If you’re anything like me, your consciousness has been co-opted by Donald Trump, with all the attendant fear, dread and hatred associated with his rise to power. It’s hard to focus on other things. It’s draining and exhausting.
So maybe it would help to express our feelings in one burst daily*, instead of letting the rage contaminate the rest of our brains. I’ll start, by addressing him directly.
Dear Donald,
Why can’t you die, you stupid motherfucker? I can’t stand to see your face or hear your voice, and by “can’t stand” I mean it is fucking up my entire organism. I hate you with the power of a trillion suns. You are the stupidest man on earth. You have made me use the term Piece of Shit when it wasn’t even in my lexicon or whatever it’s called.
You are too stupid to live. I would give my life to undo your existence. Speaking poetically by the way, since I am not armed! Still, you have made me a patriot. It’s unbearable to have such a vulgar lowlife cunt pretending to be a President. Please take your awful family and go to a distant planet where you can make those hand gestures all day long without making me sick.
I hate you, you fat stupid pig.
Love, Sister Wolf
You know what, that felt pretty good!
I invite you to share your own letters to Donald. I’m looking forward to some bracing, heartfelt invective, as long or short as you wish.
*This is a public service and collaborative literary project.
Lord Dampnut: you make me ashamed of my European heritage. I can’t wait for Putin to poison you just like he has poisoned all of his other puppets and former playthings. When you die I want your corpse to be laid out in public with your mouth open so that every US citizen and every illegal immigrant can shit in your lifeless mouth. Your supporters are retarded. Sorry, uncle, but you’re a goddamn retard. I hope you get stuck in an elevator with Courtney Love for an hour and a half.
I have to be honest, Sister Wolf. Since I have no control over anything outside of my life and those around me (if even that), it’s no use being mad at anyone, yet, in a sense, I can be mad at anyone I want to be mad at outside my orbit since it doesn’t matter.
So, I am really, really, really mad at all the idiots that are supposed Democrats that took it upon themselves to mercilessly batter, demean and destroy Hillary Clinton. They could’ve supported Sanders without besmirching Hillary. I happen to like Hillary and really wanted her to be President. And all the natural Trump voters were there no matter what. Interestingly, I surmised that they were the same voters who voted for Romney, GW Bush twice, even GH Bush and Reagan twice if they were eligible to vote in those elections. And lo and behold, studies have borne that supposition out. These are our fellow Countrymen and there is absolutely nothing we can do about them, now, then and or forever.
But for the natural Democrat voters who didn’t vote for Hillary (whether they didn’t vote, or voted for Jill Stein, or wrote in whoever), them (they?) I blame and am furious at, because their votes would’ve made a difference. And not only that, but even if some did vote for Hillary (with the “lesser of two evils” bullshit. Really???), after they criticized her ceaselessly and beat her like a drum or a dusty rug, all that criticism I believe added to the negative buzz about her and might have (probably did) influence some voters somewhere to sit it out or vote for Trump. I mean, she made speeches to Goldman Sachs, OMFG! she must be the enemy of the working man. Now the fools that were singing that tune are in a Country run by an entire team from Goldman Sachs. I may be wrong, but you asked us to vent, and this is my vent.
As for Trump, it’s too late, baby, it’s just too late. Pray for a Democratic Senate in two years and a new President in four.
Romeo – I love this!
Tom – Try harder.
Dear Blister on the ass of the world, Trump,
Having recently watched Braindead, it’s clear to me that bugs have taken over your pink matter (I’m referring to your brain and not Melania’s high class pussy. Though, it too, could have bugs.)
Instead of telling Trump to die, my imagination has decided to get on with it. It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it.
Face like scrotum, I picture you floating in the sun soaked azure sea, content, relaxed, thinking about what a great guy you are and all those great times you had fucking your daughter. Bump! my imaginary jet-ski smashes in to your big, bloated head. Pretty crimson puddle in baby blue, as you spill your contents. I turn, making waves, your body wobbles like a jello atop a Melania tit and I run over you again. As your soul is sucked in to the bellies of a thousand fish, there are cries of joy from the beach. The neroli horizon awaits me. I ride off into it and shake the last of your comb-over from my big toe. I feel my salty skin tightening in the Fahrenheit, it’s probably cancer, but at least you are dead. I look over my shoulder and wink at the people on the beach. They can’t see me. By now I’m just a dot. A dot that thinks it’s David Hasselhoff.
