Mein Covfefe: The Art Of The Demagogue | The Apoplectic Politico Blog

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Prologue: It All Started With a Steal

They said I lost. But I checked, and I hadn’t. Fake news. Bad math. I won, bigly.

History will remember January 6 as the day America almost got it right, a tremendous, beautiful day full of passion, flags, and just a little misunderstood felony trespassing. The fake historians call it an “insurrection.” I call it a patriot-powered flash mob.

I didn’t organize it, that would’ve been illegal, but I did inspire it, which is much more powerful. And I gave them instructions. Not like a dictator, more like a coach. I said, “Proud Boys, stand back and stand by,” and wouldn’t you know it, they heard the call.

These were very fine people, muscular and ready to defend democracy by almost breaking it. People said they were violent. They weren’t violent. They were preemptively assertive. There’s a difference. And besides, can it really be a coup if you’re already the winner? Think about it.

They wore tactical gear, not costumes. They used zip ties, not weapons. They prayed. They chanted. They smeared things on walls (disgusting, but symbolic). One guy even wore horns, horns! What kind of genius shows up for a revolution looking like a Viking shaman from a CrossFit commune? My kind of genius.

And yes, there was some confusion, Mike Pence didn’t do what I told him, which was frankly rude. I don’t like rude. So the crowd got a little spicy. Happens.

After I took back the White House in 2024, legally, perfectly, through votes I didn’t let them count last time, I began the necessary cleanse. America First meant Everyone Else, Out. Immigrants, bureaucrats, fact-checkers, un-American dictionaries, all gone. Even Merriam and Webster turned on me.

I reinstated my finest policies. Remember the trade war with China that annihilated U.S. farmers and small manufacturers? The losers didn’t. So I brought it back, this time with tariffs on air. That’s right, we taxed Chinese wind. Biden never thought of that.

Then there was Ukraine. I told everyone I could end the war in 24 hours, which I did. I just defined “end” differently. No peace, no war, just silence. I sent Zelensky a strongly worded note, written in gold Sharpie, and pulled all our funding. Problem solved. If there are no cameras, there is no conflict.

And NATO? I rebranded it, Not America, Then Out. You’re welcome.

People ask, “Mr. President, what’s your secret?” The firings, the re-education centers, the nightly loyalty oaths on Fox Prime Supreme? Simple:

You lie boldly. You repeat loudly. And you never, ever explain.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. That was just the pre-show. The meat of it, the real art of the demagogue, begins in Chapter One.

Chapter One: Purge and Preserve

People talk about draining the swamp. I nuked it. Then I built a golf course on the ashes.

After reclaiming the presidency, as planned, as prophesied, as deserved, I knew the real work had to begin. Not the boring kind with policies and budgets, no, the essential work. The purge.

The first thing I did was fire everyone. Literally. All of them. Career bureaucrats, scientists, data nerds, inspectors general, 17 of them. I used Executive Order Number 0001, You’re Fired, The Restoration Edition. It was beautiful, signed it on the Resolute Desk while eating a Big Mac off the Declaration of Independence.

People asked, “Won’t that destabilize the government?” And I said, “That’s the point.”

We replaced the old swamp rats with real Americans, people who loved me more than they loved facts. Like:

Chuck “Gun Show” Raskin, my new Secretary of Education, whose only credential is a GED and a YouTube channel
called Teachin’ Truth with Tactics.
MAGA Barbie, formerly of Instagram, now Director of the National Archives. She laminated the Constitution.
Laminated it.
Colonel Liberty Juice, head of the FBI, previously a mall cop and part-time conspiracy influencer. Tremendous instincts.

We launched the Office of Loyalty Optimization. Every federal employee had to complete the True Patriot Screening, which included:

A polygraph test on whether they cried during my first inauguration.
A mandatory essay, “Why the media is the real enemy of the people.”
A flag salute choreographed to Kid Rock.

NASA was too woke. So I re-branded it: United States American Space Power Agency. They were ordered to focus less on climate change and more on moon mining rights for American billionaires. I gave Elon half of Saturn.

