His Most Excellent Excellency and Empirical Emperor
Hero of the Common Man and Savior of Our Nation.
President Donald J. TRUMP
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Ave
Washington DC 20500
Dear Most Excellent Excellency and Empirical Emperor
Hero of the Common Man and Savior of Our Nation
President Donald J. TRUMP,
I was feeling a little bit down the other day. My wife Viola had gone off to march in another parade—something about immigrant children being taken away from their mothers and put in concentration camps. I’m sure it was Fake News, but you know women. They get so emotional when they see screaming babies reaching desperately while ICE agents are ripping them off their mothers’ breasts and hauling them off to concentration camps.
I was home alone with nothing to do. I bet you know how that feels. It’s like when you’re all alone in that big White House and there’s nobody to talk to because Melania’s in her room with the door locked.
I turned on the TV but all I could find were stories about the 750 marches around the country where hundreds of thousands of liberals were whining that they had “zero tolerance” for innocent children being kidnapped and held in cages while their parents were deported to nobody-knows-where. I decided to take a stroll to the post office and check my mail.
Well, imagine my surprise when I opened my PO box and found—I know you know where I’m going with this—a letter from YOU! I was jumping up and down in the post office, waving my letter in the air, and shouting to whoever would listen, “I got it! I got it! I’ve been writing to my president for a year and a half, and he finally wrote me back!”
That’s when the ICE agent appeared out of nowhere. He was all decked out in riot gear—crash helmet, bullet proof vest, shin guards, jack boots, billy club. He had big burly arms and was carrying more assault weapons than a 16-year-old school shooter. He said, “Sir, I see your name is Estrada. May I see some identification please?”
Fortunately, I was carrying my driver’s license, passport, social security card, medicare card, and Costco membership. I explained to him in my best American accent that I am a 4th generation American and my great great great great grandfather fought in the Alamo. (I didn’t tell him he fought on Santa Ana’s side.)
He took some notes and said, “We’re watching you, Estrada.”
When I got home, Viola had just arrived from a day of marching. Her face was flushed with excitement and she was wearing a button that said, “Nasty Woman,” and a hat that said, “Make America THINK Again!”
She was carrying a sign that said, “Golden Rule, Not Golden Showers!”
“Viola!” I said. “You’ll never guess who I got a letter from today!”
“Let’s see,” she said. “Did you get a letter from Michael Cohen asking you if he should ‘flip’?
“Did you get a letter from the CEO of Harley Davidson apologizing for moving their operations overseas because of your president’s idiotic trade war?
“Did you get a letter from Vladimir Putin asking you if he should muss up your president’s hair when they’re talking about god-knows-what next week?”
“No,” I said. “I got something better than any of those! My president wrote me an actual letter!”
“An actual letter?” Viola asked. “This I’ve got to see.”
I handed her the letter. She crinkled her face and held the letter between her thumb and forefinger as far as her arm could stretch. Sort of like she holds those plastic bags after she’s picked up after the dog. She seemed to be reading it carefully, but at one point she let out a “HAH!”
“What’s the ‘HAH!’ about?” I wondered.
“ ‘While we may not agree on every issue, as your President, I pledge to work with Congress to find common ground.’ HAH!” she said. “That’s a good one. The only common ground your president knows about is the ground under his feet that he wants you to worship.”
“Praise the Lord,” I said.
Viola finished reading the letter, pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose, and looked over them at me like she had just found out I had been diagnosed with inoperable hemmeroids.
“Oh, my poor clueless Carl,” she said.
“What do you mean, Viola,” I asked. “This is the best day of my life since Sarah Palin’s dad sent me a handwritten letter!’
“Carl, Carl, Carl,” Viola said. “Don’t you see? This isn’t a real letter from TRUMP! It’s a form letter! They send these out to everybody who writes to the White House. They’re doing this to blow you off. Look at the signature! It’s a stamp!”
“No, it’s real!” I exclaimed. “That’s exactly how he signs his name! It looks like those paintings those elephants make when you stick a paint brush in their trunk. You can’t fake that!”
“No,” said Viola. “You can’t fake it. But you can duplicate it. Over and over and over. Look.”
Then you’ll never guess what Viola did. She pulled out a magnifying glass and she held it up to your signature. “You see how smooth it is?” she said. “There is no smudge, no unevenness, not even an indentation. This isn’t even a stamp. It’s a photographic print!”
And that’s when it hit me. This isn’t a letter from you at all! It’s a con! It’s a come-on! It’s a gimme! It’s a sham! It’s a lie! Fake News!
The problem is, sir, and I say this with all due respect, once you get caught in a lie, it’s very hard to earn back the trust that you won’t lie again. I know you’ve been straight with me up until now. You said you were going to drain the swamp and you did! You made that EPA guy Scott Pruitt resign as soon as the number of investigations reached 15. You replaced him with Andrew “Andy” Wheeler, that coal lobbyist guy, so I guess the swamp is drained now.
Except for Commerce secretary Wilbur Ross who was Vice Chair of Bank of Cypress with its connections to money laundering and Russian oligarchs. And his financial connections to Putin and Putin’s son-in-law. And the 2 billion he forgot to report on his financial disclosure form.
Oh, and Steve Mnuchin who has spent $1 million of government money on himself since he’s been Treasury secretary, including a trip with his wife to Fort Knox where they took some sexy honeymoon selfies rolling in money.
Oh, and Interior secretary Ryan Zinke who’s been flying around in helicopters and charter flights and forgetting to keep records of his travel expenses and spending $139,000 because he needed some new office doors.
Oh, and HUD secretary Ben Carson who needed $31,000 for a new dining set and is being investigated for giving out government favors to his son’s private equity firm.
Oh, and the revolving doors at TRUMP International Hotel and Mara Lago and the TRUMP World Tower that cash in on the King of Bahrain, Saudi lobbyists, the Kuwaiti embassy, Russian ambassadors, the Malaysian Prime Minister, the Japanese president, foreign diplomats and governments from India, Afghanistan, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia paying big bucks in dues, and…..
Whew! No wonder you had to write me a fake letter with a fake signature on it! With all the swampiness you’re draining, you couldn’t possibly have time to write me a real letter!
I have a stock tip for you. Invest in DRANO! You’ll make a killing! You might even get back on the Fortune 500!
My point is, I guess I can forgive one little white lie. Sending me a fake letter isn’t a treasonous offense like, say, colluding with Russia.
I know that, deep in your heart, you are as honest as a winter day in Alaska is long.
But do me a favor: Send me a real letter next time. Won’t Viola be surprised!
P.S. To make it up to me for sending a fake letter, send me a photo. With a real signature this time. Make it out to my grandson, Lester. You're his favorite. He likes it when you get that look that says, “I’m meaner than Mao, more puffed up than Mussolini, and crazier than Berlusconi.” Send him a picture like that.
P.P.S. Come to think of it, send him any picture you want. They all look like that.