MBS calls to wish me happy birthday and asks what I would like for a present. I jokingly tell him, “The head of that 'Fire and Fury' dude, Michael Wolff.” After a brief pause, he says he’ll throw in Michelle Wolf for free. We both laugh and agree to have a slumber party the next time he’s in town.
Props to the guy – the likeness of the heads that show up in sealed boxes the following week is amazing. Mind you, MBS nearly has a heart attack when I suggest we use them for the upcoming White House egg-rolling contest.
Awkward scenes at the White House after my security clearance is revoked. I angrily confront the security guards, whispering at them: “Do you know who I am?” It turns out none of them do, so I have to set up a temporary office at the local Starbucks.
Turns out the staff there don’t know who I am either, frequently writing “Jackass” or “Jerk” instead of “Jared” on the cup. Sadly, a dodgy Wi-Fi connection stops me filing the first draft of my Middle East Peace Plan.
MBS stays the night, but won’t stop talking about his new obsession: movies. “Have you seen ‘Black Panther’ yet?” he asks – not knowing DJT won't let us watch it as he thinks it’s about Colin Kaepernick. MBS is convinced Wakanda is actually based on Saudi Arabia.
He shares his exciting vision for cinemas back home. “We will even have our own version of the Rotten Tomatoes website,” he beams, “in which the rulers rate film critics. Of course, we'll use blood spatter instead of tomatoes.”
Off to Israel to spend some time with my people – fellow right-wingers up to their necks in criminal investigations. Honestly, I’ve never felt more at home. We’re here for the opening of the U.S. Embassy in Jerusalem, although I sense a note of disappointment in Ivanka’s voice when she sees the word “Trump” is barely noticeable on the building.
Good to catch up with Bibi again, but he looks genuinely alarmed when I hand over a duty-free bag with some pink champagne and cigars. Strange, as Arnon M. said it would be the perfect gift.
More good news upon my return: my permanent security clearance has arrived. Now I just need to convince the guards that I am over 18 and not on a White House tour with my parents.
The dreaded call arrives from Robert Mueller, who wants to interview Ivanka and myself on Friday afternoon. Luckily, Rabbi L. gives us special dispensation to flee from justice on Shabbat; that guy is such a mensch. Last month Peru. This month Antarctica, the perfect place to shelter until the heat dies down.
The trip provides Ivanka with a welcome distraction from her failing fashion line. "At least there’s one business genius in the family," I reassure her. "Yes," she responds. "I wonder which of the kids it’s going to be."
Don Jr. calls and does the usual lame joke when I pick up the phone: He pretends Arabella has answered and asks if she can “go get daddy.” He’s calling every day now, wanting to know how my criminal justice reform bill is progressing. He’s really taking a keen interest in it – especially the bit about easing of sentences for federal crimes. Jeez, the guy is so transparent: He’s clearly angling for an invite to meet Kim K. the next time she's in town.
Spend an entire day in the White House working on my Middle East Peace Plan. Attempts to publish it are foiled when the WH printer is out of toner.
The WH is abuzz with rumours about the mystery writer of the "I am the resistance" Op-Ed in the NYT. Receive ringing endorsement from DJT when he assures the press that although I am completely invisible, there is no way I am "Anonymous."
Also rumors that big changes are afoot. Apparently Gen. Kelly is on his way out (good!), ditto Sessions (who he?). But Eric and Tiffany are to keep their jobs as Trump children, much to the surprise of us all.
I celebrate the general’s demise by visiting my local Starbucks. However, I make the mistake of bringing SH-S with me, which leads to us being kicked out when she is recognized. We hasten away with our coffees, and I am disheartened to see they still cannot spell my name right. It’s J-A-R-E-D, people, not J-A-G-O-F-F.
MBS calls in a panic. There’s been an "incident" in Turkey and he wants my advice. “Purely hypothetical,” he says. “People accuse your team of killing a journalist and dismembering his body. This is 'fake noose,' as we say in the kingdom. Anyway, here's my question: Do you think they’ll still let me host next year’s Academy Awards?”
I reassure him that Billy Crystal did far worse things back in the day, but add that he should probably stop calling me on this line for the next couple of decades.
What a triumphant year it has been for the Jared ("J-A-R-E-D!"). Successfully leading negotiations for America to host the World Cup in 2026? Check. New NAFTA deal sorted? Check. (Not bad for someone who knew absolutely nothing about soccer or stock car auto racing before arriving in Washington.) Sheldon Adelson? Check in the post. Middle East Peace Plan? Check where I put it. I’m sure I saw it on the kitchen table last night...
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