And the CDC? Gone. Replaced with a simpler, more relatable outfit: The Department of Gut Feeling and Clean Living. Their new motto, “If you feel fine, you are fine.”

To mark the rebirth of the nation, I introduced the official shoe of the American Restoration: the Trump Force One Gold Trainers. Made in China, priced at 399 dollars, each pair blessed by a televangelist and pre-scuffed for authentic street cred.

You may not have healthcare, but you can still look like a billionaire.
They sold out. Not because they were stylish, they weren’t, but because I paired them with a limited edition TrumpCoin promo. My own cryptocurrency. Yes, it crashed. But I declared it legal tender in vending machines and bail bonds offices.

Some people resisted. Protesters. Intellectuals. The gluten-free. We sent them to the Department of Corrective Celebration, where they were reminded how lucky they were to be Americans.

The courts? Mostly mine now. Congress? Half of them were selling my sneakers. The other half I distracted with a new bill to rename every federal building, Trump Tower Federal Freedom Complex.

They said I was dismantling democracy. I said I was streamlining it.

The system was infected with truth and accountability, and I did what any great leader would do. I cut it out with a diamond-studded golf club and replaced it with a loyalty app.

Chapter Two: The Art of Deportation

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, then get them the hell out.

America had a problem, too many people who weren’t me. Or at least, not enough people who acted like they were me. That’s called a diversity crisis.

So I fixed it.

My first term was immigration light. This time, we went full cleanse. No more chain migration, no more birthright baby factories, no more refugees with their tear-streaked paperwork and sad violin music. America First meant everyone else… exit stage left.

We launched Operation Don’t Call Us, We’ll Deport You, a streamlined system of patriotic pre-judgment. Immigration courts were slow. I hate slow. So I replaced them with Freedom Tribunals, staffed by high school football coaches, ex-cops, and one guy who used to be a bouncer at Mar-a-Lago.

The criteria were simple:

If you couldn’t recite the Pledge of Allegiance backwards, blindfolded, in English, deported.
If your name contained more than two vowels, deported.
If you ever used the term Latinx unironically, catapulted over the wall.

We brought back the wall, not just on the southern border. We added walls around every sanctuary city, each one with a giant Trump T and an animatronic bald eagle that squawks “GO BACK!” on the hour.
And the best part? We monetized it. I introduced the America First Pass, a subscription-based citizenship loyalty tier:

Red Hat Basic: You can stay, but you have to work at a meat plant and agree to random flag inspections.
Gold MAGA Premium: You get full benefits and a signed NFT of me high-fiving Jesus.
Illegal Alien Free Trial: One week. No complaints. Then the boot.

We even outsourced deportation logistics to Trump Airlines, which only flies one way, south. First class comes with handcuffs covered in patriotic faux fur.

Then there was the Guantanamo Program, my boldest innovation yet. Why let such a lovely facility go to waste? We turned it into a Freedom Reallocation Center, housing undocumented immigrants, disrespectful journalists, and the occasional librarian caught shelving anti-American materials like To Kill a Mockingbird.

The data was clear. Deportations went up 400 percent. Morale among border agents? Higher than Hunter Biden on a laptop.

And the left couldn’t stop me. They screamed, “Due process!” I said, “Do you process this?” and I pointed to a bar graph I drew with a Sharpie showing a straight line down for non-Americans and a straight line up for Freedom Index.

By the end of the first hundred days, America was cleaner, whiter, and louder. Exactly as the Founders might have imagined if they had access to cable news.

Some said I was cruel. I say I was consistent. Consistently American.

@POTUS
They tried to SILENCE me on October 14, 2024. FAILED.
Covfefe is eternal. #BulletproofPresident #Covfefe4EVER

Chapter Three: Unlearning Higher Education

The corridors of the Old Executive Wing still lingered with the acrid tang of helicopter exhaust—and of that day in October when two bullets carved air inches from his temple.

