I am Samantha Bee.
Welcome to Full Frontal.
Friday, the world watched America swear
in, as its 45th president, the concept
of white male mediocrity.
Oh, yeah, it really happened.
Donald Trump laid his little pussy grabbing paw
on top of two more books than he's ever read in his life,
and spoke the most solemn vow he's uttered
since his third wedding.
So help me God.
No!
Help me, God!
Was that-- I'm sorry, was that thunder
we heard, or the faint echo of Jack boots?
At the bedrock of our politics will
be a total allegiance to the United States of America.
From this day forward, it's going to be only America first.
America first.
This moment is your moment.
It belongs to you.
To me?
Or to this kid?
(SINGING) Tomorrow belongs to me.
Oh, Paul Ryan's new intern has such a pure voice.
Such pure blood.
Listen, Mr. President, you don't know me.
I'm Sam B, I make a lot of jokes about you,
but I don't think you're Hitler.
However, that Goldman Sachs wormtongue
who tells you what to say is filling your mouth with more
Nazi code than Enigma.
Are you the only 70-year-old man in America who doesn't
watch the History Channel?
President Trump delivered his pet frogs morning
in dystopia speech to a mall that
had more empty white space than the Republican plan
to replace Obamacare.
Presumably because most attendees
were brutally murdered upon arrival in an urban city.
Damn the old American carnage!
The low turnout apparently brought back
some painful memories for the president, who
spent the next four days insisting that there were,
like, a million people there.
You just have to count all the bots, Russian trolls,
and Twitter eggs.
The whole day was swollen with lugubrious pomp,
and freighted with menace that left
a lot of us feeling like we'd just installed
Trump, Emperor of Doom.
It was surreal, and frankly, not very funny.
Fortunately, the previous night gave us
the inaugural concert, which was surreal, and fucking hilarious.
The concert was a lot like Woodstock,
in that it often felt like we'd all eaten the brown acid.
[MUSIC PLAYING]
Ah.
Somehow I no longer feel bad about cutting
all funding for the arts.
The new administration received some much needed gravitas
from the US Army Band, performing a tune that
instantly connotes institutional competence
and respect for authority.
[MUSIC PLAYING]
Oddly enough, now that Trump's in charge, a lot of us
are expecting the Spanish Inquisition.
Look, I know our country is horribly divided,
but for a moment I felt a kinship
with the Trump family and their palpable, heartfelt boredom
with 3 Doors Down.
(SINGING) If only for your good.
So hold me when I'm here--
That glass is to keep them from escaping.
But the most captive audience of all
wasn't the 45th president, but the 16th,
who was so distraught that he begged
for someone to shoot him again.
Fortunately, he was rescued by four incredibly happy
Mormons gang banging one piano, then
desperately trying to reassure us we weren't going to die.
(SINGING) But no matter what they say, or what they say,
it's gonna be, gonna be OK.
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh.
Eh, eh, eh, eh.
It's gonna be, gonna be OK.
Relax, bro.
You're four white, Christian guys from Utah.
Things are going to be OK for you.
By the way, in the Church of Latter Day Saints,
it's legal for one piano to have four husbands.
The event reached patriotic white male mediocrity
with a performance of the Iraq war
hit "God Bless The USA," sung by either Lee Greenwood,
or a poorly disguised Vladimir Putin.
Still looking into it.
Did I mention the cancer was officially
called the Make America Great Again, exclamation point,
Welcome Celebration?
And what makes America great?
Apparently the total absence of any women whatsoever.
Trump's concert was like his cabinet--
male, overwhelmingly white, and devoid of A-list talent.
Though, to be fair, Rebecca Ferguson was invited.
She said she would perform if she could sing
"Strange Fruit," the Billie Holiday song
about lynchings in the south.
Unfortunately, her condition wasn't accepted by the Trump
team, who instead had Toby Keith sing
his version of "Strange Fruit."
(SINGING) Take all the rope in Texas.
Find a tall oak tree.
Round up all them bad boys, hang them high in the street.
For all the good people to see.
Great choice, Toby.
Let the healing begin.
You know, between the militant country music and the tractors
rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue like a John
Deere Panzer Division, the messaging was hard to miss.
Trump couldn't have given a bigger middle finger
to urban dwellers if he'd built three
more Washington Monuments.
But this isn't the first time the Queens
billionaire has cosplayed a good old country boy.
(SINGING) Green Acres is the place to be.
Farm living is the life for me!
Land spreading out so far and wide.
Keep Manhattan, and just give me that countryside.
He told us his electoral college strategy 11 years ago,
and we didn't listen.
Why?
Look, I know the concert was days ago,
but since then our president has been plopping out
scary executive orders like a rhino that got
into the White Castle dumpster.
The only thing tethering me to joy and sanity
right now is a guy with too many drums, and a piano
with too many guys, OK?
So far this week, our new overlord
has torn up treaties, taken the first steps
toward a Muslim ban, ordered the construction of his dumb ass
wall, and threatened to invade Chicago
like his own little Crimea.
Dress rehearsal's over, guys.
The tragedy has begun.
So, as the curtain goes up on Shit Show the Musical,
I want you all to take the hands of the people sitting next
to you, squeeze tight, and remember-- really
remember that the president could only get 3 Doors Down
to play at his inauguration.
We'll be right back.