I feel like an alien in my own land. Unwelcome. I mean, I was born here, in this country. And now I feel like I don't belong. The Boss - my so-called Boss - is sniggering about my President.
Now, I'm proud of my American roots: my ancestors hail from the east coast, around Chesapeake Bay, in Maryland. That's who I am - a Chessie. Chessies were brought out here to make Australia great, sometime. We're going to shake things up.
The first bloke who needs a shake-up is the so-called Prime Minister, Malcolm, and The Donald gave him the small finger last week. As he should - after all, Malcolm is worth a miserable few hundred million, whereas my hero, The Donald, is a billionaire. He says that anyway, so it must be true. And if it isn't, he makes it true.
So, the Donald put Malcolm in his place - had the tough conversation - told Malcolm it was the dumbest deal he'd ever heard of; told him he was sending America the next Boston bomber and said it was the worst phone call he'd had all day.
Now, nobody respects Malcolm more than I do - I have tremendous respect for him - but, as top dog, you have to assert yourself. Dogs will wag their tales and pretend they're friendly, but you need to snarl first and see what happens. Malcolm behaved like a nice dog - you can't do that when you're dealing with a mongrel.
I do what The Donald does and it mostly works, except on my Mum, Queenie, who treats me with disrespect. More than that, she bites me. Nips me on the ear. The thing about The Donald is, a few dogs treat him with disrespect - the media, the Democrats, the Chinese, the Mexicans, but none of them have nipped his ear yet. So he's sorting them out, right? He keeps everyone surprised, so I'm watching him closely.
The Boss's American mates call him the Big Orange Splot, on account of his handsome mane - but I think they are poking fun at him, which offends me. He is the leader of the free world, after all, and has already put his stamp on it - he has brought in a Goldendoodle as chief strategist at the WhiteHouse. The WhiteHouse has always required a dog to make sure things tick over, ensure no rats are present and see that the carpet is appropriately marked for territory.
I was disappointed he didn't choose a Chessie - in particular, myself, after having offered to fill the position back in October. I knew he was up for it even then. Well, Melania looked like a good breeder and therefore he had a good chance, because all dogs were going to vote for him.
But I thought giving Malcolm the small, powerful finger was a master-stroke and caught the Aussies off-guard. They thought they were special - but soon realised they were just like the Mexicans, Japanese, Chinese, Iranians, Yemenis, Iraqis, Syrians, Lebanese, Libyans, Sudanese, Germans and other Europeans that The Donald offended last week.
They were momentarily upset that they were being rejected by the people who brought them Mars Bars, Mickey Mouse and a Bart Simpson but relaxed after half a minute, slurped down a beer and realised all the good things, including Netflix, Burger King and Dolly Parton, were still here - which is all that matters.
The Boss reckons The Donald is picking more fights than he can handle but I happen to know it's just a smoke screen, a ruse, while The Big Orange Splot saves the rest of his small fingers for the Saudis, Egyptians, Turks and Arabs who actually killed Americans on their own soil - he's really going to give it to them. He's saving them till last, as we do, because it tastes best. I always save the juicy meat til last.
The Boss says The Donald has hotels in all those places where the real killers come from, so there you have it: he'll use his hotels as his Trojan Horse! He's a genius! The best is yet to come from my President, I can tell you. Woof.