[Translated from the Slovenian]
People ask what it is about my husband that originally drew me to him. He made me laugh, at least until I realised he wasn’t joking when he spoke incessantly of his own greatness. As the daughter of a humble Slovenian Communist chauffeur who had to work 12-hour shifts to put zlikrofi (small dumplings cooked in hot water and filled with potato, onion, minced lard or smoked bacon, herbs and spices), štruklji (different types of dough filled with cheese, walnut, or apple), and premurska gibanica (a sweet cake made of shortcrust pastry and several layers of filo pastry laid between apple, walnut, cottage cheese, and poppy seed fillings) on his wife’s and daughters’ dinner plates, I will not pretend not to have been enticed by Donald having his own airplane, helicopter, and university.
It is well known that there is such a thing as a chubby chaser — a man who is attracted to obese women. What many do not know is that, correspondingly, there is also such a thing as a waddler-wanter, a woman who finds very sexy a man who waddles. I am unashamed to be such a woman. The tubbier he grew, the more of a waddler my Donald became. His having grown increasingly corpulent over the years meant that there has always been just a little bit more of him to love.
People ask me if I knew about my husband’s…encounter with Stormi Daniels (whose name the press seems unable to spell properly!). Of course I did, just as I knew about his involvements with Sultri Wolpert, Slutti McNae, Vaselina Stroganov, and many dozens of others. In almost every case, my husband invited me to join in. Nothing excites him more than two girls, unless it’s three, or even four or five. I declined in every case. It’s one thing to pretend to be partying with another girl for the cover of a now-defunct French men’s magazine, and quite another to do it in real life, for no modelling fee. So the whole Stormi Daniels business has been no more humiliating for me than having to have something too closely resembling phone sex with Howard Stern.
But honestly, enough is enough, and when, in the most horrifying display of mass stupidity in modern political history, America elected my husband president, I knew I had somehow to get out, and back to the place where I have always felt most loved, Sevnica, in central Slovenia, heretofore known for its underwear factory, annual salami festival, and sport fishing in the beautiful River Saba. Surrounded by my husband’s handlers and advisors, I did not feel free to express openly my urge to flee, but felt sure my speech at the Republican National Convention, at which I brazenly plagiarised Michelle Obama and tacitly invoked Rick fucking Astley, of all people, would be recognised as a cry for help. I cannot begin to describe my mortification when it was not. Nor, in fact, was my obviously (I thought!) tongue-in-cheek announcement that I would devote myself to eradicating cyberbullying. As though my husband isn’t himself the world’s most profligate cyberbully! I slipped the Pope a note when we met, but His Holiness apparently misplaced it.
You may ask why I am appealing to you here on Crowdfunder when my husband is so very, very rich. It is because I expect that my taking our son back to Slovenia, where I envisage him becoming a champion sportsfisherman or renowned sausage-maker, will make Donald furious, and that he will try to give me not a single dollar, or even euro. As a capable and resolute woman, I am prepared to seek employment at Sevnica’s famous underwear factory, preferably as a model. But I have had servants of every possible sort now for the past almost-20 years, during which my principal preoccupation has been remaining trophy-wife gorgeous, and it may take me a few months to become used to doing my and little Barron’s laundry and making him zlikrofi after an exhausting day at the factory. Please be generous.
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