Four score and seven women have accused me of groping them in a certain location. Babies.
It is hardly conceivable that I would proposition them, as none of them are even close to a four, or equal.
Now we are engaged in a campaign, which I will challenge, unless I win, whether or not this nation, or any nation, long endures. Especially Mexico. Fat, horrible, disgusting nation, that one. I'm going to sue Mexico for fatness, believe me.
I met Hillary--Crooked Hillary!--on three battlefields of that campaign, and all the polls were wrong. Wrong! Except Rasmussen, gotta love them. We met and I loomed behind her, I stood menacingly behind her, I dominated behind her, in order that my eggshell-thin narcissistic fragility might endure. It was totally fine, totally, that I might do this.
But in a larger sense–and I mean big, big league, gigantic–we cannot loom, we cannot menace threateningly, we cannot dominate this stage. Without good hair. And sniffing, lots of sniffing. And interrupting– a lot. And gradually losing one’s entire sense of equilibrium, until one is shouting, screaming and insulting their opponent in an inevitable eruption of narcissistic rage.
The world will forever note, will forever remember what I say here. If they forget, I’ll remind them constantly, until I receive the constant drip of praise & admiration that I need like life’s blood itself. It is for me to receive this praise, & for you to give it–the great task that I give to you, to give to me your last full breath of devotion–to me.
So that I will not have left my six-foot self-portrait at Doral in vain, so that I will awaken to a new birth of grandiosity, and that my ego–by my ego, for my ego–will be honored as our nation’s last President, before I become bored and engage in some vain impulsive act to cause all of us to perish from the Earth.