“You should’ve seen their faces,” he told the joint chiefs, tapping at a still‑fresh scar. “Thought they’d finally shut me up.” He cracked a grin. “Joke’s on them, it makes me bulletproof.”

But late at night, aides whispered, he paced the Oval in gold‑lace slippers, fingers skimming the glass case holding the unopened autogyro blueprint. A presidency forged in fire was harder still to extinguish.

If knowledge is power, then I say, power to me.

There was once a time when universities taught things like science, history, and ethics. Total disaster.

Higher education had become a virus, infecting young Americans with dangerous ideas like empathy, critical thinking, and the Oxford comma. Professors were pushing feminism, climate change, racial justice, all the soft, loser stuff that ruins GDP.

So I made a bold move, I declared a War on Woke. Phase one, Defund and Denounce.
We started with Harvard. Why Harvard? Easy:

They didn’t give me an honorary degree.
Too many foreigners.
Their mascot is a Crimson. What even is that? Sounds communist.

I pulled 100 million dollars in federal funding overnight.

Then I tweeted, “Harvard = soft. America = hard. Sad!”

Next came the Cap on Foreign Influence Act, no more than 15 percent foreign students at any university. “Why 15 percent?” a reporter asked. “Because it’s half of 30 percent,” I replied. The math checks out.

Then we passed the Academic Loyalty Pledge. Every tenured professor had to swear on a copy of The Art of the Deal that:

America is the best country on Earth.
Donald Trump is the smartest person they know.
There are only two genders, and both should be armed.

Some resisted. We called those people Tenure Terrorists. They were replaced by influencers with high follower counts and no degrees, just like God intended.

We also introduced the Core Trumpiculum:

History became “America, The One and Only Success Story.”
Biology: “Man, Woman, Bald Eagle.”
Political Science: “Winning the Electoral College Even When You Lose.”

And because I believe in fairness, I gave students a choice, they could attend one of the new America First Academies or be drafted into the Patriotic Service Corps, where they learned useful skills like border wall maintenance, meme warfare, and low-emission coal polishing.

To further encourage freedom, we turned libraries into Truth Kiosks. All the books were removed and replaced with laminated copies of my tweets, sorted by level of aggression. We even had a pop-up bookstore called Banned and Branded, where parents could buy their kids de-woked classics like:

The Catcher in the Reich
Of Mics and Men: Why Liberals Ruined Hip-Hop
Green Eggs and Guns

Finally, we addressed student debt. Not by forgiving it, what am I, a socialist? But by replacing dollars with TrumpCoin, which, yes, had crashed, but I declared it legal tender in vending machines and bail bonds offices.

No one said education should be free. They just said it should be mine.

By the time I was done, the American university system was back where it belonged, obedient, ornamental, and profitable.

Next stop, gender ideology, rainbow fascism, and cancel culture crybabies.

Chapter Four: Gender? Cancelled

God made Adam and Eve. Not Adam and Steve. Or Eve and Non-Binary Forest Elf.

After I liberated education, the next target was clear, the gender-industrial complex.

For too long, America had been bullied by what I called the Alphabet Mafia, LGBTQ+ activists, pronoun pushers, and drag queen story-hour organizers. They had turned restrooms into war zones and elementary schools into identity labs. Enough.

So I took swift, glorious action.

Executive Order 69-420: “There Are Two Genders, and Both Vote Trump”

This was the cornerstone of my One Flag, Two Genders, Zero Apologies Act, which mandated:

Federal recognition of only male and female.
Gender on IDs to be printed in red or blue, depending on your pronoun, genitals, and gun ownership.
Transgender athletes banned from sports, unless they competed in a new league called Non-Binary Ball, which had no
players because I shut it down the next day.

To enforce these rules, we created the Department of Real Womanhood, led by a former pageant queen who once sued feminism for emotional damage. They conducted random gender audits at universities, yoga studios, and vegan cafés.

We launched the Gender Reclarification Hotline, where patriots could report suspected pronoun misuse, suspicious haircuts, or the sale of Birkenstocks.

