I should be President (again), not little Ronnie. What should I do?

Are you a petty dictator, cancelled movie star, or aspiring politician with a tricky problem? Welcome to Bad Advice, the first advice column for the rich, the famous, and the dangerously unhinged.

Dear Bad Advice

Look, let me tell you something about raising kids, okay? Nobody knows parenting better than me, nobody. I try to raise them right, I really do. Now, I’ve got a bunch of kids, and let me be clear, they’re winners, except for a couple, okay? We all have winners and losers, believe me.

There’s this one boy, a real idiot, I have to say. Total disappointment. And the girl whose name I forget, well, she’s okay, I guess. Then there’s the little one, with those eyes, those eyes, folks. Cold, dead eyes, like a stone-cold killer. Quite something, let me tell you.

But listen, two out of five, that’s not bad. I’ve done better than that. My eldest, he’s a real winner. He really knows how to murder an endangered species with a crazy powerful gun, believe me. Just like I pretend I would when I’m talking to a red state crowd. And that girl, she’s got a name, I remember it. She’s hot, folks, really hot. I treat her good. I treat her like nobody else. Like an actual woman with a human soul and everything. She’s got something, let me tell you.

But here’s the thing, since 2016, I’ve kind of adopted a bunch of other kids. They looked up to me, big time. No matter what I did, they loved me. I mean it, folks. I could do anything, and they’d support me. Start a coup, steal an election, grab a woman by the pussy, you name it. They didn’t care, they just wanted more of me.

Maybe I’m just a soft touch, or maybe I see a bit of myself in them. But I loved those little sociopaths, I really did. I did everything for them as long as it benefited me, of course. But now, one of them, let’s call him Ronnie deSomething, he’s acting out. Used to be such a good boy, wanted to be just like me. But now he’s talking crazy, telling everyone in the classroom and in paid political advertisements that he’s a more viable presidential candidate than me. Can you believe it?

I tried, folks, I really did. I tried to make him see reason. Maybe I coddled him, giving him that class Governor position. He has no charisma, let me tell you. He makes Eric look like George fucking Clooney, but I helped him anyway. Now he’s gone totally off the rails. I tried everything to get his head straight. Well, mostly, I just called him a loser, but I did it so many times, believe me.

I’m at a loss, folks. I don’t know what to do with him. Should I lock him up? It’s a tough decision, but I’ll figure it out. Trust me, I always do.

Big Daddy Donny, Mar-a-Lago

Dear Big Daddy Donny

Let’s dive into why little Ronnie is being such an unruly little ingrate after you gave him everything.

On the one hand, he may be lashing out the way any 44-year-old toddler would. He’s at that stage where he is disrespecting his daddy even as he aspires to grow up to be exactly like him. In a way, it’s the highest compliment. But, when you see him in the playground instituting rabidly transphobic policies and displaying autocratic tendencies, it’s only natural to think, “Hey! That’s my schtick.”

What does he think this is? A functioning democracy? That’s so 1776 to 2016.

In cases like this, sometimes a dose of tough love is necessary. It may not be the politically correct approach these days among the wokerati but, as the saying goes, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” Therefore, I suggest a little good old-fashioned ritual humiliation. Choose a very public venue like, say, a debate stage and give little Ronnie a thrashing he will never forget.

Get creative. The sky’s the limit here. Give him a nickname that’s so mean - yet catchy - that newsreaders will accidentally use it in live broadcasts when they meant to say his actual name. Next, twist the knife with a few unfounded allegations. Make up any old thing. Imply, for example, that he is secretly queer. It doesn’t have to be remotely true. Fact-checking is for snowflakes.

If executed properly, you may even make him cry. And wouldn’t that be fun? Oh, the sweet joy the sight of tears streaming down his puffy little face will bring. For added impact, do this in front of any of his peers who may also be harboring misconceptions about who’s the daddy here.

Nothing gets the message across quite like the menacing implication that “You’re next.”