Dear Donald J. Trump:
Exactly one year ago this week, I wrote a column advising you that you would fail miserably in the South if you didn’t (1) stop saying unflattering things about women and (2) stop bragging about your wealth and power. These are things that, in my homeland, have always been frowned upon at best and set the dogs upon at worst.
But, Donald—may I call you Agent Orange?—you have proven me wrong and have apparently captured the electoral votes of most of the Southern states despite –smelling salts needed here–mocking the physically disabled, berating the parents of a war hero, implying veterans who suffer from PTSD aren’t strong, criticizing Miss Universe for being fat, telling us not paying taxes makes you smart, crudely bragging about sexually taking what he wants from women, having his sham charity busted and, well, they only give me 512 words every week so I have to move on…
Donald–may I call you Tinyhands McBigotpants?–you have driven me to sleepless nights, humorless days and a worn out turd emoji on my phone when texting about you. Sorry, not sorry. In the meantime, your supporters—and they are legion—have sent me lots of hate mail, all anonymous of course. My favorite was the one that said, based on the picture that accompanies this column, I was “too ugly to rape.” Kinda makes that turd emoji thing not look so bad now, doesn’t it?
I naively tried to warn you how to, as Andy Griffith said, “Act like somebody.” I failed. And you, like a blustery combed over hurricane, rage on. You have given voice to the voiceless. It’s cool to be be “un PC” in your words or “a bigot out loud again” in mine. Like I said one year ago, Ima go scream into my pillow now.
Sincerely,
Celia
Now, to those of you who have written me asking that I please stop writing about politics and wanting to know “Where are those funny columns about what happens to socks in the dryer?” I hear you, but politics is fertile ground for humor. If Donald Trump wins, we will have plenty of time to contemplate the absurdities of daily life because we will live in a world where anything is possible. Trump surrounds himself with family so his sons, Hans and Franz, could serve in the cabinet along with Secretary of State and Eternal Hotness, Melania, whose accent does remind me of Kissinger a little so there’s that.
Already we live in a world where serial cheaters Newt Gingrich, Rudy Guiliani and Trump seriously sit around sniping about Bill Clinton’s infidelity like a bunch of gossipy old maids at a Lottie Moon meeting.
From a selfish standpoint, it would be, to use Trump parlance, “a beautiful thing, really to be quite honest, the most beautiful” if he were elected because my columns would practically write themselves.
No longer would I have to struggle every week to wring a joke out of mismatched Tupperware tubs and lids or Duh Hubby’s latest shenanigans. Oh, no. A Trump White House would guarantee a stream of content ripe for satire. Or just ripe.
So, should I switch teams and root for my own selfish interests or should I put America first? At times like this, we can only ask ourselves: “What would Omarosa do?” And so it begins…