“He, she, or leave.” That was the official slogan, on every bathroom door from coast to coast.

Meanwhile, institutions that refused to comply had their federal funding revoked and were placed on the National Woke Offenders Registry. Offenders included:

PBS, for airing a gay Muppet.
The Smithsonian, for displaying a rainbow flag in a Civil War exhibit.
Delta Airlines, for offering non-binary check-in options and pretzel choices.

In place of Pride Month, I instituted American Strength Month, a celebration of:

Traditional families.
Tactical vests.
Heterosexual barbecues.
Football.

All drag shows were banned and replaced with Straight Shooter Sundays, where clergymen, body-builders, and country singers lectured on God, Guns, and Gender.

To fight diversity fatigue, I made a new kind of inclusive, Patriotic Unity. Everyone could be different as long as they were exactly the same.

And sure, the international community screamed. Canada wept. France held a protest in interpretive dance. But here in America? We stood tall, cis, straight, and slightly confused, but proud.

They said it was bigotry. I said it was biology. Then I deported their therapist.

We were finally safe from they/thems and gender-neutral Santa Clauses. The bathroom signs were clear. The sports teams were pure. And the children? The children could grow up in an America where Barbie dated Ken again and not Karen the woodworker with a septum ring and a political science degree.

Chapter Five: No Aid for You!

America first. Everyone else, get a job.

Foreign aid, humanitarian programs, disaster relief, all of it had become a drain on American Greatness. Why were we sending
money to countries that didn’t even have a Trump Hotel?

So I ended it.

Executive Order 1776.2: “The Foreign Freeloaders Cutoff Act”

With one signature, a Sharpie, gold-trimmed, I eliminated 83 percent of USAID funding. I called it budget fasting, which sounds spiritual and strong. In reality, it meant:

No food for famine-struck countries.
No medicine for conflict zones.
No funding for climate-resilience programs in places soon to be underwater. Swim harder.

Then I tweeted:
“Why should we send wheat to countries that don’t even like us? They can eat their own democracy!”

When asked how this would affect global stability, I said:
“Global what? I only play local.”

Diplomacy Reimagined

We turned every embassy into a Trump Global Store, a one-stop shop for MAGA merchandise, burger franchises, and military surplus sold at steep markups. You could now apply for a visa and buy a gold-plated wall brick in the same transaction.

Our ambassadors were replaced with:

Beauty pageant runners-up.
My top NFT buyers.
One guy who once tackled a protester at a rally and called it “freedom physics.”

Instead of giving aid, we gave advice:

To Africa: “Have you tried capitalism?”
To the Middle East: “Just chill.”
To Europe: “You’re welcome for World War II.”

I also pulled out of every agreement that didn’t include my name:

Paris Climate Accord? Dead. Replaced by the Mar-a-Lago Weather Pact, which stated that climate change would be reassessed every winter based on how cold I personally felt.
World Health Organization? Out. I launched TRUMPCARE GLOBAL, which consisted of a single hotline where I yelled “Don’t be weak!” in six languages.

We redefined foreign policy as Real Estate with Nukes. Countries that hosted Trump properties got favorable treatment. Those that didn’t? Sanctions, tariffs, or drone-delivered cease-and-desist letters.

The Fallout (Not My Problem)

Nations collapsed. Refugees fled. Pandemics spread. The U.N. passed a resolution titled “Are You Serious?” But I reminded everyone:

America is not the world’s babysitter. We are the cool uncle who brings fireworks, then leaves.

And the best part? It was popular. Nothing makes Americans feel more powerful than ignoring other people’s suffering. It’s practically a core subject now in the new Common MAGA Curriculum.

They said I was cruel. I said I was cost-effective. Then I bought Greenland. Again.

Chapter Six: Covfefe is Strength

The planet isn’t dying, it’s just getting a tan.

The radical left kept shouting about climate change, like it was some kind of emergency. Ice caps melting, sea levels rising, heat waves killing crops, all very dramatic. But let’s be honest, I’ve always looked fantastic under dramatic lighting.

