Okay, everyone, so when I become President, I’m going to ban cozies. You know, those stories about Miss Marples or whatever her name is. I can never remember it, it’s too close to Maples, and while Marla and I had a wonderful time together for six years – beautiful woman, but then again, I only marry beautiful women — I lost a lot of money on that one.
I hate cozies– they’re all losers– because everyone in town gets killed off by their neighbours. Like what kind of town would that be to live in? It would be like Detroit.
And this little old lady runs around doing the job the police should be doing. I think that’s wrong; we need a strong police force in America, because if we don’t have one, all those criminals who are getting into our country illegally will get away with, well, murder, and you can’t expect a ninety year old to protect you. I could protect you if I was ninety because I’m strong, really strong, but a ninety year old woman? C’mon. I love women. Beautiful women. But ninety year old women who think they’re cops? They should stay home and knit or something.
And anyway, most of those cozies are written by British people, and they have bad teeth, and they drink tea, okay? We drink coffee, and beer, and Coca-Cola, which is a great American product, the kind of drink I would have invented myself if I wasn’t so busy building amazing towers and golf courses.
So I don’t want any books by British people in America. No cozies. It’s such a stupid word, “cozy,” like a baby blanket or something, not a real American book. That’s it. Done.
I don’t like Noirs either, because “Noir” is French for black and we don’t need any French black novels coming into this country, not after the Paris attacks, because some of them are probably written by terrorists. I know there are some good Noir books, okay, but I’m going to ban them too, just in case.
I know, I know, there will be some stupid protest movement like “#FrenchBlackBooksMatter” but that’s okay, my people know how to deal with protesters. I tell them, just circle around them and call them out until they leave. It’s not my fault if they punch their lights out.
No more courtroom dramas either; I had enough of that in my divorces. You see how none of my kids turned out to be lawyers? That was because of me. Personally, if I read books, which I don’t, I would only read novels about hard-working police arresting murderers and pimps and drug dealers. Until I get my wall built, the police are the only thing protecting us from Mexican pimps and criminals and drug lords, and I salute them. Seriously, you should salute them too,with your right hand held high, palm out.
Because if it wasn’t for the police, that little old lady– Maple or whatever her name is, no, wait a minute, that’s too Canadian, and we don’t like Canadian authors here either because they always write about snow and who wants to read about snow? –that old lady wouldn’t be running around trying to solve crimes, she’d be tied to a chair in her own living room having a heart attack, probably a stroke or something, while some illegal Mexican smacks her around to find out where she hides her prescription drugs.
And then after she’s all drooling and practically brain dead, we’d have to pay for her healthcare because of Obamacare. Talk about Crippled America. I wrote that book; it was a bestseller. But they’re all best sellers, every book I’ve ever written, because hey, I am the best writer in America, okay? Maybe in the whole world. Everything I touch is a bestseller. It just has to have my picture on it, and I’m not kidding, it sells thousands. Millions. Billions even. I don’t bother counting how many; I just know it’s a lot.
If I wanted to write a mystery, it would be the biggest bestseller America ever saw. I’d outsell John Grisham. Grisham’s a lawyer, anyway, and I hate lawyers, so he’s a loser.
But I don’t need to write a mystery novel because I’m already rich, really, really rich. And besides, the American people want to know who did it when they read a mystery, they don’t like this “wait until the end to find out who the bad guy was,” that’s for losers. How can the police get tough on crime if they don’t know until page 346 who the bad guy is? That’s stupid. So that’s why I don’t like mysteries.