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Eliminate all conflict-of-interest restrictions governing elected officials. Buy-off and/or torture all in opposition.

Remove Harriet Tubman from twenty-dollar bill, replace with Keith Hernandez.

Find out difference between Hispanic, Latino and Mexican. Fire Mexicans. Find out if Cespedes is Mexican; if so, grant amnesty.

Rename ballpark Donald J. Trump, POTUS, Luxury Baseball Stadium and Driving Range. Also suitable for use as as detention/execution facility in off-season

Mr. Met is a loser as far as mascots go, no talent, but the merchandizing is in place.

Need to open up new mascot revenue streams. Sidekick? Chris Christie? Put him in a flesh-colored bodysuit? Sad clown in flesh-colored bodysuit wearing opponent’s hat?? Mr. Met beats on him with a baseball bat or lead pipe whenever we score.

Every time the opposing pitcher gets pulled from the game a giant image of me, President Donald J. Trump, will appear on the video screen saying, “You’re fired!” Crowd goes wild. Crowds love me, especially mobs.

Contact NASA and find out what planet Noah Syndergarrd is from. Get more like him.

Replace foul poles with beautiful, high-quality columns made from the finest ivory and marble.

Order CIA Black Op to steal opponent’s signals. Be present to ensure waterboarding.

In off-season run reality show to determine Mets new closer. Call it “The Closer.” Think intro: “I’m President Donald J. Trump, the greatest negotiator on the planet. I have what it takes to be the ultimate closer, do you?”

Create companion show for The Closer called, “The Burning Hot Wives of Major League Baseball!”

Interview players, management and other team owners (include fan vote but disregard) to find out who baseball’s hottest wives are. Then the wives, in bikinis, tennis skirts, etc, compete against one another (setting a dinner table, pleasing your man in bed, skiing, etc) to see who is the ULTIMATE trophy wife. Winner gets a featured modelling spot in Sports Illustrated and a $100,000 shopping/cosmetic surgery spree with Melania in her native Slovenia. Note: Buy Sport’s Illustrated.

Sign biggest star in the world for role in organization. Leo?? Hulk Hogan?? Billy Joel?? Larry King?? Meet with cabinet to discuss.

Donald Trump’s New York Mets-themed golf resort and luxury casino on Rockaway Beach. Former Mets work as greeters, golf instructors, bartenders, housekeepers, dealers, masseurs and high-end gigolos. Premier bachelorette party destination and homosexual paradise. Will sink Vegas.

Honor the Job Creators Night. Plutocrats and their servants get in for free. During the seventh-inning stretch there will be a welfare queen scramble. The assembled poor will run about the outfield trying to collect one dollar bills as they’re blown around by a giant fan. Loser who receives the most handouts gets a collector’s edition, Omarosa bobble-head doll and $150 worth of gaming chips at Donald Trump’s New York Mets-themed golf resort and luxury casino on Rockaway Beach.

Fire manager every three months. Employees work best if motivated by fear. (Reminder: Fire personal assistant, efficient but missing a finger, not Trump quality)

Buy-off all the umpires, but torture them first.

I don’t believe that this crime was committed by a hacker collective known as The Impact, as has been reported, because The Impact can be nothing other than the name of a (white) B-Boy dance troupe from back in the 80’s.

At any rate, I think that the bloody-minded terrorist group ISIS, who really knows how to tear at the fabric of Western society, was responsible. They want to expose our corrupt ways and force our children to watch us shriek at one another while washing dishes after dinner. But no, no, I am not going to let terror win. When our leaders called upon us to shop in order to fight terror, I shopped, and now, when it is clear that we must continue our adulterous ways in order to stave off terror, I will be adulterous. I am for the troops, and with that in mind, I have just joined Ashley Madison.