Sorry, I struggled to stay focused.
Mr. Trump,
What sounds better to you? Quitting or being fired? I think one or the other situation will be happening within the next four years, and knowing how tender and sensitive you are, wouldn’t it be best to quit in order to ” spend more time with my family ” than to be perp walked out of the White House with your henchmen in tow? Wouldn’t you rather keep the Trump name 50 feet up in the air than on docket papers all over the tables at the Supreme Court? Certainly, in your great wisdom you would choose to do the best thing for your beloved country or risk being the butt of jokes, subject of public ire, prey to people much smarter and devious than you who are this moment looking into every dank, dark and unfortunate corner that ever existed in your universe for the rest of your life? Now think about all this over your next bucket of KFC, your next Big Mac or taco bowl. Doesn’t early retirement to a banana republic sound like a good idea? A non Muslim one of course…
Suspended – You should win Best Short Film of 2017 with this.
Dj – This really makes me wonder what he would choose to do if he faces prosecution or impeachment?
Lol, that’s so kind of you, Sister. I was thinking this foolish meandering mind probably needed therapy. I’m like that kid in school that draws a teapot next to 2+2=?.
DJ should win for rationale and Romeo for rage. They met the criteria spot on.
My mother taught me to never berate a book according to its cover. Well, you’re nothing but cover, so I’m jumping in.
I loathe your poached lizard’s eyes. You’ve taught yourself to synchronize them but I just know they move independently when no one is looking. Which I wish was all the time. That red-clay mudslide of a neck…the dowager’s hump…the untended south-Georgia asphalt skin texture. That cartoon necktie down to your crotch. It’s how you find your dick, isn’t it? “Unzip and follow tie down to moist hairy place; search for little dangly bits.” They probably feel deceptively large because, well, those hands.
Donald, that great big navy blue awning you wear doesn’t fool a soul. Nothing on earth can hide your saggy man-tits and wraparound beef-gut.
Learn some new adjectives. Stop saying “vurry, vurry” (very, very). In fact, close that lamprey eel mouth of yours and shut up altogether.
Ah, that’s better.
Bevitron – YES, THE LIZARD EYES! This made my heart soar.
Well,
Once I saw this — http://imgur.com/gallery/UlwOO — I’ve given up trying to top it: “cheeto-faced ferret wearing shitgibbon”! Amen.
Spouse was reading along with me and began snort-giggling with delight. He says that these should be sent as daily postcards to “that fucking shitheel”. That’s a collaborative literary project thingy to do, right?
Dear Romeo,
Marry me?
I thought you’d have been all over the Kellyanne-Conway-with-feet-on-the-sofa story by now. As soon as I saw it, I thought of you.
I’ve run out of things to say that can convey the depths of her trashiness. I was counting on you 😉
Dear Orange Maggot,
Let me start with a simple ‘fuck you.’ Fuck you. And fuck everyone in your cabinet of horrors. And your vile children. And that plastic-surgery mess you call a wife. Your first two also.
Please eat. Keep eating. Put butter on everything. And more butter. And keep doing coke. And keep up the scat-play with the Russian hookers. Ignore that infection on your scalp; it will go away. You know, you’re President. You deserve to have lots of vigorous sex with Russian hookers. Do it. But have a big plate of friend chicken first. And lots of buttered biscuits. And do more coke. And more. And take Viagra. And ask one of the Russian hookers if she can score you some flakka. When you’re golfing, never walk the course. Always have someone drive you in a golf cart. Have you tried deep-fried Twinkies? Insist on them right now. Heat them up and butter them! Also, make one of your brain-damaged minions go out to Outback Steakhouse and return to the White House with a dozen Onion Blossoms. You and Bannon should each eat six, then you should snort coke off the bellies of Russian hookers. And then have vigorous, Viagra-fueled sex. You’re only supposed to take one Viagra capsule but take three–it’ll make the sex three times better. It’s best to swallow Viagra with a glass of buttermilk. Something about the enzymes making your penis more sensitive.
And to the ignorant trash who voted for you: Use the government assistance that you’re on to get spayed and neutered. Please. Remember: Neuter is Neater!
Fondly,
Mark-E
I really thought someone would have shot the fat bastard by now. Don’t you people have 70 guns each? Come on! It only takes one well placed bullet.