My fellow pale Americans,
I am honored to be with you tonight, on this sacred July 3 holiday, you audience of thirty thousand people sitting below giants. Teddy Roosevelt, huge! Huge man! Huge and perfect and the best—well the best until I came along.
My staff tell me… that many of you said as you walked in, that the park should be renamed Mount Trumpmore. It’s not for me to say, but I wouldn’t say no.
What the leftist radical Marxist commie libtards won’t tell you… is that Cary Grant, on these sacred stones, defeated the enemy James Mason—he was a Limey, of course, and he killed himself—that’s right: booooooooo! boooooooooooo! booooooooooo!—and Carey Grant saved the virtue of Eva Marie Saint right here where I stand. Eva Marie. I would have dated her back then; very Ivanka-ish, if you get my drift.
The Godless, science believing, nutso-freakos will tell you that was a movie with the fake title “North by Northwest,” instead of the documentary by the great director Alfred E. Newman.
They will tell you that Cary Grant fought the Limey on a stage set in Chicago. Do you believe it? The stupidos?
I saw Cary Grant defeat the Sassenach Martin Landau—right here! When the golfers on my Scottish course insult the English, they say “Sassenach.” Martin Landau fell from Honest Abe’s nostril, and his head split open on this very stage—I see the bloodstain!
And the whino-wino-anti albinos will tell you that Indians consider this sacred ground. Well, Sitting Bull didn’t sit here. Sitting Bully Pulpit sat here. Not antichrist Franklin Roosevelt, but Teddy. That’s right: Ted-dy! Ted-dy! Ted-dy! And Teddy said, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” That is in the bible just in case our enemies are foaming their lattes over at MSNBC. Mark, Chapter 3, Verse 12: “Verily, I say unto ye, the only good Indian is a dead Indian.”
But I am not here to talk about dead Indians or pissed off welfare blackies. No, just as I am ordering the forests of the United States turned into toilet paper—thank you, thank you—so too are the Barack-Thirty Rock, Asiatic-sciatica, Atticus Finchy, Puratino-Americans trying to kill Whitey!
Kill Whitey? Can you imagine? Kill all the Old Testament Noah’s and Eves and Adam’s family and the Jesuses? Jesus—I am so Jesusy right now, I am wetting myself! That’s right: White Je-sus! White Je-sus! White Je-sus!
I am a Whitey. I am not ashamed to say so. You sixty thousand whiteys gathered here: Are you ashamed? I want you to stand up and shout to those rocky mountain men above us: I’m as white as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore! Oh, thanks to the lady in the coonskin cap in the front row: “Not counting Jews!” Except Larry Kudlick! Or is it Kudlow? Lick, low, who knows. Who knows where the lick lows.
But I digress. Can you imagine, Sleepy Joe Biden up there carved in stone? Gropey Joe with a stone titty in his hand? Dopey Joe? Old “black” Joe? With the alzheim—whatyoucallit?
But! Can you imagine…moi? Moi? MOI? MOI UP THERE? Next to Abe, only my head is bigger?
And something else is bigger, let me tell you, but I am not going to pull my pants down on this sacred July 3. My wife Melania will tell you what is in my pants. Melania? Where is Melania? Oh, she is in the VIP section confabbing with your fabulous governor Kristi Noem with her new poem: “Virus?-Miley Cyrus?-You Scum Appendicitis!”
That’s right: Moi that wall! Moi that wall! Moi that wall!
And God bless the United States of America—and my presidency until the Covid-19 thingie is over, which may be four more years because you suckers—you people with Trump cherry suckers in your mouths, that is—are, as the young white kids say before I date them, sick!
That’s right: We are sick! We are sick! We are sick!
