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Posted by on Apr 3, 2016 in Blog, Politics | 7 comments

Dear Donald Trump: I’m Cheering for You

 

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Let’s just say this article did not age well.

 

Sunday, April 3, 2016

Dear Mr. Trump:

I’ve made up my mind.  You’ll be pleased to know, I am now cheering for you.

No sir, I am not voting for you.  That I would never do.  But I am cheering for you to become the Republican Party’s nominee.

Please win the nomination, you orangutan-haired fuckstain.

Your victory is well deserved.  You earned it.  A slate of presidential candidates once touted by conservative icon George Will as “the best Republican field in 100 years” — you destroyed them all.  You kicked their asses.  You left them sucking their thumbs.  And the Republican fat-cat establishment which loathes you — they’re shitting their diapers at the prospect that you’ll become the new face of the party.

Bravo!  Now, please pass out the brown underwear to match the brown shirts.

Your haters are beaten down, shamed, and will ultimately be defeated.  The once-promising, even boastful presidential campaigns which rivaled you — yet were so embarrassingly late to grow a set of balls big enough to attack you fearing they might offend your loyalist lunatics — are now headed for the ash heap of history, political kindling now threatening to incinerate the whole fucking Grand Old Party of Abe Lincoln and Teddy Roosevelt, weeping if they could, who let’s hope are entombed deep enough in the ground to escape the shrill horror of your incendiary baiting tactics.  They aren’t spinning in their graves.   They’re trying to dig themselves deeper, to get the fuck away from you as far as they can.

As for the flunkies, fakes, and frauds you’ve conquered, they’re all but ignored and forgotten.  And when the dispirited do surface and manage to garner some media attention — the Jeb Bushes, the Marco Rubios, the Rand Pauls, and all the other gutless burned-out losers you’ve squashed like a Junebug upturned on the sidewalk kicking their legs wildly into the air, yet going nowhere — they’ll spend what remains of their public lives hopelessly trying to explain to anyone bored enough to listen how they were humiliated by a swaggering psychopath who’s never once held elected office before.

Nice job!

Mr. Trump, I want you to bluster and blitz your way through what remains of the GOP primaries and caucuses.  Keep the fire stoked.  Keep enraging your sycophantic followers.  This week, Wisconsin.  Tomorrow, the world!

Continue to hammer the press — you know, the same corporate-owned, for-profit media enablers who’ve basically entered into an unwritten partnership with you and created the despicable man-beast that you are.  Don’t let up on those shilling reporters you’ve repeatedly described as “despicable people” who’ve blessed you with more than a b-b-b-billion dollars in free, fawning publicity.  Yeah, they’re coming after you, not because you say something ridiculously outrageous every goddamned hour of every goddamned day along the campaign trail, but because tangling with Donald Trump is great for ratings and clicks.

Well, fuck them!  Give them their ratings and clicks!

You still face two final obstacles.  You need to destroy them both.

Obstacle #1:  Spank “Lyin’ Ted” like a spoiled brat.  An eye for an eye.  Tooth for a tooth.  Wife for a wife, if necessary (oh wait, you’ve already covered that territory — great work!).

Obstacle #2:  As for John Kasich, continue to ignore him, because that’s pretty much what everyone else does.  Kasich reminds us of the boring creep hunched over the bar at the closing time nursing a cheap draft beer, hoping the stud playboy somehow gets tossed out of the bar so he can move in and steal the sweet piece of tail out in the parking lot.

You, sir, are the stud playboy of the political Right.  Don’t stumble out of the bar.  Don’t let them drag you away.  Don’t let John Kasich move in on your action.  He’s not worthy of shining your shoes.  Don’t let Ted Cruz steal the political prize that rightfully should be yours.  Destroy them both, and do it now!

What’s my dream vision?  Thanks for asking.  I’m about to tell you.

This summer in Cleveland, at the Republican National Convention, I want your radiant halo of burnt orange outshining a stage decked out in red, white, and blue.  I want “New York, New York” cranked up full blast, not the “Star-Spangled Banner.”  I want your hate-spewing bootlickers stomping all over that party-pledging merry-go-round like it’s a nightmare from Nuremberg.  I want screams.  I want fainting.

