Dear Mr. President: You're pissing me off.
Do I mean your policies? No, of course not, even though I oppose all of them, except your infrastructure program, because apart from you being for what used to be called "internal improvements" in the nineteenth century, I really didn't expect you to be any worse than Reagan of the younger Bush. No, you're pissing - er, ticking - me off because you're giving me way too much to talk about! I mean . . . I mean . . . I mean . . . I mean, I'm sitting here at my computer, trying to comment on your general incompetence as a leader, and then your national security adviser, Michael Flynn, resigns when it's revealed that he had discussed sanctions with the Russian ambassador a month before you even moved into the White House! And if that weren't enough, then-acting Attorney General Sally Yates - the same woman you fired for not enforcing your faulty executive order on immigration - warned you that Flynn may have opened your administration to blackmail by misleading officials, including Vice President Pence, about his contacts with the Russian ambassador. Mr. President, what am I supposed to say about that? I'm at a loss for words! And before I can even find the right words, your choice for Secretary of Labor, Andrew Putz or whatever his name is - a fast-food executive who advocated relying more on automation than on real, live human burger flippers - had to step down after having hired an illegal immigrant to clean his house!
Mr. President, you're giving me too much material! I can't keep up!
And your press conference . . . well that was so bizarre. You showed the attention of a goldfish, your hair showed the color of a goldfish, you kept questioning the veracity of thoroughly researched news reports, and you thought that black reporter April Ryan was friends with the Congressional Black Caucus - and expected a tough question with her - on the basis of her race? You actually asked her to help set up a meeting with black lawmakers because you figured that she, being black, must know them personally? The only time you seemed engaged is when you talked about your wife. Which is ironic, because your wife has been seen less often in the past month than Elvis. Yeah, it's my second Elvis reference in regard to your White House this month, but what the hay . . .
Look, Mr. President, I don't want to have to talk about you all the time, even though I know you'd love to have me talk about you all the time, because even bad press for you is good press, but I would rather talk about other things - competitive swimming, Volkswagens, adorable kittens, ice cream with chocolate syrup, anything - than your screw-ups. I have enough time trying to avoid typos and misaligned paragraphs in this one-man show that is my blog without you giving me enough material to keep the entire Huffington Post staff working overtime. So please, Mr. Trump, I beg you . . . if you're going to be a lousy President, show some restraint in your lousiness and give me a break! You're killing me, man!
And next time you have dinner with a foreign leader at a public gathering space, feel free to talk about an international crisis all you want . . . but don't leave classified information lying around for all the world - and Melania - to see!
P.S. Regarding the inauguration . . . Tony Orlando? Really?