This is a special kind of blog. It’s a story where YOU are the hero!
You are Donald Trump, leader of the free world, billionaire, raconteur, genius and four times winner of Mr Normal-sized Hands.
In this blog you will have to make decisions, just like the real Donald does, to try to make America great again, or, you know, whatever.
At the end of each page you’ll be asked to make a decision about what to do next, when you’ve spent 0.3 seconds considering how a dim-witted narcissist would act simply click on the link to make your decision.
It’s 10:30am and you’ve just arrived in the Oval Office. You were up late last night, watching YouTube videos that prove that your predecessor, Barack Obama, was a Muslim, and you’re still a bit tired from a busy weekend of golfing.
On your desk is a note that says your approval ratings are still slipping. As you’re reading it your secretary, Titzi, buzzes through to remind you that your security briefing is about to start.
There is a big reed button on your desk, with a post-it note stuck on, reading, “DO NOT PRESS!”
To tweet about Obama being a Muslim go to page 2
To tweet about your popularity go to page 3
To go to your security briefing proceed to page 4
To press the big red button, to see what it does, goes to page 13
That seemed to go well, and it only took you an hour to write, so you’re really storming through your workload. Maybe the American people need to know that, or maybe you’ve earned a break.
To tweet about how productive you’ve been go to page 11
To go for a game of golf to celebrate go to page 5
To press the big red button, out of boredom, go to page 13
Now that you’ve started thinking about Mexico you’re pretty angry about the whole thing.
Maybe it’s time you sorted these bad hombres out for once and for all. The American people would like that…but what can you do?
To phone some builders, to get a quote for the wall, go to page 7
To talk to the AG about rounding up some illegal aliens go to page 6
To press the big red button, and make sure Mexico never bothers anyone again, go to page 13
You head along to the top secret, highly secure situation room. They have a big table and a map of the world on the huge screen.
The only person in the room is Steve Bannon, who’s dictating an article to a copy-writer at Brietbart, over the iPhone knock-off he got cheap from Chinese eBay.
“Where’s all the intelligence guys?” you ask.
Steve puts his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone and tells you, “We stopped inviting them, their intelligence was insulting our intelligence. It’s just me and you now, Don.”
“OK,” you say, “Well you better tell me what’s a threat to our security.”
“Muslims, immigrants, journalists and black people,” says Steve, then goes back to dictating his article.
That all sounds pretty scary, and a presidential decision is needed.
To phone the AG, to ask him to start rounding up Muslims and immigrants, go to page 6
To remind the people how great your victory was go to page 8
To decide that dealing with threats is a job for tomorrow and go golfing instead go to page 5
To act like a real president go to page 404
After a relaxing round of golf you feel very generous and offer to buy your caddie a drink back at the clubhouse.
“You’ve earned it. You’re the best caddie I’ve ever had,Norman,” you tell him.
“It’s Nigel, sir. Nigel Farage,” he says.
“Hey, yeah. Aren’t you the British Prime Minister, or something?”
“Yes,” he says, after a long pause, with some signs of an internal struggle.
“I love Britain, you know. I’ve got a golf course in Scotland. The Scotlandish people are the nicest people in England. I’d do anything for them.”
“They’re not being very nice to me,” complains Nigel, “They won’t even give me a knighthood.”
You can’t bear to see your caddie this unhappy, you need to do something.
To phone the Queen and ask for a knighthood for Norman go to page 9
To declare war on Scotland go to page 10
To phone the AG to ask how an immigrant like Nigel got into the country go to page 6
You phone Jeff Sessions, your attorney general, to ask for his legal advice.
“I’m glad you phoned, sir,” he says, before you can even get a word in, “We need to talk about the P-U-T-I-N problem.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my putting,” you tell him, 4 minutes later.
“No, not PUTTING, PUTIN!” he yells down the phone at you, “I was spelling it out in case the FBI were listening!”
“The Fibby?” you ask, ready for his tricks this time.
He sighs. “Look, just don’t say anything to anybody about the Russians, OK?”
“Which Russians?” you ask.
“That’s the spirit…but if you could organise something to distract the media then that would good. Say, can you hear a noise like a tape-recorder running on this line?”
You both go silent. Somebody else on the line muffles a cough.
“Got to go,” says Jeff hurriedly, “Remember, not a word to anyone!”
“Wait, Jeff! I don’t understand,” you say.
