Donald Trump stood at the 9th hole of his favorite golf course, eyeing a tricky shot. The president-elect’s focus on the game was as sharp as ever, but his golfing buddy, Rick, couldn’t resist broaching a serious topic.
“Donald, I’ve got to ask,” Rick said, leaning on his club, “why Steven Miran for the Council of Economic Advisers? Wasn’t there someone flashier? Someone who screams ‘economic mastermind’?”
Trump straightened up, brushing invisible dust off his red hat. “Rick, let me tell you something. Miran is a researcher. A thinker. The kind of guy who looks great on paper. You know why that matters?”
Rick raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because academics are like the icing on the cake,” Trump said, lining up his shot. “They make the cake look good, even if no one’s eating it. You get the academics on your side, and suddenly everyone stops worrying about little things like the national debt.”
Rick chuckled. “Little things? Isn’t that his job—worrying about the debt?”
Trump swung his club, sending the ball soaring through the air. He watched it land with satisfaction before turning back. “Exactly. That’s why I leave the national debt talk to him. He’s going to write all these papers, sound smart, keep people busy with numbers. Meanwhile, I’m out here playing the long game—making America great again.”
Rick smirked. “Speaking of papers, have you read any of his?”
Trump laughed, a loud, throaty chuckle. “Read them? I haven’t read them. I don’t think anyone has read them, Rick. Not even Miran himself! That’s the beauty of it. You don’t need to read the fine print; you just need to sell it.”
Rick shook his head, marveling at Trump’s confidence. “Well, you’re the boss. But what about all this criticism from the economists? Inflation, debt, undocumented immigrants—you’ve got people saying you’re playing with fire.”
Trump waved him off. “Criticism? Please. The voters trust me. They’re tired of the same old Washington nonsense. They want results. Big tax cuts, jobs, manufacturing back in the U.S. And Miran’s going to be a perfect face for that. He’s a team player.”
Rick glanced toward the next hole. “Fair enough. But I’m just saying—don’t you think people might catch on?”
Trump grinned, stepping up to the next tee. “Catch on to what? That I know how to win? Rick, I’m out here doing what I love, building the best economy in the world, and keeping this swing perfect. You think anyone’s going to care about a few boring papers?”
With that, Trump took his shot, the ball flying straight and true down the fairway. Rick shook his head again, realizing one thing was certain: Trump was as serious about his golf as he was about his unshakable approach to politics.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
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