Do you think you’re a big star now?  Just wait until you accept the nomination.  Once that comes, I want to hear the most outrageous acceptance speech in American political history.  I want a fucking freak show, with you perfectly cast in the starring role of the sword-swallowing alligator man, spewing flames.  Be yourself.  I want you as the grand ringmaster of a gargantuan political circus that would make Barnum and Bailey blush and faint.  Try this — ride in on an elephant.  That’s the GOP symbol, right?  It’s the perfect animal to match your mammoth ego.

Seventy percent of America thinks you’re a turd.  Okay, that’s a bit of a problem for someone hoping to get elected to a national office.

Good thing is, you’re still fascinating to watch, sort of like an overflowing toilet.  We helpless to do anything to stop you, so we just point and gawk.

The horror.  The fucking horror.

Yeah, you are indeed a subhuman turd, but still, somehow about 15 percent of eligible voters bark at your predictable knee-jerk applause lines like you’re serving up a swimming pool of Alpo inside a kennel.  Never mind that none of the flag-wavers in your audience could name a single sickening proposal of yours that’s actually got a ghost of a fucking chance of actually becoming federal law.  Walling off Mexico and making them pay $25 billion for it when our southern neighbor is already struggling economically?  You zit for brains.  That’s not going to happen, and you know it.  But please — by all means continue trumpeting the big lie about constructing a 1,800-mile super wall of steel and concrete.  Your deranged followers love it.

Anyone who understands a thing about finance knows you’re a fraud and a fuck, not necessarily in that order.  You aren’t worth $10 billion.  More like $10 billion in worthless promissory paper, the same tattered bag of bullshit you left your thousands of creditors holding FOUR FUCKING TIMES when you declared bankruptcy over and over and over and over again — not counting your failed football team playing in a D-league, your flop of a worthless airline, or your self-branded board game called “Trump” that you didn’t even have the balls to play once when challenged by the late casino maven Bob Stupak in a $1 million match going to charity.

Fortunately, no one remembers you cowering away from Stupak’s challenge anymore, your bankrupt companies, you’re flop as a casino operator, your New Jersey Generals, or your shakedown diploma mill of a fraudulent university that left many young people mired in debt and now suing you, hopefully for everything you claim to own.

Fortunately, none of your simpleminded followers give flying rat’s ass about your multitude of failings, both personal and professional.  When you speak, no one’s the least bit concerned that you don’t even know what a “nuclear triad” is.  No one cares that you can’t name three primary functions of the federal government without contradicting yourself at least two of your own policies.  No one is alarmed by the obvious fact that you seem to make shit up right on the spot, saying whatever pops into your image-conscious mind, leaving your ass-kissing staff of gophers and Girl Fridays to clean up your mess afterward and explain what you “really meant to say.”

You’re like a butterscotch-flavored version of Kanye West.

And yet, you were born for this role.  Play it!  It’s your destiny!

There’s only one problem, sir.  I must be honest with you.  You’re blowing it.  Your nomination is now in peril.  In order to win enough delegates, and it’s going to be close enough already, you’re going to have to do something totally out of character for you.  You’ll need to shut the fuck up.

I say that with all due respect, sir.

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Please.

Plug your ego.  Turn off the microphone.  Recite the Pledge of Allegiance.  Show old Ronald Reagan movies.  Do anything.  Just don’t keep on talking about things you know absolutely nothing about — which includes just about everything having to do with economics, domestic affairs, international relations, nuclear weapons, North Korea, the Middle East, fracking, coal, social issues, history, government, science, the casino business, music, decency, and just about everything else on the fucking planet that’s not listed in a lawsuit suing one of your Trump Towers.

I know it’s impossible to suppress your natural tendency to demonstrate that you know absolutely everything and have all the answers to every question all the time when the evidence clearly shows you know even less about the world than we feared.  Please try, sir.  Just go out there, day after day, night after night, and promise to “make America great again.”  We know what that really means.  Wink, wink.  That message to put those uppity folks back in their places has gotten through loud and clear.  That’s the message your buffoons want to hear.  They don’t give a shit about creating a functional government.  They don’t want to hear about policy details or your legislative proposals.  They want a WWF cage match.  So, give it to them!

America, fuck yeah!

