Oh, you noticed the blood streaming from my puncture wound? Well, I noticed the lamestream media logo on you microphone. For your information, I’m standing in line outside this urgent-care facility because it is my choice. If I wanted health insurance I’d just go ahead and sell my soul to the socialists, like you probably have. But I have choice. You don’t, because you’re a woman. All you have are these hysterical questions.

Sure, I’ll confirm, you fool: I have the unique honor and privilege of being the first person shot by the president. The great man pointed his pistol at me in the middle of Fifth Avenue, and I graciously accepted his bullet with my shoulder. Clearly, he did not intend to kill me, because he is as excellent a marksman as he is everything else. I think it’s high time we start referring to him as “his excellency.” No one knows more about anything than he does, believe me.

Of course I’m all right. What a silly question. I’ve been blessed with a bullet from his excellency—how could I feel that I am anything other than anointed… oh, wait, I see what’s going on here. You’re jealous. And because of that, you want to overturn the results of the 2016 election.

The way he shot me was obviously sarcastic. He was making a statement. And with this statement he has made utter asses of people like you. See, he has not lost any voters. Not even the one he shot. Because he allowed me to live to vote another day.

I wear this blood-soaked shirt like a red badge of courage—the courage to stand up for what’s white. No, there’s nothing wrong with saying that. I’m the second-least racist person, after his excellency. Did he shoot a black person? No. He shot me, a white person. And I’m not saying he did it because he’s orange, am I? That would be absurd. 

Yes, I am perfectly aware that I’m tottering a bit. I’d like to see you experience this amount of blood loss and not get a little light-headed. But then again, as a bleeding-heart liberal, you must be light-headed all the time.

A crime? His excellency cannot commit a crime. That would be a contradiction. I don’t see how you could even suggest such a thing. It would be like contrasting an assertion he made with another assertion he made a few hours earlier, which is one of the ways you people take his statements out of context.

I’m lying down on the sidewalk now because I find it more comfortable, not because, as you suggest, because I “fainted,” which sounds so effeminate. If ever in my life I were to swoon, it would be the natural result of the overwhelming, sublime gratitude I feel for the exalting, humbling ennoblement of becoming the somebody that his excellency shot on Fifth Avenue.

Of course, I would never press charges. There was no contusion. It was just a test of my faith—a beautiful test, a perfect phone call, almost a cleaning, it’s just a feeling…

No, I’m not at all delirious. Leave me, please. I would like to lie here and stare into the sun for a while, as I once witnessed his excellency doing from the Truman Balcony. Stop it—I am not dying, you idiot. This is what we call bringing light inside the body.