A Totally Different Donald Trump, Believe Me. After all, have I ever lied to the American people?
Let me tell you something, folks, and I’m saying this very strongly, the so-called “emails” from Jeffrey Epstein (who I hardly knew, barely met, maybe shook his hand once while sprinting away at tremendous speed), these emails are OBVIOUSLY talking about a different Donald Trump. A completely different guy. Could be an accountant. Could be a plumber. Could be one of those losers who legally change their names just to feel special. Happens all the time.
Karoline, wonderful girl, very loyal, sometimes too loyal, honestly, got up at the podium today and said what everybody already knows: ‘Donald Trump’ is one of the most common names in America. Some people say there are dozens of us. Some say hundreds. Some say thousands, but that’s probably the fake news inflating the numbers.
And let me be clear:
The Donald Trump mentioned in those Epstein emails?
NOT ME.
NEVER HEARD OF HIM.
WOULDN’T ASSOCIATE WITH HIM.
Even if he looks exactly like me.
Even if he sounds exactly like me.
Even if he’s standing next to me in a video from 1992 pointing at cheerleaders and dancing like a man who has no sense of rhythm.
Still not me. Total coincidence.
And by the way, they’re now saying the emails mention Mar-a-Lago.
Give me a break.
Do you know how many “Mar-a-Lagos” there are? A lot. You walk down any street in Miami and you’ll hear Spanish words. Mar, lago, whatever. Could mean anything. Could mean “ocean.” Or “lake.” Or “beautiful seaside compound absolutely overflowing with classified documents.”
Very common phrase.
And Ghislaine, look, that’s practically bread. French bread, according to Karoline.
Wonderful bread.
Beautiful bread.
I might eat some later.
But Ghislaine Maxwell?
Never met her.
Except for the times I met her.
Which were very few and absolutely perfect.
The White House, MY White House, has been very clear about this. In fact, we’ve made earlier clarifications the fake news refuses to report:
The Epstein in the emails is a different Epstein. Happens all the time. Billionaires, private islands, very common lifestyle
The appearance of the name “Donald Trump” is divine coincidence. Like when people see Jesus on toast. Except more handsome.
The emails were written by AI, which hates me because I’m too smart. Much smarter than AI. Ask anyone.
When a reporter asked if maybe, just maybe, I should tell the truth about my long, well-documented relationship with Epstein, Karoline smiled, a very nervous smile, very presidential, and said, “We’re exploring that option, but it’s not polling well.”
Exactly.
Why tell the truth when the polls are saying the truth is a disaster?
Meanwhile, some plumber from Newark, another “Donald Trump,” is now telling reporters:
“Please stop calling me. My wife thinks I’ve got a secret island. I just fix toilets.”
And honestly?
I believe him.
He sounds like a great guy.
Hard-working.
Low-energy, probably, but still great.
But the Epstein emails?
NOT ABOUT ME.
They’re about the other Donald Trump.
The plumber.
The accountant.
The French bread.
Who knows?
Anybody but me.
Because if there’s one thing I know better than anyone, and people say I know it better than anyone, it’s how to distance myself from someone I absolutely hung out with all the time.
Postscript
And here we are again, America, watching the most powerful office in the world twist itself into a balloon animal trying to explain away a crime we all know it committed. A president who can’t tell the truth about a lunch order suddenly expects us to believe there’s an epidemic of men named Donald Trump haunting private islands, seaside mansions, and black books.
This is what authoritarianism looks like in its stupidest form:
gaslighting so lazy it becomes parody, and lies so flimsy they collapse under their own sweat.
Karoline Leavitt, a petulant child stuck behind a podium pretending to be an adult, stands up there telling the country that “Mar-a-Lago” is a generic Spanish noun and “Ghislaine” is bread. Bread. We’ve gone from “alternative facts” to “linguistic slapstick,” and the joke, as always, is on the American people.
The White House is no longer trying to cover up the truth; it’s trying to distract us long enough for the truth to rot in the sun. And the irony, the corrosion at the heart of this, is that they’re not even denying the acts. They’re denying the identity of the man in the emails, in the photos, in the videos, in the flight logs. A man whose name, face, and history match theirs exactly, down to the smirk.
This isn’t misdirection.
This is contempt.
For truth.
For accountability.
For the country.
And the sick joke is that they think we’re gullible enough, exhausted enough, or beaten down enough to buy it.
We’re not.
We know exactly who Epstein was referring to.
We know exactly which Donald Trump he meant.
The one in the Oval Office.
The one screaming “fake news” at every corpse he steps over.
The one with a lifetime of corruption trailing behind him like cans tied to a getaway car.
Call it a different Trump if you want, Mr. President.
Give him a new face, a new story, a new passport.
Invent an entire phone book of men who share your name.
But there’s only one Donald Trump who has spent his entire life running from the truth.
And he’s not a plumber from Newark.
-Michael Jochum
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