for Trish Saunders
First off, it isn’t Mr. Trump.
It’s Mr. President. Alright?
You want my tax returns?
I’ve 5 accountants working on them full-time,
but you can’t get even one to squeal on me?
You don’t deserve it then.
I’ll give you one big clue. OK?
Each year is 700 pages long.
If you want 20 years, that’s 14,000 pages.
You would need two dollies
just to get them to the door.
But then you’d never have to work again.
The Pulitzer at least. Or two.
Your name would be a household word.
You’d get a great job teaching journalism
up at Harvard. Wined and dined.
The Man Who Brought Down Trump!
The Scandal of the Century!
It’s that good, Lars. Is definitely worth it.
Sell your soul. Pay any price.
Believe me.
You will be in every book on U.S. History.
Lie. Steal. Betray your wife.
You won’t believe the dirt you’ll find!
There’s only one thing you’ll regret.
The fear—one day—a month—a year—
one of my kids will hunt you down
and ramrod 14,000 wadded pages
up your famous journalism ass.
Another rung in history. Congrats.