“He’s already hung up, doofus,” says a voice you don’t recognise, and then the line goes dead.
The phone call leaves you feeling vaguely unsettled, partly because you can’t remember why you phoned Sessions in the first place. How do you react?
To press the big red button, as a show of strength, go to page 13
To press the big red button, to distract the media, go to page 13
To press the big red button, because you’re curious about what it does, go to page 13
To write a brilliant Tweet, dispelling all rumours about the Russians, go to page 12
“I want a quote for a wall 100 feet high and 2,200 miles long,” you bark into the phone, getting right down to business.
“Yes, sir, but this is Titzi…your secretary. You have to dial 9 for an outside line, remember?”
Ten minutes later you’re on the phone to a Washington builder.
“I can pop round and give you a quote on Friday, mate,” he tells you.
“I’m in Florida on Friday,” you say, “Pretty much every week. Most Wednesdays and Thursdays as well.”
“Well are you back in Washington on Monday?”
“Yes,” you sulk, “I have to back at my desk.”
“You ought to go self-employed, mate,” he tells you. “Look, I’m in Sunderland doing a garden wall on Monday, but I’ll call in on my way back. What time do you finish work?”
“Just after lunch normally. Or just before. It depends when I get sleepy.”
“Smashing. I’ll be round about 6. What’s your address?”
“1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,” you tell him.
“Champion, I’ll just bang that in the sat-nav and see you on Monday night, mate.”
Getting your border wall project underway gives you a real sense of achievement, and you feel that you should keep going and get some more done.
To phone the attorney general about getting some illegals deported go to page 6
To tweet about how rubbish Hillary Clinton is go to page 11
To go for a game of golf to help you relax go to page 5
To press the big red button, and bring God’s cleansing hell-fire to the whole of the Earth go to page 13
There, that should silence your detractors.
You’re still worried that people don’t respect you enough and make fun of you in the news and, more importantly, on Twitter.
How can you win their respect and make them realise what a really great guy you are?
To declare war on somewhere that can’t defend itself, like Scotland, go to page 10
To find somebody to build your border wall for you go to page 7
To get in the zeitgeist by watching some TV go to page 15
To demonstrate your strength, by pressing the big red button, go to page 13
As soon as you’re back at your desk you make the call.
“Your majesty,” you open, in deference to her regal pussy, “I demand a knighthood for my caddie, Norman Fowler!”
“I’m not the Queen, Mr Trump. I’m Theresa, the Prime Minister. Do you remember? The nice lady who came to visit you? We held hands and went for a walk, do you remember that?”
“Cut the bull-crap, lady,” you bark, using your Art-of-the-Deal voice, “Can you get Norman Mailer a knighthood, or do I have to go over your head?”
“The truth is, Mr Trump, I need your help,” Theresa tells you, “People are getting a bit worried about our Brexit thing – do you remember that – and we need a big trade-deal to calm them down a bit. If you can push one through from the US then you can ask for whatever you want.”
“You’ll get your trade-deal,” you tell the PM, “but in return I want…”
To demand a knighthood for Norma Major go to page 16
To insist that Steven Bannon is allowed to marry into the royal family go to page 16
To suggest that the UK becomes the 51st state go to page 16
To ask if you can hold Theresa’s hand again blush and go to page 16
To cut the crap and launch a nuclear attack on her limey ass go to page 13
Eight seconds after you send the tweet there are half a dozen generals in your office.
“You need to make a formal declaration of war,” one of them tells you.
“TITZI! GET GLASGOW ON THE PHONE!” you yell.
When the call is connected you bellow into the receiver, “We’re at war now, Scotland. Prepare to be Trumped.”
“Way ta fuck, ya fuckin orange ba’bag!” comes the reply.
You’re not sure if that’s a formal acknowledgement or not.
To get some advice from Jeff Sessions go to page 6
To go nuclear on their tartan asses press the big red button and go to page 13
To forget about it and watch some TV instead go to page 15
To act like a real president go to Page 404
You’re quite worn out by all of this hard work and need a break.
To go for a relaxing round of golf go to page 5
To kick back and watch some TV go to page 15
To tackle the serious business of running the country go to page 404
You expect that to be the end of the matter, but – almost immediately – a Twitter user, with an egg for a user picture – mentions you and says you are a Russian spy.
How do you handle this egregious public untruth?
