Paul Ryan’s Diary: Thoughts of Mick Mulvaney

Dear Ayn,

I can hardly believe it, but Trump’s people have put together the most breathtakingly beautiful budget I have ever seen. It strips out almost everything, leaving only a muscular (dare I say, manly?) military to defend the interests of the elite, to which I deservedly belong. This budget is so beautiful that even I would not have dared to present it. (There are still too many RINOs in the House, who cling to some “social good” programs like Chris Christie clings to the idea that Trump will one day reward him for selling out.)

Sadly, I know that this budget will never get passed as is, but listen, Ayn, to the sound of objectivism: no funding for the arts, which is as useless as my appendix. No more funding for food for all those old people, women, and children who are too lazy and stupid to provide for themselves. No more housing subsidies, homeless programs, and subsidies for liberal media. God, I’m becoming hard at the thought of finally being able to cast off these bloodsucking underclasses who live off the efforts of the few intelligent people on this earth. (The liberals say we got here by luck and privilege, can you imagine?)

Anyway, this brings me to Mick Mulvaney. Trump, of course, wasn’t really involved with this budget. It’s mostly Mick’s baby. Mick. Mick. I love the sound of his name. Mick. The liberal media was all over him, of course, and he simply said that the budget was “probably one of the most compassionate things we can do.” Music to my ears, Ayn. Compassion, finally, compassion for the elites. For us. For me. Compassion to not have to burden myself to support the lazy mostly black and brown swine around us. And yes, compassion for them, because if they can’t swim, it really is better if they sink and burden us no longer.

In all my years of politics, I’ve never met anyone quite like Mick Mulvaney. Someone quite so…simpatico. I noticed that his eyes are blue. Like mine. I was walking behind him the other day, and I…Ayn, I know how you felt about this sort of thing. But. I’m struggling a bit. With these feelings. Like he’s mirroring my soul. When I look at his mouth…

Maybe I should recommit myself to the cause, Ayn. Read Atlas Shrugged for the 139th time. John Galt…he’s my role model. I must remember that. I will have to work with Mick for awhile, but I can handle it. When he looks at me. Accidentally brushes his hand against mine. Throwing all those disgusting poor people off of Medicaid. We must work together. Depriving the rabble of housing. I…

Ayn, I have to go take a shower.


By Gage Skidmore, CC BY-SA 3.0,

Writer, painter, cat fancier, troublemaker, democratic socialist, & antifascist.

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