Now, with those dates behind us, I am forced to admit…I was wrong.
BUT IT WASN’T MY FAULT!
Many variables resulted in this miscalculation — all of which are detailed in my new book What Happened (494 pages. Simon & Schuster. $30) — but here are four primary factors that shifted the calculus and derailed my brilliant prophecy:
1.Bernie “Shoot-My-Mouth-Off” Sanders: What a weasel this guy turned out to be. Every time I made a prediction about the certain demise of the Orange Accident, this schmuck had to go on Rachel Maddow, or Wolf Blitzer, or Tucker Carlson and upstage me. I’d point to an impeachment by July, he’d rattle on about some socialist claptrap and drown me out. I’d make my call for Adolf Twitler’s resignation by August, Bagel Boy Bernie would leap onstage at some college event to rail about racism, or climate change, or the shortage of white fish, and suddenly no one was listening to me and my otherworldly wisdom. Worse, each time Bernie grabbed the national spotlight, and took the laser focus off of Trump’s crimes, the Fraud of Fifth Avenue got to live another day, another week, another month. Before long, that cranky old mazeltov had shot my calendar of presidential portents to pieces. Now I have just one thing to say to Bernie Sanders — in the future, STAY OUT OF MY BUSINESS, BUDDY!
2. James “Effing-B-I” Comey: The Lyin’ King would have been so gone by the summer, and I would have been hailed as a prophet (!!!), if it hadn’t been for that schizoid FBI Director James Comey. You could just feel Trump sweating under his Italian suits in early-July, ready to buckle, after Comey’s appearance before the Senate Intelligence Committee in June. Comey made the Cheeto Bandito look so red-handed guilty I thought I was golden. But the American public soon got distracted by summer stuff, like barbecues and warm weather porn, and again The Great White Dope bought more time. Then, in early August, Comey goes and signs a $2 million book deal, promising to spill his high-profile guts, and Draft Dodger Don skitters past my amazing psychic powers once again. Comey, you idiot, you owe me some of that book advance money, dickwad, because MacMillan would have signed me, not you, if my predictions had come true. Send me money, moron!
3. Anthony “Is That A Kosher Pickle In Your Pants?” Weiner: This guy is such a sleazy wanker and was so instrumental in undermining Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign, he must have done something to mess up my path to fortune telling fame. And he certainly helped make King Leer president, if only by desensitizing the nation to New Yorkers who treat women like latex blow-up dolls and take loathsome sexual liberties with underage girls. I can tell you this — if I ever see Anthony Weiner walking around New York City, I’m going to yell out, “Hey, Carlos Danger, you still playing hide the plantain with preteens!?” I’m also going to ask him where he buys his boxer shorts, because my threadbare Fruit-of-the-Looms are like the worst chick magnets ever.
4. Nicolai “Lost In Translation” Bolotnikov: If you think that is a mere doorman in front of Trump Tower in New York City, I have just one word for you — NYET! In fact, more than anyone or anything else, that oddly-dressed man is responsible for mucking up my predictions about the demise of Boss Tweet. Now I have a confession to make, and it’s a little embarrassing: my Trump resignation posts were not based on supernatural psychic powers passed down from generation to generation of family shamans and seers. They were the result of countless visits with this man, Nicolai Bolotnikov. For $25 a pop, this so-called “Russian agent” promised to keep me informed about all things happening at Trump Tower. He gave me valuable intel about mysterious visitors, secret meetings, and that time Barack Obama came up and planted listening devices in The Donald’s penthouse. He also suggested July 15th and August 18th as definite dates for when Donnie Bratso would be out of the White House. He told me he was a Putin spy, he had that Russian sounding-name, and he spoke with an Omsk accent — what was I supposed to think?! It all sounded so credible. Now, it’s clear…HE LIED TO ME! It was all fake, all of it. And now I’m out like $7,325.
Author’s Note: I just discovered that someone else has titled her memoir, What Happened. My lawyers are checking to see who has rightful claim to that particular combination of whiny words. If I lose the challenge, the title of my book will be changed to It Takes a Village. Stay tuned.
Thanks to all the many readers, fans, followers, and even my frenemies, for reading and commenting on my posts throughout the year as I continue my commitment to post every day, 7-days-a-week until the Orange Accident is no more.
Remember, I read every comment. And I try to answer.