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Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Most Excellent and Exalted Leader Beyond Reproach

President Donald J. TRUMP

The White House

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

Washington DC 20500

Dear President TRUMP,

I had a dream last night and for some reason it reminded me of you.

There was this guy named Individual #1.  I know that’s a weird name for a guy, but dreams are funny that way.  

Individual #1 had weird orange hair that looked like a cantaloupe that had been left in a tanning booth for a week.  Individual #1 needed an extra long tie to reach over his massive belly, and it still almost touched his knees.

Individual #1 had a permanent frown that looked like a guy who was under FBI investigation for treason and his wife wouldn’t even let him in her  bedroom!

Individual #1 was a magician.  He did a card trick where he laid all his cards face up and told me to pick one.  Individual #1 watched me as I picked a 3 of clubs, then he closed his eyes, put his head in his hands, and thought and thought.  When he opened his eyes, he looked out into space and said, “You picked a king of diamonds.”

I said, “No, no.  Look at this card.  It’s a 3 of clubs.”

But Individual #1 said, “Fake news!  That’s a king of diamonds!  That I can tell you.  Believe me!”

I looked at the card and I thought, “Maybe Individual #1 has a point.  It does sort of seem like a king of diamonds if you look at it from the right angle.  Besides, just because the establishment elites have always called it a three of clubs doesn’t make it so!  I’d rather have a king of diamonds so that’s what I’m going to call it!”

Then Individual #1 did another trick.  He held up a big folder of papers and said, “I have here in my hand, my tax returns.  Watch carefully.”  

Then he waved his hand once, shouted, “FAKE NEWS!” and voila!  The tax returns disappeared!

“That was amazing!” I exclaimed. “How did you do that?”

“A magician never tells his tricks,” said Individual #1.  He didn’t smile when he said it.  He looked like a 70-year-old man who had just been forced to oversee an Easter egg hunt with hundreds of screaming kids on his lawn. 

But I didn’t have time to think about it because just then a buxom blonde burst into the picture, busting out of her dress.  She began spanking Individual #1 with a rolled up Forbes magazine.  But Individual #1 reached into his pulled down pants, withdrew a huge wad of cash, threw it at the buxom blonde, and voila!  She disappeared!  

“Incredible!” I cried.  “It’s like she was never there!’

“She never was,” said Individual #1.  “You imagined the whole thing.”  

But still he wasn’t done.  With a wave of his hand, a whole parade of Russian oligarchs passed by, followed by Individual #1’s closest friends and advisors, followed by his own son and daughter.  But just then, Individual #1 shouted, “NO COLLUSION!”  And they all disappeared.

My dream took a dark turn, because out of the mist appeared a gray haired man.  His name was Mr. Mueller.  And Mr. Mueller looked like a father standing in his bathrobe at his teenage son’s window as the boy is trying to climb out at 3:00 in the morning.  In fact, that’s just what Mr. Mueller was doing: Standing in his bathrobe at Individual #1’s window while he was trying to climb out.  

But do you think Individual #1 was worried?  Not a bit!  He waved his hand, said the magic words, “NO COLLUSION!”  And guess what?

Mr. Mueller didn’t disappear.

“I must have done something wrong,” said Individual #1.  “I’ll cast an even stronger spell:  NO OBSTRUCTION OR COLLUSION!” he cried.

But Mr. Mueller still stood, quietly staring daggers into the open window where Individual #1’s pot belly was wedged in so tight, he couldn’t get in and he couldn’t get out!

“BAN THE IMMIGRANTS!” cried Individual #1.  “RAPISTS AND MURDERERS!  STAND FOR THE NATIONAL ANTHEM!  WITCH HUNT!”

But do you think Mr. Mueller disappeared?  No.  He squinted menacingly, wordlessly scrutinizing Individual #1 as he flailed in the open window.   

Then, Individual #1’s friends, family, advisors, and Russian oligarchs reappeared wearing striped prison uniforms.  They paraded by the window that was squeezing Individual #1 so tight he looked like a big orange pimple that was about to burst!  

Mr. Mueller silently observed.

Just when I thought my dream couldn’t get any stranger, it did!  While Individual #1 was madly waving his arms trying to make the parade disappear, Mr. Mueller simply pointed his finger in Individual #1’s direction and the window opened.  But now Individual #1 was wearing the same striped prison uniform that his friends, family, advisors, and Russian oligarchs were wearing!  

Then Mr. Mueller pointed once more and steel bars appeared over the window and Individual #1 was frowning behind them.

The last thing I heard Individual #1 say before I woke up in a cold sweat was, “I knew I shouldn’t have protected the steel industry!” 

When I told my wife Viola about my dream, she explained that dreams have all kinds of hidden meanings.  She told me about a guy named Freud (rhymes with “droid”).  She said Freud thought all dreams are sexual.  I don’t know what was so sexual about my dream except the buxom blonde.  Also, Individual #1’s daughter who was dressed just like the buxom blonde.  I think I remember him saying he’d like to date her. 

Viola also told me about a guy named Jung (pronounced like Kim Jong-Un, except with a “y” at the beginning and a “g” at the end).  Viola said Jung believed every character in your dream represents a part of yourself.  I don’t know what part Individual #1 is a part of me.  I don’t have orange hair.  I don’t wear long ties.  Maybe it’s the part of me that wishes I could just wave my hand and make things go away.

I don’t know what's so sexy about Russian oligarchs.

After Viola explained about dreams, she said, “Why don’t you tell your president about it?  I’m sure he’ll have a lot to say.”

So, here it is.  I don’t have a clue why Viola thinks you’d know what this dream means, but you know women.  Sometimes they get an idea in their heads and all the money in your slush fund can’t get them to change their minds!

Sincerely,

Carl Estrada

P.S. Please send me an autographed photo.  Make it out to my grandson, Lester.  You’re his favorite unindicted co-conspirator!  He likes you even better than Nixon!

 

 
 
 
 
 


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