First, thanks for inviting Bill and me to your wedding! You’d think that after, what, two failed marriages, a rational man would slow down on the nuptials, but of course, literally no one has ever accused you of being rational.
Secondly, I am going to beat your ass into the ground in November.
Oh yes, Don-Don. I am going to find a big, beautiful hole, a really classy one, just for you, and then I am going to bury you in it. Alive. It’s not personal, Donald. Well, not entirely.
I have tolerated you, as I have tolerated many men, because for one thing, premeditated murder is a Class A1 felony in New York, and for another, tolerating silly, stupid boors is a practice with which all women must become well acquainted, like knowing the difference between foundation and concealer, and how to shave your legs in a sink. You can know nothing — literally nothing; I remain unclear as to whether you know your home address, rendering you, essentially, a lost toddler in a low-rent department store — and I can know everything, and yet you knowing nothing is a “breath of fresh air" and my knowing everything is “calculating.”* Which I guess is bad, because apparently I should have come into this presidential campaign like a fucking baby deer.
But I will beat you. I will beat you in states you have never personally set foot in and I will beat you in your home state of New York and I will beat you in American Samoa like a goddamn drum. You are my muse, Donald. You fulfill me, in that you have wandered into this election and now believe yourself a real candidate, and yet remain so disliked that people are registering to vote purely to vote against you.
You think I’m “unpopular” among women? Donald, my little egg cup, you are Todd Akin–level unpopular with women, and you know how their bodies are — I think they’ll find a way to shut you the fuck down. And this shit? This shit right here, Donald? I would put that offensive claptrap on freshly baked bread because it is my JAM, Donald. Your unhinged misogyny is like a warm summer breeze and I will bask in it, before I have my campaign send it out to our email list and blast it on every social media platform those adorable teen wizards can find. Our debates could just be you blathering on about the alt-right or walls or whatever it is that goes around in your silly little skull and me smiling cheerily for two hours and I would win decisively, overwhelmingly, in a manner reminiscent of a naval campaign you ignored while at that military school, because a whole lot of voters are women, Donald, and women put up with enough shit without you adding to the fucking pile.
Here’s the thing, my store-bought tangerine of an opponent: Your base is a subsection of the GOP that, like you, is Republican in name only, which is why your many, many gaffes have not dissuaded them. You and I both respect the work of Planned Parenthood. You and I both believe the government can do more, and do better. And whenever you try to sound like a real-deal conservative, it brings to mind someone who has been forced to take a French exam and is simply reciting lines from the movie Ratatouille because they have no fucking idea what they are doing. You are playing a part, and everyone knows it.
So let’s pivot to the general, Donald. You just keep on making friends with Putin and inviting all your angry friends over for your little angry-people parties. I’ll be over here, waiting and watching. We’ll see how it all plays out.
PS: I’m so looking forward to discussing foreign policy with you soon. I am so, so looking forward to it.
*OF COURSE I’M FUCKING CALCULATING. I’M RUNNING FOR GODDAMN PRESIDENT. THIS SHIT TAKES CALCULATION AND FORETHOUGHT AND TABULATION AND EXCEL SPREADSHEETS BECAUSE SOME STATES HAVE OPEN CAUCUSES AND SOME STATES HAVE CLOSED PRIMARIES AND OTHER STATES HAVE, I DON’T KNOW, A HIGH PRIEST SHEEP WHO DECIDES, AND I HAVE TO KNOW WHICH IS WHICH. FOR. FUCK’S. SAKE.