THE ART OF THE SQUEAL

Donald J. Trump's Unauthorized Memoir — As Told to No One, Because No One Could Stop Him

A Satirical Parody in the Tradition of George Orwell's Animal Farm & Nineteen Eighty-Four

"All memoirs are equal, but some memoirs are more equal than others." — The Barn Wall, freshly repainted, Mar-a-Lago South Wing, 3:47 AM

FOREWORD FROM THE PUBLISHER

(The Publisher Is Also the Author. The Author Approved This Foreword. Tremendously.)

This volume was submitted to seventeen publishing houses. Sixteen declined. The seventeenth was acquired by the author during the submission process. It is now called Minitrue Press, a division of Trump Media & Propaganda Group, and it publishes exclusively the best words — many people are saying the only words, actually.

The manuscript arrived in the form of 847 Truth Social posts, three cocktail napkins from Bedminster, and a single gold-embossed Post-it note that read: "I was a pig before it was fashionable. Write that down."

We did.

PART ONE: THE EARLY YEARS

"Four Legs Good, Two Escalators Better"

I was born — and I say this without any false modesty, because false modesty is for losers and, frankly, for animals who haven't read their own press — I was born the most important mammal to descend a golden escalator in the history of Western civilization.

The year was 2015. The escalator was beautiful. The crowd was enormous. The media said the crowd was small. The media, as I have always maintained, is the enemy of the farm.

But let us begin at the beginning, as all great memoirs do, because I have an extraordinary memory — perhaps the greatest memory of any human being, possibly any being — and I remember everything, especially things that haven't happened yet, which I remember better than anyone.

My earliest political philosophy, which I developed entirely on my own without reading any books (books are for the Outer Party; I am the Inner Party), can be summarized in three elegant principles that I inscribed on the barn wall of my consciousness at a very young age:

WAR IS WINNING. FREEDOM IS MY BRAND. IGNORANCE IS THEIR PROBLEM.

Simple. Powerful. The fake news said these were "contradictory." I said: that's the point, sweetheart. I have always understood, instinctively, what the so-called intellectuals spent their whole careers trying to explain — that doublethink isn't a flaw in the system. It is the system. And I didn't need some British socialist to tell me that. I figured it out myself. In the 1980s. Before it was fashionable.

PART TWO: THE PHILOSOPHY OF TRUMP

"Who Controls the Past Controls the Future. Who Controls the Present Controls the Past. Who Controls Truth Social Controls Everything."

People ask me — great people, beautiful people, very smart people with tremendous cheekbones — they ask me: "Sir, what is your governing philosophy?"

And I tell them what I have always believed, what I believed long before I ever set foot in the White House (both times, which is a record, nobody's done it twice, not like this):

The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake.

I didn't say that. Orwell said that. But I thought it first.

Now, some of the Fake News — the enemies of the farm, as I prefer to call them — will say that governing philosophy should involve things like "policy" or "consistency" or "not feeding your opponents to the dogs." To which I say: Boxer worked hard. Boxer believed. Boxer had two mottos — "I will work harder" and "Napoleon is always right." And look how far that got him.

(Note to legal team: The preceding paragraph is not an admission that I sent anyone to a glue factory. That was a different administration. Possibly Obama's.)

The truth — and I know truth better than anyone, I've been in the truth business my whole life — the truth is that reality is not fixed. Reality is negotiable. Reality is a deal. And I am, as my previous memoir established for all time, the world's greatest dealmaker.

If the chocolate ration was thirty grams last week and I announce today that it has been increased to twenty grams, then it has been increased. The announcement is the increase. The announcement is the chocolate. Anyone who remembers thirty grams is suffering from what my people at the Ministry of Truth — we call it the Department of Government Efficiency, for branding purposes — what they call a memory irregularity.

We have people for that.

PART THREE: THE WHITE HOUSE CORRESPONDENTS' DINNER

"The Two Minutes Hate, But Make It Formal Wear"

Ah. The Correspondents' Dinner.

Let me tell you about the Correspondents' Dinner.

For years — years — I refused to attend. Why would I attend a ritual designed by the Thoughtpolice of the mainstream media to humiliate the Leader? Why would I walk into the Ministry of Love wearing a tuxedo and smile while they sharpened their telescreens?

