Dear Mr. President,
Two weeks ago, while here in Dallas hosting your malicious midterm convention, you sanctimoniously gloated to wild applause, “I ended the transgender mutilization of our beautiful children — no more of that!,” continuing to enflame the glib narrative of how civilizations go out: not with a whimper, but a bang.
Let’s set aside for now the fact that “mutilization” is not a word. I know you don’t read, sir; nonetheless, I feel obligated personally to ask you a question on behalf of our entire nation: How proud do you think the average American feels nowadays, having to watch from the sidelines, appalled, as our grand country’s destiny is “mutilized” into a broken down, police-state idiocracy, unwelcoming of anyone not white and heterosexual, courtesy the piously unfiltered likes of you?
Mr. President, I’m voicing the issue everyone has with you when I say we have hit our wall regarding further normalizing your hallucinatory hijinks — those AI digitalized, id fantasies pandering to your eternal glory. Your relentless, 24/7 brain dysentery is dragging our country through Dante’s nine rings of hell.
Normal life, under your science-murdering/conspiracy-theorizing stewardship, mutates more every day into a metastasized nightmare, a forced Battan Death March on a sewer pilgrimage through Edgar Allan Poe’s House of Usher. It never ends!
Sir, do you ever actually work?
Permit me this tangent: As a child, I learned a neat acronymic trick to easily memorize the names of all five Great Lakes: Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie and Superior — HOMES! Easy-peasy. Until, sir, your latest geographically-lobotomized hissy fit, reanointing Lake Ontario into Lake America.
Yeah, take that, Canada! Who’s sorry now? No more HOMES for you! Enjoy your new SHAME!
Yes, Mr. President, keep on signing all those empty executive orders. Keep calling all those spray-painted gilt adornments in your office gold. In the end, your toddler-tantrums railing against truth won’t posthumously elevate you into the firmament, say nothing of Mt. Rushmore. You, sir, are the Anti-Midas: Every single thing you’ve ever touched ultimately recoils, withers and collapses to dust.
Come the hallelujah stroke-of-noon — Jan. 20, 2029 — the sum game of all your petulant furies will finally evaporate (along with your entire imbecilic administration, happily). Hopefully, as a bonus, your name will be permanently erased from The Kennedy Center; Jackie’s paved-over Rose Garden will get restored to its former majesty; Lake America will revert back to Ontario’s home turf, and your partially-constructed Arch de Trump ode to fascism will be unceremoniously demolished.
Goldfinger, your brain is unhinged; your governance unmoored, and your warmongering unprecedented. No, sir, you cannot go nuclear on Iran! No, sir, the moon is not United States’ territory. No, sir, New Mexico is not changing its name to New America. What cuckoo’s-nest cranial cavity are you even hatching this stuff from?
And world powers will never again capitulate to your whirlpooling, word-soup remnants of a brain. Been there, done it, got nothing in return.
Under your “conservative” Republican leadership our national debt has now surpassed $40 trillion — as in the number 40, with 12 zeros trailing behind it. Like, WTF? Just under a decade ago it wasn’t half this amount, yet it had already snowballed even then to $19 trillion, also on your watch.
Forty trillion is a sum so incomprehensibly abstract, a time/metric conversion is needed just to wrap one’s head around it: One million seconds is equivalent to about 12 days. One billion seconds equals 32 years, and one trillion seconds spans 32,000 years — yes, years! The USA’s budget is now 1,280,000 years in the red! Complements, sir, on your ‘economic’ strategy, the same one you employed to bankrupt casinos. Since when did casinos ever goes broke?
Aside from whatever ego salve your two-day, Trump-a-palooza shitshow here in Texas expected to accomplish, Dallas is an island of blue-feathered sanctuary, incapable of being caught by Wile E. Coyote’s salivating red tongue. Did you not see the cartoon atmosphere you brought to town — all those GOP (Guardians Of Pedophiles) tee shirt souvenirs, and the touring Epstein Files Bookmobile: A Timeline of Trump and Epstein’s Relationship.?
And you thought a Republican rah-rah here, peppered with your ACME stardust, was gonna fly?
And what a wily stunt you pulled upon discovering politicians are prohibited from giving speeches at Ground Zero. Why, we could practically see the light bulb flash above your head as you decreed it best you not attend New York’s 25th anniversary of 9/11 this year. In truth, as Maggie Haberman of The New York Times pointed out, it inconveniently interfered with the Irish Open golf tournament, scheduled from Sept. 10-13, at Trump International Golf Links Ireland, Donby.
Your foaming response was just classic: “Maggot Haberman, the Fake Reporter from The Failing New York Times, an unattractive person both inside and out . . . (She’s a SCAMMER!), made up a story on September 11th. Maggot Haberman is a PHONY, she’s been falsely writing about me for years — she’s a stalker, and should be forced to turn over any and all money that she’s made through her fake reporting on me!”
Your violent populism, Mr. President, is MAGA’s Achilles’ heel. The day is soon coming when nobody will even admit to ever having voted for you in the first place. The American presidency under your tenure has achieved what was previously considered impossible: haughty irrelevance.
Today, the question Americans ask ourselves is how did we ever let you reduce us to nothing more than a planetary sideshow in the first place? Once upon a time, our country represented the wealthiest, most gleamingly progressive Earth ever created. Sir, in under a thousand days, you’ve polluted us down to panhandlers — bedraggled, sullied, unrecognizable in reflection of who we once were.
Affectionately yours,
Howard Lewis Russell
PS: Mr. President, I’m sure your promised $5,000 “Trump Dividend” rewards will be gracing our bank accounts just any day now, well before Iran’s weaponized drones inevitably begin blackening American skies, raining down hellfire upon our AI zombified cities. You’re the greatest mythological president, ever, sir!
Give my best to Mel: Kisses, kisses, terribly, terribly!
What spooktacular costumes y’all plan on donning next month, bois & gurlz? Frightful is as frightful does, a wickeder sight there never was . . . please do send your pix!