So I did what any bold, sun-kissed leader would do, I un-declared the climate crisis.

Executive Order 666: “The Unwarming of America Act”

First, I signed the order on a gas grill during a televised cookout, flanked by oil executives and Kid Rock. It banned:

All federal references to climate change, carbon emissions, or science.
The EPA, which I renamed the Economy Protection Agency.
Environmental impact reports, which were replaced with vibe checks.

When scientists complained, I responded with calm, reasoned leadership:

“I’m not a scientist. I’m a winner.”

Then I launched the Freedom Fuels Forever Initiative, which:

Reopened all coal mines.
Gave every American household one free oil drum, engraved with my face.
Sponsored a new TV show, Frack or Die, where contestants drilled for cash beneath endangered wetlands.

We renamed Earth Day to Energy Day, a celebration of all the great things fossil fuels have done for freedom, like:

Heating homes.
Powering tanks.
Making me richer.

To support this, I replaced Tesla subsidies with TrumpTruck Credits, available for anyone who drove a vehicle with fewer than 3 MPG and at least one bald eagle airbrushed on the hood.

Global Disagreement (aka Envy)

Other countries whined. Greta Thunberg called me a planetary arsonist. The U.N. declared Earth in a state of emergency.

I said: “If the Earth wants saving, it should start by saving itself. Self-reliance!”

And yes, some Americans noticed that the air turned orange, the rivers boiled, and Florida started looking like Atlantis.

I told them: “You think it’s hot now? Wait till the afterlife. Behave.”

We even gamified the apocalypse. FEMA launched a new app called Survive It, where users earned points for voluntary evacuations, flood surfing, and creative heatstroke prevention.

And What About Covfefe?

Ah, yes. My greatest invention. Originally a typo, now a movement.

I redefined Covfefe as a national ethos:
Confidence. Order. Victory. Freedom. Energy. Family. Executive Excellence.

It became our national motto, printed on gas receipts and prayer cards. Children pledged allegiance to it. It was used in sentences like:
“The hurricane destroyed my town, but I’m staying strong. I’ve got Covfefe.”

The planet was on fire, but America was in flames of glory. No more hand-wringing. No more tree-hugging. Just explosive prosperity, fossil-flavored air, and a president with perfect tan lines.

They said I was killing the Earth. I said I was freeing it from weak emissions standards. Then I lit a celebratory tire fire.

—

The single desk lamp cast twisted shadows over the stacks of law books in the back room of the Department of Moral Excellence. Marcus Reyes paused, hand on the handle of a battered leather briefcase.

Not long ago, he’d been arguing big-bank fraud cases before packed courtrooms. Now his reputation lay in tatters, stripped of badge, barred from the bar. He drew a breath, ripping open an Executive Order reprint:

“ADA Marcus Reyes: Guilty of Crimes Against Covfefe”, the headline glowed in red italics, an accusation scrawled by a firmer hand than his own.

Tears welled, not for himself but for the law he’d sworn to uphold. He snapped the briefcase shut and began sliding each spine into a shipping crate stamped “Dept. of Moral Excellence: Approved Propaganda.”

“History will remember,” he whispered, voice thick with defiance as the lid slammed down. “I just hope it remembers the truth.”

Chapter Seven: The Final Audit

I planted my hands on the podium, its surface engraved with the title “The Villain’s Roll Call.” The room went silent, waiting for the punchline.

“Judge Winifred Santos,” I began, voice low and velvet. “Stripped of her robes; now ‘Honourary Hostage’ of the Covfefe
Protocol.”

The crowd cheered.

“Prosecutor Harold ‘Hank’ Morrison, publicly shamed on Fox-Plus; forced to read Executive Order 22 live on air.”

More cheers.

“ADA Marcus Reyes, offered clemency… if he signs the Academic Loyalty Pledge.”

They roared like it was the fourth quarter of the Super Bowl.

