August 19, 2016
Ah, shoot. Paulie Walnuts has left the building. Felonies aside, Paulie was a good man. We had some fights, of course, because he tried to change Baby DonDon. That’s like ordering a nip-and-tuck on Michelangelo’s David. But I make this promise: Paulie, I will use all my influence to see you get a nice prison, a very nice prison, one like Paulie Sorvino had in Goodfellas, where you can do lots of cooking. Make some Chicken Kiev.
Speaking of sculptures, I assume you saw the disgusting thing this dickwad sculptor did yesterday, putting five statues of Baby DonDon in New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle and Cleveland. Each was titled “The Emperor Has No Balls,” which is ridiculous given the set—like grapefruits—on me. He also gave me a Johnson the size of Zika-bearing mosquito. He saved a lot of time and money by not having to sculpt the real thing, that I can tell you. This sculptor will suffer if I get elected. He’ll be sculpting license plates in a prison far less pleasant than Paulie’s.
So Lindsey Graham, a perennial pain in the keister who almost didn’t make it to the kid’s table in the debates, told the New York End Times that Republican leaders will have to pretend my candidacy is viable to help Senate and House candidates. “It’s going to be like Weekend at Bernie’s—you’ve got to make him look alive, even if he’s not,” he said.
What a douchewaffle, invoking one of the great films against me like that.
So my new team had me say last night I regretted saying some stuff. What do I regret? If you have a seven-figure super PAC contribution to make, call me and I will tell you. Otherwise, forget it.
Actually, the only thing I really regret is saying I regret something. Regret is not something I do. It’s what people who deal with me do. On the regret front, I’m an Edith Piaf kind of guy.
And that turdmuffin sculptor apparently thought I was an Edith Piaf kind of guy in other ways as well.