Mr. President, Here is My Pulitzer Prize. Take It.
It’s yours. I will give it to you. It’s nicely framed and even has a gold sticker on it! You can use a Sharpie and cross out my name and replace it with yours. I don’t give a shit.
You can hang it above that futbol peace prize you weaseled out of FIFA, and the Nobel Prize that Maria Corina Machado gave you; I kinda think she was hoping you would help her powerful case to lead Venezuela, but whatever. She don’t know you like I do. After taking her gift, you made it clear she wasn’t getting nothin’ and you supported the remnants of the dictatorship she opposed. She’s probably gone all weepy. She’s a girl.
Me, I’m different. I’m from the Bronx, Mr. President. You’re from Queens. We kinda understand each other, yaknowwhatImean? This is between us, pal. I got your number, and you got mine.
You want the bling. And I got your bling right here.
I was given this Pulitzer for a story I wrote in 2007 about a violinist playing in the subway for spare change. I know, what a putz, right? A loser.
Anyway, you’re good at deals. Let’s make a deal. You get the Pulitzer, free and clear. And all you have to do is this one thing:
Accept it in person, from me, in The White House, with the media there. I’’ll dress up nice and get a haircut. Cameras rolling, the works. And I will ask you one question, and you answer it however you want to, and bam, we’re done. The question isn’t even mine, originally. It was proposed by a friend of mine, Jeff Tiedrich, a writer who said that any reporter who asked it of you in a press conference should win a “Lifetime Pulitzer.”
But there is no such thing. You know that and I know that.
This one’s real.
I’ll even tell you the question it in advance.
Here it is:
“Mr. President, what the FUCK is wrong with you?”
That’s it! After you answer it you can say whatever you want about me. I’ve got a hide as thick as your head.
Just tell me when to show up.
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