESIDENTS DON’T PAY TAXES” hoodie. His hair was uncombed, and a protein shake sloshed in a bottle bearing the seal of the President of the United States—modified to include antlers and a rifle.
"Alright, nerds," he grinned. "What's on fire today?"
His Chief of Staff, Bryce, didn’t look up from his tablet. “California’s asking for federal aid again. Half the state’s underwater.”
“Which half?” Don Jr. asked.
“The part that didn’t vote for you.”
He considered. “Tell ‘em I’ll pray for ‘em. Or sacrifice a vegan or something. Next.”
Bryce didn't blink. “The ruble collapsed. Again. Russia wants clarification on your tweet about annexing Siberia 'for the vibes.'”
“Tell ‘em it was a joke. Unless it wasn’t.” He chuckled, then turned to his Communications Director. “Did you see my TruthFlick last night? I destroyed that MSNBC chick. She blinked too much. Obvious fear.”
“That was a weather reporter, sir.”
“Still counts.”
Across the room, the White House Counselor whispered to a National Security intern, “We’ve entered the ungoverned phase. Just smile and don’t say the word ‘briefing.’ He thinks it’s a type of oat.”
Bryce cleared his throat. “We do need a decision on the armed protest at the Capitol.”
Don Jr. perked up. “Which one? The gun guys or the crypto monks?”
“The crypto monks, sir. They’ve occupied the Senate chamber and are live-streaming from a throne made of hard wallets. They’re demanding tax exemption and the resignation of Secretary Musk.”
Don Jr. leaned back and tapped a finger on the desk. “Alright. Let’s compromise. Give them Montana. Nobody important lives there, right?”
"Sir, Montana is where we relocated the nuclear command center after you sold Colorado."
“Right, right,” he nodded. “Okay, give them the old Space Force barracks and free Dogecoin.”
The staff collectively winced.
“I’m kidding,” he added. “Obviously. I’m not giving away government property without a sponsorship deal. Someone get Monster Energy on the line. Let’s monetize the uprising.”
Bryce stood. “I’ll draft the terms.”
Don Jr. grinned. “This is how you run a country, boys. Like a content channel—with nukes.”
As he swaggered out, still unaware he’d held the meeting in the janitor’s closet for the past seven months, a staffer looked up and whispered, “Is it treason if we unplug the Wi-Fi?”
No one answered. They were too busy checking Canadian housing prices.