Anti Donald Trump political humor and political satire by Paul Chasman

Monday, June 20, 2005
June 21, 2005
President George W. Bush
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington DC 20500

Dear Mr. President,

This is exactly what I was afraid of! Do You remember after You got re-elected and my wife, Viola, decided to move to Canada? And, do You remember I went with her, hoping You had enough experience under Your belt to handle the job without my advice?

Well, my worst fears have come true. Ever since I left, Your poll numbers have been plummeting faster than a duck at a Dick Cheney hunting trip! If You don’t do something fast, even Michael Jackson’s going to be saying, “Boy, that guy’s got a P.R. problem!”

Everything’s gone wrong since I stopped writing. I thought the Iraqis were going to greet us with flowers and candy! Where have all the flowers gone? And now, we’ve got the “Downing Street Memo” that says the “intelligence and facts were fixed around the policy.” Those Brits don’t know what they’re talking about. Your intelligence wasn’t fixed then, and it’s still not fixed!

The Downing Street Memo also said You had no plan for once the war was over. That’s so unfair! Of course You had a plan! Your plan was to take Your flowers and candy and go home! Besides, how can anybody know what your post-war plan is until we have a post-war? By the time we win, maybe you can think of one.

Question: What does the Iraq war have in common with a 20th century symphony?

Answer: Nobody can tell when either one of them is over.

It’s all the liberals’ fault! If they didn’t keep whining about “extreme interrogation techniques” at Gitmo, we would have won by now. Now that Congressman Duncan Hunter has set the record straight, can we please move on? Here’s what Rep. Hunter said:

"For Sunday they're going to be having Orange Glazed Chicken, Fresh Fruit Roupee, Steamed Peas and Mushrooms, Rice Pilaf - we treat them very well."

You see? After a long day of being tied in stress positions, simulated drowning, and sexual humiliation, there’s nothing like a good plate of orange glazed chicken, fresh fruit roupee, steamed peas and mushrooms, and rice pilaf to satisfy a hungry man!

And now You’re on the 90th day of The 60-Day Social Security Tour. Don’t believe the liberal media--it’s working! Everybody at those town hall meetings loves You, and the cops who are arresting the librarian protesters love You too!

Speaking of librarians--we’ve lost ground on the Patriot Act. How can I feel SAFE! when anybody can read anything they want and not get found out? Say, for instance, if John Ashcroft checks out Extreme Interrogation Techniques of the Girls of the Mid East from the library, don’t You think it’s Alberto Gonzalez’s constitutional right to know?

(By the way, John Ashcroft was Your Attorney General during 9-11. Speaking of extreme interrogation techniques, Your new attorney general is Alberto Gonzalez.)

Speaking of 9-11, I think Your brother, Jeb, blew it with this Terry Schiavo mess. First of all, after Terry died, he should have put Terry on ice so we could bring Terry back someday. But he didn’t even try to preserve Terry after Terry died, and now I’m running out of hope that we’ll ever see Terry again. So much for “culture of life!”

Now Jeb wants a prosecuter to investigate why Michael Schiavo took so long to call 911 when Terry had her heart attack in 1990. Your brother, of all people, should know sometimes people clutch under pressure. Like, when You were told the first tower got hit on 9-11, so You went to that school and read The Pet Goat book while the second tower got hit. It’s perfectly understandable! You clutched, just like Michael Schiavo. Jeb should understand that.

Besides, I think Jeb clutched too. Why did it take him fifteen years to send the prosecutor after Michael? If he hadn’t clutched, maybe Michael would be behind bars and Terry’s parents would have gotten custody, and the Terry we know and love would be with us today, eating orange glazed chicken and rice pilaf!

Since I stopped advising You, I could sum up Your problem in one word: Being The Most Powerful Person on the Planet just isn’t as much FUN as it used to be. Ok ok--that’s 18 words, but who’s counting? If I just keep saying it was one word one word one word, pretty soon you’ll believe me! Like when You said:

"See . . . in my line of work you got to keep repeating things over and over and over again for the truth to sink in, to kind of catapult the propaganda."

There You go! Catapult the propaganda! Just tell everybody over and over and over how much FUN You’re having FUN You’re having FUN You’re having and watch Your numbers soar faster than you can say, “Mission Accomplished!”

By the way, will You do me a favor? Don’t tell my wife, Viola, that I’m writing You. She said she’d come home with me under one condition: No more letters! I probably won’t be able to write as much as I used to--I guess You could say I’ve retired to “spend more time with my family.” But I’ll try to sneak in a letter every once in a while, so You won’t mess up too much.

Have fun! Catapult the propoganda!

Sincerely,
Carl Estrada

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