Dear Trump Staffers…


Dear Victims,


It has recently come to My attention that you’ve been having a spot of bother.  Apparently, some people think you’re monsters.  Go figure.  I was glad to see that you’re effectively fighting back, though, by making tactically and strategically sound choices like throwing your own food in the garbage to own those dirty libs.  It kind of reminds Me of the time I threw out My filet mignon avec sauce bernaise to own the people of the plains.  That showed those iron-chariot-having bastards.

You want to know who else knows a little something about being martyred?  My boy, Jesus.  No, not Hippie Jesus – haha, He’s just a whiny socialist.  I’m talking about my other boy, Republican Jesus and His downtrodden followers.  His favorite country, the United States, is being overrun by socialists, commies, snowflakes, cucks, brown people and My new Chosen People, the atheists.  Why, He’s barely hanging on.  America only has the largest Christian population on Earth and the government is barely a majority of hardcore Republican Jesus advocates.  You see what I mean?  He’s a victim, just like you.

But what I’m really concerned about is that rich, powerful people are being jeered out of restaurants.  While you, individually, mean less than nothing to Me, the possibility that I might walk into Cipriani or some other expensive eatery and be chided fills me with anger and confusion.  As I know you understand, not only am I better than everyone because I’m Me, I’m better because I’m rich, (shout out to all My brand loyalists who tithe).

This will not stand.  Something must be done.  Personally, I’m too busy lounging beachside at the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel with a mimosa in My hand to address this shocking problem Myself.  That’s why I’m going to need you to keep fighting the good fight.

When a bartender tells you your mother should have thrown you away and kept the stork, buy their priciest bottle of wine and pour it down the crapper.

When the waiter at Norma’s greets you and says there’s nothing wrong with you that reincarnation can’t cure, order the Zillion Dollar Lobster Frittata and pop it in the potty.

When the salespleb at Tiffany & Co. admits that she could never learn to like you except on a raft at sea with no other provisions in sight, buy a couple of rings and plop them in the pisser.

When you’re strolling through the park wondering why all the dogs run from you and someone states to their neighbor that you love nature in spite of what it did to you, stomp through a pile of dogshit in your socks and flush your shoes down the nearest loo.

When the concierge at the Ritz-Carlton points out that you have delusions of adequacy, pay for the penthouse suite but stay at the Motel 6 on the other side of town and sleep in the lavatory.

When the air-waitress in first class confides that she’s learned of your illness and hopes it’s nothing trivial, chew up your ticket and flush yourself down the can.

And that, you poor, suffering saints, is how to own the libs.


Wish you were here,



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