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Dear DJT,

This will be my last letter to you.  I’ve written before: I’ve implored you to listen to those of us that took to the streets after your inauguration (you do know now that we far exceeded the crowd at your party, yes?), I asked you to actually read and consider the Boy Scout motto, I explained to you the fears I had raising black children in this country, I admonished you not to brag about your intellect in the face of evidence contrary to your claims, I wrote a little holiday poem outlining what the general populace wanted for Christmas; basically, sir, I laid it all out for you. And because my epistles were peppered with fifty cent words, had no pictures to help with reading comprehension, and were not exactly filled with praise and accolades, I know you didn’t read them.

Oh, I know these aren’t the only reasons you haven’t read them; you’re a busy man, what with all the golfing, the various feuds you’ve waged with terminally ill senators, journalists, actors, late night talk show hosts, dictators that you are now besties with, your, and I cannot stress this enough, FORMER political opponent, lawyers, judges, members of your own administration, heads of state of allied nations, various legislators, me as the opposition, football players, basketball players, clergy, La Leche—whew, I know I’m forgetting people here, but you get the point, where was I, oh, yes, your schedule: watching FOX news, talking to comedians, old friends, new friends, and Sean Hannity on your unsecured cell phone, pardoning white nationalists of all stripes, signing executive orders, tweeting, and, I have to assume, maintaining that Cheeto-like hue, all of this, I imagine, is time consuming.  And, sir, I have no illusions that you will read this one, or any of the more than 536 letters that this group of your constituents has been writing since the day you took your oath of office (in front of a tiny crowd).

Sometimes I delude myself into thinking that someone in your service, maybe Jared, or the people in charge of taping together the official documents you are so fond of ripping up and tossing on the floor, are keeping track of them.  Maybe Kellyanne is printing them out between bouts of angry CNN appearances, bundling them up and burying them in the Rose Garden. I know our fearless editor once did take the time to print out the first several months of letters and sent them to you as you settled into your new digs, and she’s been tweeting them at you; we know how you love Twitter and seeing your name, so there’s a chance that you may have come across one or two. But in the end, I rather doubt it.

I have concluded, by your actions, based on accounts of your tender age years, after hearing some of your speeches, upon reading interviews conducted by reputable and not so reputable news outlets, that you don’t really read, listen, or think. You react, you incite, you watch, you gesture, you spout, but nothing resonates with you, nothing alters you, you learn nothing. The only mental device you seem to use is contrivance; you twist everything that you hear or see to fit your narrative.

The fourth estate becomes an enemy of the people until the day a man who sees journalists as you’ve relentlessly described them and kills five innocent people as they work. Then they become heroes, until another journalist dares to continue to do his or her job. “Fake news!” you scream, the tragedy of just 48 hours erased from your conscience.

The FBI, the CIA, even the DOJ are on a “witch hunt,” treating you and your confidants “very unfairly,” until they execute an edict of yours that makes the very act of seeking refuge illegal (it’s not, by the way, ask Jeff when the two of you are alone sometime), and rips babies out of parents arms and into dog runs and office parks and tents in the desert thousands of miles away. Then they are enforcing the law, until another subpoena is issued. Then the very idea of justice is suspect.

You want to “drain the swamp,” and create sound and fury against the “deep state,” the previous administration, your political adversaries, claiming to rid Washington of the corruption that you say has been the bane of every white male’s American citizen existence before you came to town, until your cabinet members spend obscene  amounts of money on things like dining room sets for their offices, huge 24/7 security details, five course dinners for said detail in Rome, and a soundproof booth (what was that anyway?). Then once the sweetheart leasing arrangements, the charter flights of planes and helicopters, and European honeymoons facilitated by military planes, make the news cycle, you express disappointment, until another round robin of conference table praise by these swamp creatures sends you back to your happy place.

If I am completely honest, I’ll admit that I held out a little hope that something that I or my fellow letter writers wrote would reach you, would give you pause, a brief moment to consider our issues, our worries, our outrage, our fear, or even acknowledgement of our disgust. I don’t hold that hope anymore. Each day that you occupy that once revered office adds to my distress as you dismantle and destroy the work my grandparents, parents, my brothers and sisters, and my sons and daughters have done to move America to greatness.  So I will no longer keep my tempest in this teapot. Instead, you will see me among the throngs that resist your racism, your corruption, your move toward tyranny. I’ll be marching. I’ll be shouting. I’ll be supporting the ACLU, Planned Parenthood, The Southern Poverty Law Center, RAICES, and the myriad of candidates poised to win the next two sets of elections. I will call for your resignation. You won’t hear me, but Jared, Kellyanne, do yourselves a favor and get out now while the gettin’s not completely debilitating…



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