Oh, and one more thing.  Stop talking about women.  Cease and desist.  Women are running away from you faster than a date night with Bill Cosby.  Somehow, you’ve already sufficiently pissed off a staggering 75 percent of females in this country, with all your outlandish talk about “punishing” women who get abortions, ragging on women’s appearances such as Carly Fiorina, ridiculing Meghan Kelly’s menstrual cycle, and basically being your inner douchebag self.  I know you’re convinced you’re an expert on women, given your three marriages to models, and your disturbingly creepy obsession with your own daughter.  Of course, you love women.  Sure, that’s obvious.  But they don’t seem to love you back — not unless you’re paying their credit card bills.  Shut up about women.

As for Muslims, I have no idea how a Fatwa remains on the head of British author Salman Rushdie for writing “The Satanic Verses,” but you’re still flying around the country appearing out in public spewing your own satanic verses of hate and division.  Once he’s released from his court trial, Corey deserves a big fat pay raise for somehow keeping you safe, and alive.

Then, there are the Hispanics, who are so unappreciative of your love for them.  Sir, they look up at you like a empty pinata.  You’ve insulted the fastest-growing demographic in America, calling many of them “criminals and rapists.”  Where’s the love?  Well, fuck them.  They aren’t voting for you anyway.

Given the crap that’s flowing out of your mouth, you’re making Sarah Palin sound like Marilyn vos Savant.  Zip it.  Shut your trap.

Please, Mr. Trump.  Listen carefully to what I’m saying.  That way the nomination can still be yours.  Then, you can have your massive ego stroked just in time for a new television season.  You’ll dominate the fall ratings.  Forget American Idol.  YOU will be the American Idol.  Everyone will be talking about you.  You’ll be the center of the universe.  For you, it will be like walking into a room full of mirrors.

Then and only then, reality will finally set it, you clueless clump of ignorance.

Once you begin to suffocate on your own adulation, it will be time for your glorious wake-up call.

A colossal bitch slap whipped up by 65 million hands and votes will rain down upon the giant fucking forgery that you are.  Come the first Tuesday in November, you’ll get your certifiably unhinged ass stomped into the ground at the ballot box.  You’ll either end up ultimately disgraced by a Vermont Socialist, or far more likely by a lackluster political hack most of us are sick of and don’t trust, who’s loaded with enough political baggage to pack a 767, a career politician under possible federal indictment, and a nominee with gross negatives bordering at around 50 percent.  Hell, the Democrats could probably nominate anyone aside from Al Sharpton, and you’d still get hammered like a nail in your own coffin.  I”m not so sure Rev. Al wouldn’t beat you, too.

At least, you will go down in history serving at least one worthwhile political function.  You’re going to be the ultimate redeemer of those good and decent men who has been badly embarrassed in the past.  You’ll make Barry Goldwater, George McGovern, and Michael Dukakis — all who lost by landslides — seem like wise choices.  I’m sure they will appreciate what you’re doing, salvaging their tainted legacies.  Now, losing by 20 million votes in the general election won’t look so bad, after all.  “At least I wasn’t Trump,” Goldwater will be able to boast from the grace, someday.

Donald Trump, you don’t deserve anyone’s respect.  You haven’t earned it.  You made up the rules to this ugly game, now live with them, you thundering cunt.

Please win the nomination.  I’m cheering for you.  Honestly, I am.

Sincerely,

— Nolan Dalla

7 Comments

  1. I’m sorry, Nolan… you have a lot of good things to say, but I am not interested in wading through this kind of stuff to find it. Good bye.

  2. Nolan

    Congratulations in advance
    You are going to get fame from this one.

  3. Thanks, Nolan! Thought I was the only one who disliked Drumpf with the white-hot light of a 1000 suns. You have a lot of good things to say, waded through every line of what you wrote here and found it! Good stuff!

  4. The best read on Donald trump ever…brilliant…the only thing that could make me happier would be to have the Donald strapped to a chair and having Nolan read every word to him, and subsequently watching donalds head explode….
    Thanks Nolan you made my day!

  5. My favorite was “radiant halo of burnt orange.” When’s your book coming out?

  6. You don’t like Trump at all… Do ya? Lol

    Breathe!!!! Mannnn.

    Not gonna lie. I wrote THIS prior to the 2-3rd mark.

    Give them their puddle…”epic!” lol

    I needed a fn break. Lol

    Ha ha..

    You’re the shit… Man.

    Rock Star writer. Lol

  7. I wonder what you will write when he’s elected a second time.

    Looking forward to it.

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