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I didn’t write Make Me President, Daddy to mock a man.
He does that to himself.
I wrote it to eulogize a country that laughed its way into the grave.
This book started as a scream I couldn’t get out during the first Trump administration. I needed to process the surreal cruelty of watching a government run like a badly-lit reality show while real people—immigrants, queer folks, survivors, women, workers, the medically vulnerable—bled behind the curtain.
But Make Me President, Daddy is not just mockery. It’s satire. It’s a scalpel. Every grotesque moment in the novel comes from something real: a smirk from a press secretary, a meme turned policy, a blinking cry for help nobody heard.
“Every day is the same play with new costumes. Someone yells, someone lies, someone apologizes for a thing that shouldn’t need apologizing. And I’m the one expected to keep it all on message. As if chaos has a tagline.”
At its heart, Make Me President, Daddy is the story of Rey Villanueva—a closeted communications director performing patriotism like drag, spinning fascism into headlines, and clinging to “optics” like a rosary while the country dissolves behind him.
Rey isn’t a hero. He’s a mirror. He’s messy, terrified, transactional. His job is to manufacture belief in something that no longer exists. Truth. Trust. Stability.
“I used to believe words could fix things. Now I know they just make the screaming more palatable.”
This is a satire for the rage-numbed. For the people who felt gaslit by an era. Who knew the punchline was coming and still held their breath. Who watched the country turn into a punchline—and then monetize it.
“We weren’t trying to fool them. We just gave them what they wanted. A villain with a good tailor and a catchphrase.”
Make Me President, Daddy is about the performance of power in a collapsing empire. About the queer people forced to survive within systems designed to erase them. About how fascism doesn’t always wear jackboots—it sometimes wears bronzer and sells merch.
“He doesn’t need to be believed. Just broadcast.”
There is no redemption arc in this story. Only damage control. Only the truth that survival sometimes means selling your soul at a discount and learning to smile while everything burns.
“By the end, I wasn’t spinning the truth anymore. I was spinning myself. Into someone I didn’t recognize. Into someone they’d still listen to.”
I didn’t write this book because I had answers. I wrote it because I couldn’t forget. Because the trauma of that administration was never just political—it was personal. And for so many of us, it never really ended.
So no, I don’t support this bullshit. I never did. I just needed to show how deep it goes, how absurd it can be, and how many people are still trapped inside the machinery.
If you’re ready for a darkly funny, emotionally sharp political satire with teeth, read Make Me President, Daddy. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll see the rot we all learned to laugh through.
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