Editor’s Note: What follows is an opinion piece sent to us here at the BRIMBORION. Apparently, something we said or wrote about Donald Trump lit a fire under one of our many, many, many beautiful readers, and this one decided to write to us and express his dissatisfaction about the former (and possible future) president. The views expressed in this commentary belong exclusively to the nutcase who wrote them.
Dear Donald J. Trump,
You’re a dirtbag. A bag of dirt.
You share the morality, the sense, often, the decency (and many forms of intelligence) of a bag of silt and plant decay. Leaf droppings. Loam, maybe. Dead bugs. Some racoon toenails. Bunch of bacteria. Little bit of feces.
You live in a world where success is measured by wealth, prestige ain’t nothing more than smoke and mirrors, and the consequences of actions, of corporate gesture—of production at a mass scale—ain’t nothing more than the recording of profit, consumers be damned. That the world revolves not around a sun, for all intents and purposes, but a g–damn dollar sign.
You’re 77 years old. You ran for president for the same reason I ran for vice president of my student communion church council when I was 13, and beat the stuffing out of Emerson Linkletter, God bless him. Because I wanted a title. Because I felt like I was behind already in my career as a man of titles. I didn’t know what I was doing, and I didn’t care.
Except you ran for president, and won that first time around, on a fluke. On the concept of an electoral college, whatever that is. Not because you got the votes. And because you followed a black guy who’d become president. A “socialist.” Who the worst of this country hated with a passion.
And because you ran against someone who so completely represented a played-out establishment, where so many people have been repeatedly screwed. Many of who grew up not trusting that establishment in the first place. And a broad, too, believe it or not!
And because of all those jokers in that circle of yours, who did far more work than you.
And because you ran your mouth like some bum on a street corner, and no one stepped up to shoo you away. Or put you in the back of a cop car and dump you on the outskirts of town. What are you, senile, you mutt? You think that’s right?
Of course you do. You’re ‘right place, right time,’ Trump, is what you are.
For f—’s sake, you ran for president, and don’t even know the Constitution. That’s like starting up a business without knowing the basics of economics.
But so what? After all, you were there once, and (lucky you) you got more of the establishment—the same type of person you ran against, railed against, and beat—on your side. Lucky you.
Politics isn’t a boardroom where you hold the most shares out of everyone else sitting. It’s not a brand with your name on it. Your old man’s name on it.
The White House ain’t got your name on it. Nor does the presidential seal.
You were in over your head and you knew it. But you got lucky, for whatever reason. You were there. And people were pissed off enough to have supported you.
But you’re 77 years old. And you’ve been a spoiled bastard your whole life. What do you care? About anything, outside of you?
It’s been your whole life before running for president. Not politics. Not helping people.
Yeah, you made some promises. And, for whatever reason, for things outside of business, you maybe want to see some of them come to pass. But maybe those are business decisions. After all, you’d never be able to function in any social or political setting where you didn’t treat it like one.
We all know how your brand profited from being where you were. Making American taxpayers pay for foreign dignitaries and the Secret Service staying at those gaudy-ass hotels. We can see the numbers.
Or maybe those were decisions you just signed off, and the self-righteous jingo hawks in an administration you couldn’t possibly care about keeping tabs on did what they wanted to do.
I would think, unlike most presidents whose departments achieved things that shored up American dominance, you just don’t really give all that much of a sh–. Anyone who’s paid attention knows by now that you don’t listen to what your own aides try and tell you.
Hell, you’re the president of the United States, and you don’t even like to read.
It’s been your life’s M.O. Why would it change now?
“Let ‘em do what they do. I’m still the one in charge. It’s my name they shout at those rallies. Hey, does anyone own f—ing Greenland? Why do we want people from all these sh–hole countries? What about Norway? They’re all white people up there, right?” That’s you. That’s what you sound like. Ronald Reagan, even in his most Reagan of moments, showed more intelligence and understanding than you. You worm. You bed bug. You louse. You bag of partial feces.
You’re ‘right place, right time’, Trump, is what you are.
You’re also a bag of dirt, which may or may not contain even more feces. Yadda yadda yadda. In case no one’s ever bothered to tell you that.
You were in over your head, pal. You should stay gone.
– Corky Pichardo
Staten Island, New York
