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From the personal diary of EMMANUEL MACRON



Well, Dear Diary, here I am in the Lincoln Bedroom of the U.S. White House! Who would have thought that a scrawny little kid from Amiens would be the guest of the President of the United States?

I’ve been getting a lot of heat from my critics, both here in the States and back home (especially from the socialists), over my sucking up to Trump. Le Matin, in an editorial, even called me “Trump’s lap dog,” the way they used to call Tony Blair “George W. Bush’s lap dog.” So I thought I’d explain why my words about President Trump have been so favorable.

It’s not that I admire him as a man. Personally, I think he’s indecent—a vulgar, ugly proto-fascist whose behavior towards women is abominable. Brigitte, my wife, loathes him: she calls him “Monsieur Tête-de-Merde,” which translates as “shithead.” Beyond being a truly awful person, he’s not a good leader for America or for the free world. Quite frankly, after speaking to many of my colleagues around the world, no leader I know of likes Trump, except for King Salman, in Saudi Arabia. Merkel says every time she shakes hands with him, she retreats to the lady’s to spray sanitizer all over herself. As for Theresa May, whenever his name comes up, she just grimaces and does a gag-me with her finger down her throat.

But a French president cannot allow his personal feelings to interfere with what’s best for France! We need American dollars. Their tourists, while cheap spenders, provide us with billions of dollars a year. I need technology partnerships with American firms, and if Trump was to get pissed at me, he might even level more stupid trade sanctions against France. Security-wise, we still need to be NATO members. Trump has this insane love affair with Putin, but we French are far more realistic. The new Russia is no different from the old Russia, or the old Soviet Union. Putin would be at the North Sea in a week if not for NATO.

I’ll tell you a funny story about Trump, Dear Diary. The first time we met, at the G8 economic summit, he and I were having lunch, just the two of us. This was in Sicily, and Donald was planning on visiting Paris on his way home. (Melania had stayed behind at Trump Tower.) “Emmanuel,” Donald began, and I sensed some hesitancy on his part.

“Yes, Donald?”

“You’re a man of the world,” he said, emphasizing the word ‘man,’ “so I know you’ll understand. Melania is a very beautiful woman—“

“Yes, she certainly is, Donald.”

“—but we don’t, uhh, you know—“

“You don’t have sex anymore?”

“Exactly. And so I was wondering, when I’m in Paris, if you know any, you know, interesting women you could—“

“Ah, oui, je comprend,” I told my friend. “Yes, I understand completely. I will arrange it. Are there any particular kinds of women, or qualities, that you prefer, Donald?”

“Yes, Emmanuel, now that you mention it, I like to see gorgeous young women pee on each other.”

I thought that was a bit unusual, but I’m a good politician, so I was able to conceal my real reaction, which was disgust. “Ah, you are a urophile.”

“Not myself, personally,” he explained. “Actually, I’m the most germaphobic person you’ll ever know. I don’t like to get near the stuff. But, at a distance, I like watching beautiful ladies do it on each other.”

Needless to say, I made it happen, Dear Diary, although unlike our mutual friend, Putin, I did not videotape it! But that is how I know that the Moscow incident, as described in the Steele dossier, really did occur.

I do feel a little ashamed at how sycophantic I’ve had to be with Trump, and I hope you’ll forgive me, Diary. Someday, France will forgive me. I am no Petain, Diary, but a man who loves his country, and will abash his honor to help it!

And speaking of Donald, his breath is horrible! No one had warned me. It took all my dissembling not to move away whenever he came near and opened his mouth, which was most of the time. Appalling! Like the man himself.


Oh, one more thing, Diary. Melania really is a very beautiful, sexy, charming woman. She’s not too intelligent, but can hold her own in a chat about, say, table settings or couture. Brigitte told me that Melania told her she still believes that Obama is from a foreign country. “Entre nous,” the First Lady said, “Donald and I are convinced his ‘Hawaii birth’ was faked.”

“Mon Dieu!” Brigitte said, pretending to be horrified. “Where was he really born?”

“Kentucky,” Melania replied, obviously confusing the U.S. state with Kenya. Brigitte was too polite to correct her.


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