I didn't. I held my own rallies instead. My rallies were better. My rallies were the Two Minutes Hate, but extended to ninety minutes, with better lighting and a much more enthusiastic crowd, and the object of collective hatred was them, which is how it should be.

But then — then — in my second term, my glorious return, my Second Coming (the press hates when I say that, which is precisely why I say it) — I decided: I will attend. I will go. And I will make it mine.

Because that is what Napoleon does. Napoleon doesn't flee the farmhouse. Napoleon moves into the farmhouse. Napoleon sleeps in the beds. Napoleon wears the clothes. Napoleon walks on two legs and dares the other animals to say something about it.

And so I attended the White House Correspondents' Dinner. And I stood at the podium. And I looked out at the assembled members of the press — the beautiful enemies, the necessary enemies, the enemies without whom I would be merely a very successful real estate developer with excellent hair — and I said what every great leader says when he stands before those who would chronicle his reign:

"The best books are the ones I'm in."

(Pause for applause. There was applause. There is always applause. The applause is mandatory. This is noted in the Commandments.)

I told them I had written a new memoir. I told them it was called The Art of the Squeal. I told them it was the greatest memoir ever written, that it made Tolstoy look like a pamphlet, that it made Churchill's six-volume war history look like a Post-it note, that it made 1984 look like — and here I paused for effect, because I have always had extraordinary comedic timing, many people say the best timing, better than any president in history, better than Lincoln, who frankly was not known for his timing —

I said it made 1984 look like a rough draft of my first term.

The room laughed. Some of them nervously. The nervous ones are the smart ones. The smart ones understood that I was not entirely joking.

Because here is what I know, what I have always known, what I knew before Orwell, before Stalin, before any of the great administrators of reality who came before me:

The proles and the animals are free — because they don't matter enough to monitor. It's the middle tier you have to watch. The journalists. The bureaucrats. The Winston Smiths with their little diaries and their secret rebellions and their rented rooms above antique shops where they think no one is watching.

Someone is always watching.

We call it Truth Social.

PART FOUR: THE SEVEN COMMANDMENTS

(As Currently Painted on the Barn Wall, Subject to Revision Without Notice)

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When I first took office — the first time, the practice run, the pilot season — my team and I established a set of governing principles. Simple. Clear. Inviolable.

They have been updated somewhat.

Here is the current version, as of this morning:

1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy, unless they donated to the campaign, in which case they are a Patriot and possibly an Ambassador.

2. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend. Whatever goes upon four legs is a friend, unless it is a dog, because I have never had a dog, and I find the whole thing suspicious.

3. No animal shall wear clothes. No animal shall wear clothes to excess, except at Mar-a-Lago, where the dress code is enforced and the ties are long and the gold is load-bearing.

4. No animal shall sleep in a bed. No animal shall sleep in a bed with sheets, unless the bed has a gold headboard and the sheets have a thread count of no less than 800, which is a completely different situation.

5. No animal shall drink alcohol. **No animal shall drink alcohol. (The author does not drink. This commandment has never been broken. Anyone who says otherwise is experiencing a memory irregularity. See: Department of Government Efficiency, Room 101, extension 4.)

6. No animal shall kill any other animal. No animal shall kill any other animal without due process, which has been streamlined.

7. All animals are equal. All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others, and the most equal animal currently resides at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and also Mar-a-Lago and also Bedminster and also Trump Tower, and his name is on the building, which is the whole point.

The above commandments were painted on the barn wall by Squealer at approximately 3 AM. No one saw him do it. The ladder was not there in the morning. There was no ladder.

PART FIVE: A NOTE ON SQUEALER

"He Could Turn Black Into White. I Prefer Gold."

I want to address, directly and without equivocation, the comparisons that certain very unfair members of the media have drawn between myself and a fictional pig named Squealer from a book written by a British socialist who died in 1950 and never once ran for office, never built a single tower, and whose net worth at time of death was, frankly, embarrassing.

These comparisons are wrong.

I am not Squealer.

Squealer was the spokesman. I am Napoleon.

Squealer ran around the farm explaining things. I don't explain things. Things explain themselves in my presence. The facts reorganize around me. The barn wall rewrites itself out of respect.

