I'm looking outside the triple-glazed diamond-encrusted floor-to-ceiling windows from the penthouse of my new Trump Thunder 212-story high-rise and you know what I see? A whole bunch of chicken littles running around squawking like hogs in a cornfield. I don't get it. It makes no sense. The only falling dollar up here is the crisp Benjamin I toss out the window each morning to see which way the wind is blowing.

When it comes to making money, my interest rate is always high. The only weak growth this quarter was last night in my bedroom, but you know that can happen to anyone. Not that it's any of your business. The problem is you people. All your moping. Credit crisis this and bankruptcy that. You're bringing me down.

So listen. Gather up all the money you have left. Empty your bank accounts. Check your coat pockets. Dig through your couch cushions. All of it. Dump it into a sack and drop it off at the lobby of my new Trump Thunder 212-story high-rise. My assistant Diane will take it from you. She's a very smart young woman. You'll like her.

Diane will give you a plane ticket. Now leave the country. That's right. Get out. I don't care where you go. New Zealand has beautiful sheep. Once you're gone, you'll stop dragging this economy down with your bad attitude and things will turn around overnight. You'll see.