Donald Trump’s Imaginary Journal

I may be unlikeable, irritating and insufferable, but I’m REAL.

Most politicians are phonies. Manufactured. Like Hillary Clinton, who can’t even breathe without checking the polls first.

There’s also the prime minister of Canada — what’s his name again? Justin Trudeau? I heard he was invited to 60 Minutes to explain his vision of the world. But he refused, because it was 59 minutes too many for him to fill.

Jokes aside, you’d swear that “politician” has become a dirty word. In the United States, more people claim to have seen a ghost (18 percent) than approve of Congress (15 percent).

To draw a crowd, nothing beats aiming straight at Washington. Speaking of which, how long does a congressman stay in office?

Answer: Until they get caught.

Up until now, my strategy has seemed simple. If it’s prudent to do something, I do the opposite.

The denser I am, the more I rise in the polls.

The more I cross the line, the more triumphant I become.

Let’s say I make fun of a handicapped journalist. Right off the bat, the media will squeal like pigs on the way to the slaughterhouse. But all I have to do is drop another bomb — about Latinos, Muslims or Iran — and the whole thing goes away.

One obscenity follows another.

Over the past few months, people have compared me to Benito Mussolini, or to a creature that escaped from a laboratory. One joker even said my hair could be used as a flotation device in an emergency. But the worst part is the naive people who are upset because my ad uses Moroccan immigrants to present my plan for an anti-immigration wall on the Mexican border. So? Did they think I was going to play fair? Are they still confusing me with the boy next door?

If I were Darth Vader, these loonies would want me to change my son, Luke Skywalker’s, diapers, perhaps?

I’m often accused of looking down on other Republican candidates. Can you really blame me? Beside them, even Barney the Dinosaur seems like a credible candidate!

Ben Carson believed that Joseph from the Old Testament built the pyramids to store wheat. Poor guy. If you gave him a penny for his thoughts, he could still give you back change.

And what about Ted Cruz, whom I nicknamed “maniac”? I left him in the dust after he started comparing Barack Obama’s health care plan to Fidel Castro’s Communist regime in Cuba.

As for Jeb Bush, he’s so pale beige, you’d think he was part of my grandmother’s dining room carpet. It’s hard to believe that last spring, he had to keep telling his rich donors: “Don’t give me more than a million dollars for now!”

My rivals are baloney. And I’m the slicer.

At first, experts thought a one-legged man had better odds of winning a tap-dancing contest than I had of getting elected.

Yet, 10 days before the Republican primaries that will select the Republican presidential candidate, I’m at the top of the polls.

Whatever. Media pundits still haven’t given up. They keep saying that my refusal to build a solid organization will cost me the victory. They also say Americans will panic at the thought of me controlling the country’s nuclear arsenal. “Why vote for Trump?” a comedian asked. “Was the Joker not available?”

We’ll see. The drama that unfolded over the past few months has served me well. It’s like time is on my side. Basically, it’s TV host Conan O’Brien that summed up my situation the best, with this cruel but true joke:

“A word association poll found the words most associated with Donald Trump are ‘idiot,’ ‘jerk,’ ‘stupid,’ and ‘dumb.’ In other words … he really could be our next president.”