This is my profile page:

RaccoonDrumCircleSexMachine

“Renaissance man”

Age: 36 (Leo)

Location: Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Height: 6’0″ (183cm)

Weight: 190 lbs (86kg) – Average/medium

Languages Spoken: English

My Limits are: Undecided

Status: Attached Male seeking Females

Gender: Male

Ethnicity: Caucasian (white)

Smoking Habits: Not specified

Tell me more about yourself:

I love puppies and animals in general, although I have never cheated on my wife by using them as sex slaves. By the way, raccoons are my favourite animal, and I am pretty sure they’re my spirit guides. Sometimes, I like to dress up as one for sex.

Besides that I do martial arts; extreme martial arts. And Parkour. I also play the drums, and it’s like I play the drums better than Satan, it’s like I’m having sex with those drums, it’s like a drumgasm! ( LOL!!) I’m also taking some college classes, one on zombies in popular media, because I love zombies and meeting young women who would normally be outside of my sphere. I work as an Uber driver (another great way to meet women and find out where they live) whenever my wife starts screaming at me about whether the forks are clean enough or some other bullshit.

Preferences and encounters I am open to:

I am on a quest– not just for sex with a female partner who is not my wife, but for all things. I will do and try anything. Some people say that I am fearless, as fearless as an urban raccoon. Would somebody who isn’t fearless spend just over a week in the woods searching for Bigfoot? I don’t think so. A person with fear would cringe from that challenge, but not RaccoonDrumCircleSexMachine! I went to the woods. Will you go to the woods with me?

What really turns me on:

Honesty would have to be number one, and a close second would be to see a Bigfoot man and a Bigfoot lady going at it.

What I am looking for:

I like chicks who dig passionate drummers, as well as submissive Goth types who are into role playing, but mostly I just like really hot babes. Here are some examples:

No Asians please.

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Round One

You’re in hospital. But it’s not for some pedestrian reason like suffering a heart attack after having a long, hot shower and then masturbating while visiting your parents. No, you are in the hospital because you did something heroic and cool, like destroying the Mountain Dew skate park/pinball machine theme park while fighting Vladimir Putin with a croquet mallet.

That is what you did and due to minor injuries, you’re in hospital. You’re recovering like a champion. No tubes are connected to you and you’ve grown a beard during your stay, even though you could never grow one before. You look good. The nurse who is looking after you is pretty and compassionate and thinks that she remembers you from somewhere. She has soft, cooling skin. You have the first pick in the fantasy baseball draft and you select all-world outfielder Mike Trout, the best player in the history of the universe. Your opponents, like Vladimir Putin when he saw you grab the croquet mallet, know that they are defeated.

Round Two

You are a young girl only just past her eighteenth name day and it is your fantasy baseball draft. Your hair is silky, like it was made from the finest silk of the seven kingdoms; your eyes as dark as the night with no moon; and your skin a pale cream. You are one of the most beautiful girls in all of Westeros, but you don’t think that.

You sigh as you look in the mirror. Who will you select in the second round of your fantasy baseball draft? There are many noble options, so many great warriors available to you, but whom to pick?

It is time. The cruel and maniacal King Joffrey Baratheon fingers his crossbow and suddenly shouts at you, “Pick damn it, before I take your head!!”

You look him calmly in the eye, “My Lord, I pick outfielder Ryan Braun of the Brewers of Milwaukee.” Unexpectedly, the great Braun had fallen due to suspicions of steroid use, and your pick is brilliant.

There is stillness in the room, and then, a faraway wolf howls in the daylight, the dye had been cast and you are full of a confidence you had not experienced before.

Round Three

In spite of the stunning beach, bikini model and sex star Kelly Brook and I were arguing about whom to select in the third round of our fantasy baseball draft. She wanted to take Clayton Kershaw, even though he was an obvious injury risk, while Dustin Pedroia seemed like an obvious choice to me.

“No!” Kelly screamed, splashing into the surf.

I pursued her, grabbing her firmly by the waist, and she turned her slick body toward me, her breath coming hot and fast.

“Goddamn it,” I insisted, “we need to pick a second baseman now!”

“I don’t know what’s right anymore,” she said.

“Yes, you do.”

“Dustin Pedroia, “ she breathed into me, “Dustin Pedroia is our pick,” and then we collapsed into the waves and into one another.