They say justice is blind. I say, why shouldn’t she see in high-def? I gave her LASIK…and a red hat.

You can build walls and deport millions, and gut the climate like a Thanksgiving turkey, but none of it sticks if the courts call it illegal or the press prints “unconstitutional.” That’s why you need a Final Audit: to cleanse every check, every balance, every inconvenient fact.

Step One: Tame the Judges

I’d always said the courts were rigged, so I rigged them better. Enter the Judicial Loyalty Certification Programme:

Watch The Apprentice Season 1 without blinking.
Identify the “Third-Term Amendment” (it doesn’t exist, yet).
Swear on a golden Bible, “I will rule in favour of the President, even if I don’t understand the question.”

Those who failed were placed on “Administrative Leave Without Precedent” (translation: escorted to the retirement home or tossed off a boat). Then we back-filled with:

YouTubers from “LAWZ 4 PATRIOTS.”
A man who once sued a bagel shop for “emotional gluten.”
My third cousin’s son-in-law, Chad, because vibe matters.

And the Supreme Court? Now the Super Mega Court, 69 justices confirmed in a week under the new Senate rule: If the President likes them, they’re qualified.

Step Two: Cancel the Cancellers

The press had to go next – the Enemy of the People Timeshare Club.

CNN: banned.
New York Times: repurposed as a kids’ recipe blog.
NPR: reborn as TRPR, Trump Public Radio, ending each show with:
“I am seen. I am heard. I am humbled by the President’s strength.”

Reporters now register with the Federal Information Moderation Board, run by a former casino guard and a Reddit-trained AI whose motto is, “If it rhymes, it’s probably true.” Press passports carry a “truth score” from 0 (Liberal Plant) to 10 (Tucker Carlson CrossFit endorsed). Anything below 8 stays 500 feet from a mic.

We shut down Snopes, Wikipedia, all fact-checkers,replaced by one site: TruthByTrump.biz.

Step Three: Reboot Reality

We audited justice. We cancelled the media. We rebooted reality until America was fully optimized, no more pesky news, no more rogue judges, just a giant red button marked “TRUST ME.”
They said I killed democracy. I said I promoted efficiency. Then I had “democracy” replaced with “Trumpocracy” in school textbooks.

And that, my friends, is the Final Audit complete.

Epilogue: One Nation, Under Me

You don’t end a movement like mine. You franchise it.
And so, with the courts aligned, the press replaced, the schools purged, the immigrants gone, the weather on fire, and foreign countries told to buzz off, I stood atop Mount Rushmore 2, we built a second one in Texas, with just my face, slightly larger, and declared:

“Mission accomplished – for real this time.”

The old America, soft, complicated, questioning, was dead. The new America? Simple. Strong. Shirtless. Screaming. Sunglasses at night.

We held our first Trumpocracy Parade down what used to be Pennsylvania Avenue. Tanks rolled. Marching bands played Kid Rock’s national anthem remix. Children waved tiny red flags that read “#STAYLOYAL.” The floats included:

A 50-foot inflatable version of me reading The Art of the Deal to a crying Statue of Liberty.
A burning effigy of the Environmental Protection Agency.
A live demonstration of someone being re-educated via karaoke and forced patriotism.

Every household received a complimentary copy of this book, paid for by defunding Meals on Wheels. It’s now the only book legally allowed on Kindle.

People ask, “What’s next, Mr. President?”

I tell them the truth:

Time travel. Cloning. Mars – if it votes red.

And beyond that? The Eternal Term.

I signed one final executive order before retiring to my orbital golf course:

Executive Order ∞

“The Presidency shall continue indefinitely, as long as the people believe in me. And if they stop, we’ll fix the people.”

Because belief is everything.

And now, as the golden sun sets over the last free Chick-fil-A, I leave you with this, dear reader:

“Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what it can buy with your loyalty.”
Stay proud. Stay strong. Stay covfefe.

– Supreme Executive Leader, President for Life, Commander of Truth, Donald J. Trump