Dear Diary,
Today I met with Kim Jung Un. What a guy! He looks like a fatso Munchkin! He could walk the Yellow Brick Road with Judy Garland! His eyelids were so close together I never saw his eyeballs. I wanted to reach over with my thumb and index finger and open those lids and say, ‘Hey in there!’ But that stupid John Kelly told me do not take hold of anything but the Oriental’s hand.
Remember when I told my followers I could kill somebody and nothing would happen to me? Well Un—or is it Kim—bragged that he had killed over 300 people!
“Poison them, Donald. Poison make them linger and think about you while their insides boil! Shooting—no. Garroting—no. Over too quick! Poison their bananas flambé, watch them puke their guts, void their bowels, writhe in pain—all the while thinking of the Kimster (or Unster or Jungster—whatever)!”
Words to live by. I’d like to poison that gay guy Mike Pen—Anderson Cooper.
Kim—or is it Jung—has a harem. He offered to share with me. He’s got Geisha girls who pee on you, take it up the back door, girls on girls. But that stupid John Kelly won’t let me have a little sampler—much less an adult sampler. ‘What if the American people find out?’ Is he kidding? American men cheered me on when I did it with that randy whore Stormy D.
Boooooooooring!
I told Jung—or is it Un—that North Korea has great sandy beaches. I could see them in the top- secret photos of their nuclear tests, huge sandy beaches that just beg to be developed by Trump. The little bugger’s interpreter kept saying, ‘We’ll see. We’ll see.’ Which means yes. It better mean, yes. Of course, they can’t see anything with those slanted eyes.
I’ve got a secret! Somebody’s here that should not be here! Michael Cohen is hiding in Air Force One with bags and bags of cash. Everybody’s talking about my first Trump-Un—or is it Trump-Kim—handshake lasting so long. That’s because Cohen put a little device in my palm that transferred funds to Kim’s—or is it Jung’s—tiny little device in his palm. Ka-ching!
Why do people hate me? Crooked Hillary and Crooked Penis Bill say they hate me. My sons hate me. My daughter won’t sit on my lap anymore—that’s it, I won’t date her now if she begs me. One bag of Cohen Cash each, and they’d all be tickling my scrotum! It doesn’t matter. I now own half the globe. Full globe by the time I’m out of office.
Not much in the way now. Just ask Lil’ Kim Jung Un! Uny—or is it Jungy—said to me ‘What you think I am?’ I said, well, we already established what you are. The question is: How much?
Night-night, Diary
Love, Donny
