THE PRESIDENT: Good afternoon. Today, amidst my grueling schedule of delivering speeches to convince the war-flushed Joe Sixpack set that they benefit from tax cuts for Donald Trump, I wanted to take a minute to say a few words to my used-up sister-in-law Sharon, who is at this very moment entertaining the suicidal idea of profiting from a tell-all book about my proud, salt-of-the-earth family of petrochemical millionaires.

Sharon, I know you and I have never been particularly close. When our kids were growing up together, and we'd all convene in Washington or Kennebunkport for the holidays, most of the time I was much more interested in getting to the bottom of a fifth of Cuervo than listening to you prattle on about God knows whatever worthlessness you think defines you as a person. Besides, you were always so sour, like you were convinced that just because you've got that brassy bottle-blonde hair, that my mom couldn't order you to help Jeb's Mexi-bimbo wife Columba pick up Millie's messes off the lawn. But that's all in the past now, and I'm confident that you've forgiven me personally for that New Years Eve I vomited on you.

Whatever our differences may be today though, I know that you know that current GOP fund-raising literature stresses that my parents raised us Bush boys to adhere to the highest moral standards. As such, I know you realize that when my baby brother Neil dumped you and your three halfwit children to start slithering his Dockers python into my mother's personal assistant, that he was most certainly compelled to do so only by his unshakeable belief in "family values." Furthermore, I know that you accept that when Neil single-handedly wiped out the life savings of thousands of thankfully powerless blue-collar grunts by using Silverado Savings and Loan as his own personal piggy bank, that he was also driven by the same unflappable commitment to Christian decency and brotherly love that so defines my perfect bloodline.

Over the years, I know you've been unfortunately privy to many a private conversation between the superior male members of the Bush family. Indeed, whether it was doing your womanish duty as a piece of human lawn furniture, holding two bowls of pork rinds and Chee-tos while the men folk played horseshoes, or pretending to understand while we laid out plans for 21st century Muslamian genocide, I know you soaked up many of our most candid and unguarded moments not unlike an ultra-absorbent Today^® contraceptive sponge.

I remember one Thanksgiving in particular, while Marvin and dad were giving their hilarious annual blackface performance of "The Aunt Jemima and Uncle Remus Follies," I looked behind me and noticed that not only were you the only one not busting a gut, but you had this pained, weak look of liberal guilt in your eyes. Then, at the climax, as Marvin danced a crazed jitterbug while clenching the entire turkey carcass in his teeth and dad cried, "Auntie Jammie, Unkie Remus sho nuff wansa get jiggy wif yo ass!," you had the gall to avert your eyes and leave the room! I knew right then and there that you weren't cut out for the Bush league.

And so today, with my perfect family having so righteously shut you out like the cheap trash that you are, I know how tempting it might be to sit down and put pen to paper about your wholly inaccurate recollections. I know how exciting it must seem, meeting with all those fancypants diseased homo New York City publishers, and snarfing down fish eggs and champagne for lunch with Kitty Kelly. But I also know that at the end of the day, you're smarter than to surrender to the temptation of delivering a massively damaging political blow to the hand that feeds your cellulite-encrusted ass. And I know that you're smart enough to turn off the goddamned answering machine and start taking my mother's livid phone calls guaranteeing your life in exchange for your silence, with a monthly allowance thrown in that's still big enough to cover the interest on your Lord & Taylor Card balance.

It's been a long strange trip Sharon, but I want to congratulate you in advance for accepting our final offer. Neil is our family's Fredo. He is a pussy embarrassment to us, and was doubtless a terrible lay for you. But at the end of the day, the family must prevail, and that's why you must simply go away. Whether that's the "staying out of the media spotlight" kind of going away, or the "permanently vacationing inside the concrete footing of an off-shore oil rig" kind of going away, well that's up to you, sister.

Thank you, and God Bless America.

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