Paul Ryan’s Diary (Why are people so mean?)

Dear Ayn,

Today was really rough. My own party turned against me, all because the healthcare bill was either “too harsh” — from those RINO “moderates” — or “not conservative enough,” which I knew already! Jiminy Cricket, no one would rather screw over the trash classes than me! No one! I tell you, Ayn, I wanted to stuff this bill down Rand Paul’s throat. They really don’t get it. We can’t go full-on anti-poor people all at once. You have to do it in stages. No one trusts me, Ayn. Why is this? I’m such a good person.

I had to go to Trump’s office and tell him. It was like being in high school again, honestly. I hate Trump. He’s not pure, but he is useful. He’s no Galt, that’s for sure. Bannon, maybe. But not Trump. And he’s sitting there, like, “I’m so disappointed in you, Ryan, blah blah blah.” I hate that. Then I had to go up in front of people and say things like, “There remains so much we can do to improve people’s lives,” like I give a gosh darn, and “I want to thank the President, he gave his all in this effort” (ha ha ha), “he’s been really fantastic.” I die a little inside when I have to say those things.

Why don’t people like me, Ayn? I used to love Rage Against the Machine, and then Tom Morello gets all mean about it, like I can’t listen to it because I’m rich or something. That really hurt. Can’t he see that I am raging against the machine of socialism that forces rich people to give up their hard-earned money for people who simply don’t deserve it? Helping the lazy and stupid is a huge burden on our society. Well, Led Zeppelin is better anyway.

I’m still trying to find out whose idea it was to call me “best brown-noser” in high school. I have influence now. I know people in intelligence. I can make them suffer, just like I did back then.

It’s so hard, Ayn. I’m the best, the smartest person, the must buff. Justin Amash is a plebe. So is Mo Brooks, with his hick accent. But everyone wants to blame me for the healthcare bill. Even Trump. And Pence. That should’ve been me. I should’ve been VP. I’d still be VP, in our second term. Then I’d be President. But no, I have to suck up to Captain Obvious, who tries to tell me things I already know. You should listen to me for a change, old man. At least he thinks we’re buddies. But we’re not. I don’t actually have a buddy, Ayn. Not a real one, anyway. Someone I can talk to about objectivism, lifting weights, flexing in the mirror. I thought, maybe, Rand Paul, but… no. That is all gone now.

I need comfort, Ayn. I think I’ll go have a wine cooler in the hot tub and fantasize about cutting taxes on the wealthy. That always makes me feel better.


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