Squealer needed the dogs to back him up. I have the dogs. I am the dogs. I am simultaneously Napoleon and Squealer and the dogs, which is an unprecedented consolidation of farm management that has never been achieved before in the history of agriculture or geopolitics.

The fake news will say this is a contradiction. I say: that's doublethink, baby, and I've been doing it since before you were born.

PART SIX: THE WINDMILL

"We Will Build It, and Mexico Will Pay for It, and When It Falls Down, Snowball Did It"

Every great leader needs a windmill.

A windmill is a promise that becomes a project that becomes a symbol that becomes, when it inevitably collapses in a storm, someone else's fault.

I have built many windmills. I prefer to call them towers. The principle is identical.

When the windmill falls — and sometimes windmills fall, this is known, this is science — the Leader does not say: "The windmill fell because of structural miscalculations and an inadequate budget and the fact that we used substandard concrete because we gave the contract to a company owned by the Leader's brother-in-law."

No.

The Leader says: "Snowball did it."

Snowball — that treacherous, exiled, Trotsky-adjacent, suspiciously intellectual pig who left the farm under disputed circumstances and now lurks in the shadows, sabotaging everything, working with foreign farms, spreading disinformation — Snowball is always available.

In my administration, Snowball has had many names. I will not list them here for legal reasons. But you know who they are. They know who they are. The dogs know who they are.

The windmill will be rebuilt. It will be bigger. It will be beautiful. It will be the most structurally impressive windmill in the history of wind. And when it is complete, I will stand before it and I will say:

"I alone could fix it."

And the animals will cheer.

And Boxer will say: "I will work harder."

And Boxer will mean it.

And we will all pretend, together, in the warm glow of collective doublethink, that we cannot remember a time when the windmill was not there, was not always there, was not always mine.

EPILOGUE: THE WINDOW

"From Pig to Man and Man to Pig — And the Difference Is the Zip Code"

There is a scene at the end of Animal Farm — and I say this as someone who has definitely read Animal Farm, or at least had it explained to him by someone who read it, or possibly watched a clip — there is a scene where the animals press their faces against the farmhouse window and look inside and see the pigs sitting at the table with the humans, playing cards, drinking whisky, and they look from pig to man and man to pig, and they cannot tell the difference.

Orwell meant this as a tragedy.

I read it as a business plan.

The goal was never to stay in the barn. The goal was always the farmhouse. The goal was always the table. The goal was always to be the one holding the cards, pouring the whisky, making the deals, while the other animals stood outside in the rain with their noses pressed against the glass, watching, wondering, working harder, believing that Napoleon is always right.

And here is the thing — the thing that Orwell understood but couldn't quite bring himself to say, because he was a democratic socialist and therefore constitutionally incapable of admitting it:

The animals at the window aren't tragic. They're the audience.

And I have always known how to play to an audience.

The animals looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.

— George Orwell, Animal Farm, 1945

"Tremendous review. Five stars. Best ending ever written, except for mine."

— Donald J. Trump, Truth Social, 2026

APPENDIX: GLOSSARY OF TRUMPSPEAK

(A Contribution to the Ongoing Project of Newspeak)

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Oldspeak Term	Trumpspeak Equivalent	Minitruth Classification
Lie	Alternative Fact	Approved
Corruption	Drain the Swamp (Ongoing)	Heroic
Authoritarian	Strong Leader Energy	Complimentary
Impeachment	Witch Hunt (Vol. I & II)	Classified
Losing	Rigged	See: Memory Irregularity
Press Conference	Enemy of the Farm Briefing	Monitored
Constitution	Rough Draft, Pending Revision	Under Review
Democracy	The Old System	Deprecated
Memoir	The Greatest Book Ever Written	Mandatory Purchase

The Art of the Squeal is available exclusively through Minitrue Press, a division of Trump Media & Propaganda Group. All proceeds benefit the Room 101 Renovation Fund. The book has received five stars from every reviewer. Reviewers who gave fewer than five stars are experiencing memory irregularities and have been referred to the appropriate department.

All animals are equal.

Some animals are more equal than others.

One animal is on Truth Social right now, at 3 AM, and he is not finished.

— Published under the authority of the Inner Party, the Outer Party, and the Mar-a-Lago Homeowners Association. Any resemblance to actual dystopian fiction is purely intentional and legally protected as parody under the First Amendment, which remains in effect pending further review.