'President Erect' is my cousin - and I'm a spy tasked with saving jobs for Ireland
My people asked me travel to Washington, on bended knee, and to meet 'The Great White Father'.
For some time now I have kept the secret. My life will never be the same. That much I know but as I sit here weeping on the banks of the Potomac I think of the words of another president, one of our own, from Wexford. JFK said: "Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country."
My fingers are suspended over the keyboard like a primed guillotine. And it's my head that will fall into the basket by the butcher's block. I know that once I write the next sentence, I am condemning me to a life of misery.
I am related to Donald Trump.
The research has shown, unequivocally and without any doubts, that Donald Trump is Irish, and we have the proof of it. And what's more I am his 13th cousin, twice removed.
I kept this news a secret for many months. You see I did not want to be President Trump's cousin. The old saying goes: "You can choose your friends but you can't choose your relatives." Our leader has asked me to make an Irishman out of cousin Donald and I, in the spirit of those who came before me from 1798 to 1916, have made the ultimate sacrifice.
Trump blood is flowing through my veins and I can do nothing about it. Now I know what it's like to have been bitten by a vampire.
I can hear the collective gasp from the family "Oh my God what has he gone and done now?" By admitting that I am a Trump, it seems that it is reasonable to assume that all of those who are blood relations such as children, brothers and sisters are also 'Trumpensteins'.
Already there are secret plans to build the Arc de Trump here in Listowel.
So as I sit here and ponder my faith on the banks of the Potomac (which is the Liffey of Washington), I, who was so loved and admired, will now become only loved and admired by klansmen, misogynists, the Putins, billionaires, homophobics, oligarchs, dictators, polluters, men with large penises, red necks who holler, racists, narcissists, people who speak with their mouths full and people who sign their names with an x.
Most of the preceding paragraph is self-explanatory but in the interests of clarity, I had better explain the penis reference. During the course of the recent election, Mr Trump boasted about the size of his penis. So much so that one anti-Trump commentator described Donald as the 'President Erect'. I was that commentator. And now I have to pretend to be his friend.
I, who admired Hillary and Barack so much, sold out. Please forgive me Ambassador O'Malley. I had no choice.
I was visited, ambassador, in the very early morning, clandestinely, by the Irish secret service. They recruited me. My job is to win Mr Trump over to Ireland's cause. To make an Irishman out of him and to spy for Ireland. The spooks even commissioned a song from Mickey MacConnell. I have to learn off the words of 'Donny Boy'.
The secret service man gave it to me straight. "It's America first, but what about Ireland second? Thousands of jobs will be saved if you can get the president to embrace his Irishness." I had no choice. And then he warned me that if I was caught the Government would deny they ever even heard of me.
I broke down in tears. "Oh why", I wailed, "couldn't I have been President Obama's cousin?"
And Donny Boy is not even the real president. How is it a candidate can win an election in America even though he lost by nearly three million votes, which is the entire population of Ireland minus Dublin?
I have only myself to blame. One of the neighbours built a conservatory and I was jealous.
It was the Celtic Tiger greed and envy all over again with every man wanting more than the next, but fast.
I had this overwhelming desire to own yachts and jets. I knew there was no way I could ever earn enough to make the purchases so I decided to get my DNA checked out to see if I could find some long lost cousin worth millions. The plan was I would fall in for a tidy inheritance. Better me, I thought, than some cats' home in The Catskills.
The results came through. I am President Trump's cousin. Definitely with 99.9999pc probability. Maybe that's why I wanted yachts and stuff. It's in the genes. Trump is a Keane.
Some of you may have noticed I was as pale as death in recent times. When the bad news of the DNA check-up came through I was in shock. I submitted blood test after blood test. My mouth was as dry as sandpaper from sending off saliva samples. But the results were the same. Trump is still a Keane. I was admitted to hospital for anaemia and dehydration.
The president was delighted as he is only too well aware one-in-five Americans is Irish. I have to suck-up to stop Mr Trump moving all of the big American companies back home to the US.
It's the White House for me on St Patrick's Day. To Meet the Trumps. Donny Boy will be invited to Listowel and I will have to say how proud we are. There will be Irish dancing on a big lorry in Trump Square and we will visit the old Trump homestead.
There's this old falling down ruin of a cottage in the middle of one of the many bogs around these parts and we will tell the president his people came from that very spot. So maybe from now Trump's new catch cry will be "drain the bog".
The 'New York Times' will write a story stating this is all fake news. So? Mr Trump will accuse the press of making up their own fake news. Those who want to believe Mr Trump would believe him even if he said Christmas Day fell on the first of April. The only good news is Mr Trump doesn't drink so maybe he will not call to our pub on his visit.
A lone duck flies over the Potomac. I consider flying home on the next flight but then I think of those who died in 1916. They were the lucky ones.
I set out for Pennsylvania Avenue with a heavy heart, a sock in my pants and a dyed blond head.
My patriotic blood-line sacrifice must remain secret. I will never have a roundabout named after me. I will never be made in to a song like Kevin Barry.
For I am now a lonely, lone quack-quack Potomac duck and a secret living martyr.