Dear Abby,
I am a billionaire. I am the best billionaire. I am the billionairest billionaire who ever wrote to you. Your ratings are going to be through the roof on this one, you don’t even know. You’re welcome.
But enough about you. I have a problem. For more than six months now I’ve been suffering from a recurring nightmare in which I run for president to prove that I’m basically the best at everything, and without even trying can do all the things, and to give the American people what they so badly need right now: a visual example of how not to wear a tie.
I win the election, of course (spoiler alert: I always win) but there’s a problem. In my dream (this is just in my sleep, to be clear, in real life I have zero problems, don’t listen to the fake news) no one likes me. Like no one. It’s awful. Other world leaders shun me, my wife won’t live in the same house as me, and the political party I’m the leader of treats me like I’m from Puerto Rico or something. It’s terrible.
I have this dream every single night. It lasts about fourteen hours, and starts just before dawn, when I reach for my phone to open a little app known as Twitter. Maybe you’ve heard of it. I’m the biggest deal on there. Most people are only on Twitter because I am, and I say the greatest things. What’s your handle? I will @ you and make you great again. Tell me or I’ll block you. Haha. I’m not joking.
Have you ever stood in front of a mirror at 5:30 in the morning – in your boxers, with your belly hanging over the waistband, and your hair all weird because a combover is the world’s least bedhead-friendly hairstyle – and realized you got old? And worse, that you turned into literally the single biggest asshole in modern history? And this realization hits you like a gold-plated freight train and you crumple to the marble floor holding your swollen head in your hands and question everything? Haha, me neither!
Anyway, holler back when you get a chance, these nightmares are almost as big of a pain in the ass as those loser NFL players trying to make everything all about them in the middle of the greatest precendency the presidency has ever precedented. Do you have any friends? I don’t. Kidding!
Wakeful in Washington (the most wakeful)
Dear Donald Trump,
I have received over three million letters in my long career as a syndicated advice columnist. I have personally responded to over 40,000 of those. But, for the first time ever, I am going to have to tell you: I cannot help you. Your ‘nightmare’ is of your own doing. Please resign immediately and seek professional help. For your sake, and indeed, the world’s.
P.S. If you aren’t going to resign, Puerto Rico really needs you right now.
Categories: Life
The Out And Abouter 