Tom Hicks | October 30, 2026

Introducing Dear Diary

Ever wonder what people caught in the headlines write in their diaries after the cameras are gone and nobody’s listening?

Neither do we. So we’re going to make shit up.

Welcome to Dear Diary, an occasional Off Script feature featuring entirely fictional private thoughts inspired by real people and real events. Sometimes funny, sometimes nasty, occasionally downright vicious.

And today, we’ve got a reporter who probably has a few things he’d love to get off his chest.

Editor’s note: This is fictional satire inspired by a real confrontation between Donald Trump and a reporter. It does not represent the reporter’s actual thoughts or words.

Dear Diary,

That fat bastard called me fat. I swear to God, I’m still sitting here trying to figure out how the hell that happened. Donald fucking Trump, a man who looks like somebody stuffed a Thanksgiving turkey into a business suit and spray-painted its head orange, decided I needed to get in shape. I mean, have you seen this guy? He looks like his belt is negotiating a hostage release every morning.

And the really infuriating part is that I wasn’t even trying to give him a hard time. I asked a perfectly reasonable question about Kansas. Fucking KANSAS. I wanted to know why he wasn’t going, whether all the traveling was getting to him, and suddenly I’m getting a personal fitness evaluation from a man who probably thinks walking from the golf cart to the clubhouse counts as cardio. What was I supposed to say? “Thank you, Mr. President, I’ll take that under advisement, right after you explain how you manage to maintain the physique of a refrigerator full of cheeseburgers”?

God, I wish I’d said that. Or something. Anything. Instead, I stood there with my microphone, trying to maintain some shred of professionalism while this orange asshole insulted me in front of everybody. That’s the part that keeps eating at me. I had to stand there and take it because I’m the reporter and he’s the president, and apparently only one of us is expected to behave like a fucking adult. I’ve spent the entire evening thinking of things I could have said, and every single one of them would have gotten me hauled into an editor’s office before lunch tomorrow.

And then the White House piled on. Of course they did. Apparently, insulting my appearance wasn’t enough for the president of the United States. His little taxpayer-funded fan club had to get involved, too. Don’t these people have something better to do? There’s a government to run, for Christ’s sake. Wars, budgets, national security, all that boring stuff. But no, somebody apparently decided the nation’s most pressing business was making sure the internet knew the president thought a reporter looked like shit. I wonder whether they held a meeting. Maybe somebody put together a PowerPoint. “Operation Fat Reporter.” Jesus, I wouldn’t even be surprised.

The thing is, I know perfectly well I’m going to see him again. I’ll be standing there with my microphone, asking another question, pretending yesterday never happened because that’s what the job requires. And he’ll probably have forgotten the whole thing by then. That’s what really burns me. I’ll remember this ridiculous exchange for years, and to him it was probably just another Thursday spent being an asshole.

Anyway, I need a drink. Maybe two. And I should probably stop looking at pictures of him because every time I do, I start laughing again at the idea of that man giving anybody advice about physical fitness.

Still don’t know what the fuck happened with Kansas.

Goodnight, Diary.

Your Turn

Ever had to stand there smiling while some asshole insulted you? What did you wish you’d said?

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THE FAT BASTARD CALLED ME FAT