To ignore it switch on the TV and go to page 15
To Tweet back that he’s a “Loser” go to page 17
To go Defcon-1 on him press the big red button and go to page 13
To behave like a proper president would go to page 404
As soon as you press the button the lights turn red and sirens go off, just like you always imagined they would.
A squad of secret service guys run in.
“We have to get you to the command bunker, sir,” they explain, virtually dragging you out of your chair.
“Don’t I need to give a press conference or something?” you ask, as you’re whisked through the halls, your feet barely touching the floor. When they don’t answer you ask, “Shouldn’t I at least tell somebody who I want to nuke?”
“That’s all taken care of, sir,” they assure you.
A few minutes later they push you inside the nuclear bunker. Mike Pence, Steve Bannon, Jeff Sessions, Sean Spicer, Kellyanne Conway and other familiar faces are already inside, all looking a bit worried.
“Wait here, sir. We’ll secure the door and then engage with the enemy, sir.” says the head secret service guy. He flips you a salute and adds, “It’s been an experience serving you, sir.”
He closes the heavy bunker door and you hear many, many locks sliding into place.
Everyone sits in silence for a long time, surrounded by thousands of tins of beans and a million rolls of cheap toilet-paper.
“I though nuclear war would be louder than this,” says Spicer, “But it just sounds like someone welding a door shut.”
There’s a much longer silence, while everyone takes this in.
You try to put a brave face on it.
“Hey, guys, if I’ve got to spend the rest of my life here then I can’t think of a more terrific group of people to have with me. We’re the best!”
There’s another long silence. Eventually Steve Bannon says, “This is all his fault!” and points at Ben Carson.
Your presidency is over, but, in the end, you made America slightly better. To try again go back to page 1
YOU DID IT! YOU MADE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!
Thanks to your inspired leadership America is a happier, stronger, richer, my vibrant and better place. Gun crime has fallen to almost zero, everyone enjoys universal healthcare, schools turn out the best educated children in the world and you have unparalleled freedom and opportunity for all.
Barack Obama, speaking at the ceremony to award you the Nobel prizes for Peace, Economics, Literature and Tweeting, describes you as the greatest human who has ever, or will ever, live.
Hillary Clinton retires from public life, to travel to Africa on missionary work, to try to atone for her great sin of nearly stopping you from becoming president.
Everywhere you go huge crowds – the biggest crowds ever – turn up to see you in person. Everyone cheers. There are no protest banners.
The other nations of the world agree, unanimously, to form a world government, so that you can be elected president of it, and bring your wisdom and intellect to bear on all the problems of the world.
You have won. To try again WITHOUT CHEATING go back to page 1
You sit back and put on Fox News, for a well-balanced insight into how well you’re doing. Instead it seems to be showing British news, and it looks like zombies have taken over London.
From what you can gather Londoners are heading to somewhere called ‘The Winchester’ until it all blows over, but surely this requires presidential action.
To sleep on it and come up with a plan go to page 18
To take out those zombies before immigrants bring the plague to America press the big red button and go to page 13
“Done!” says Theresa, even before you’ve finished speaking.
A tweet, a game of golf and a trade deal seems like a lot of work for one day. It’s probably time you took a break.
To relax with a bit of Fox News go to page 15
To call an egg who’s insulted you on Twitter a “loser” go to page 17
To call it a day and go to bed go to page 18
Man, that felt good.
Unfortunately, he comes back and calls you, “An orange garbage bag full of shit”
To ignore him and go to bed go to page 18
To tweet back that he’s sad go to page 19
To ensure his threat is neutralised press the big red button and go to page 13
You call it a day and head to the residence, where your beautiful wife, Melania is waiting for you…to make sure you sleep on the couch, don’t get any ideas and aren’t trying to sneak a camera into the bathroom again.
Settling down, with your hair as a pillow, you soon fall into a deep sleep.
You, and America, have survived another day of your presidency.
To see if you can survive tomorrow as well go back to page 1
You were pretty sure that would be clinching argument, but only seconds later @trump_haterrr quote tweets you, saying, “Look at the fucking idiot”.
To ignore him and go to bed go to page 18
To tweet back that he’s a loser go to page 17
To ensure his threat is neutralised press the big red button and go to page 13
Not sure what you’re doing here, there’s no link to this page. But thank you for reading all the way to the end, that’s dedication.