Dear Amerika, Shit Happens

By T.H. Cee

An open letter to “Amerika,” from Ronald Clump, final President of the United States.

Dear Amerika,

My name is Ronald Clump, final President of the United States. For those of you who despise me, piss off! Shit happens! I’ve gotten my last laugh—and you—the American citizen, are the punch-line.

Amerika, Putin, TrumpEven that word, punch-line, it’s much more humorous when I envision lining up every citizen of this soon-to-be bankrupt nation and hitting them with debt and inflation and the need for the next President to raise taxes hugely because I didn’t do what was financially sound. In short, this is my story. The one I will leave you with. As I, and my merry band of fiscal accomplices and experts in Trickle-down Economics impart on our escape—I mean secret exodus—to some off-shore tax haven to spend your children’s inheritance.

It’s nothing personal; it’s just business. That’s at least what my daddy would say. He would’ve been proud of everything I’ve done. He, and especially my grandfather, who over 100 years ago came to this not-so-much-anymore great land. Well, actually they deported him. From Germany. But who’s counting? It appears that they had a whole, “Make Germany great again” theme happening back then over there as well and considered him ghetto trash. They threw him on a ship and — bon voyage. Before you knew it, he was setting up whorehouses in America. Then my father was born, and he perfected my grandfather’s strategy. But instead of screwing clients by way of coitus, he focused on doing it with land—real estate, that is. Concrete gold. But enough about them. Let’s focus more on me.

So how did I become president? It’s a crazy story. Several years back, after the Propecia kicked in, I began to develop delusions of grandeur. We’ll truth is, at an early age I’d always been conditioned to be a narcissist. But this new mental position, pushed by AM talk radio and something about seeing the first black president, took me over the edge. Even worse— the crazier stuff I said— the more the executives at FUX television liked it. Something to do with ratings and the fact their revenues were in the toilet. I suppose it’s not a beacon of cash flow when you’re a major T.V. station whose advertisers are limited to get-rich-quick gold investment companies who scare the middle-class and some annoying pillow guy.

The folks at FUX, they kept inviting me on their shows, which really fueled my narcissism. After all, who wouldn’t like the attention. But then I began to hear the voices. Well, actually it was the tiny mike bug I was required to have in my ear. The one connected directly to the Kremlin. Vlad evidentially said it was mandatory when he co-signed on all my Russian loans. It kept on whispering to me around 2015, “Ronnnnnald . . . Oh, Ronnnnald, if you run for President and win, we’ll forget about all your Russian debts . . . maybe even destroy that pee tape . . .” To be perfectly honest, it seemed like a win-win. Who could blame me?

Initially, I didn’t believe I could become president. But Vlad kept on saying, “доверять,” which in translation simply means “Trust.” So, I went along with the boss. Who could argue? I figured, what the hell; down the road, I could use the election loss as publicity to start my own entertainment network, and as a defensive strategy, kept saying the system was rigged. Everybody loves a conspiracy. Even when it’s accurate (wink, wink). Little did I realize that thanks to the Electoral College it was! What a joke. But hey, it made me President. Even though I got three million less votes. God bless, Amerika. I suppose I should thank the confederacy, huh? LOL.

So anyway, after the election, man, oh, man, did I have a surprise that first day on the job. It wasn’t at all like my previous working environment where I could easily swindle the masses. I initially thought I could just do signing orders all day. And play golf. But noooo … Those goddamn liberals in the judicial branch—they shut me down. They kept telling me “try again,” and to “re-read the Constitution.” But seriously, who’s got the time? The truth is, shhhhh — I’ve never read that damn document. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve sincerely tried. But every time I got a few paragraphs in, my attention span would wander to ways I could break the Emoluments Clause. Or if I attempted it later in the day after eating several Big Macs, I’d always doze off.

Who knew being president could be so hard? Before being POTUS, I could do all kinds of nasty things and my attorney would easily sweep them under the rug. Hell, you can’t even sleep around anymore—or pay off porn-stars and have them sign an NDA—without those annoying mainstream media folks always up your grill. Say hello to a never-ending stream of spotlights on all my paper trails. It was frustrating.

But smart as I was, I developed an ingenious plan. Knowing that my followers would believe anything, I used a tactic perfected by the Third Reich. I began to use the term “fake news” for every story that didn’t portray me favorably, even if it was accurate —especially if it was accurate. Surprisingly, that strategy never got old, and in fact, it worked extremely well. My followers, God love them; they believe anything I say. Seig Heil, morons. Seig Heil!
The absolute best thing I discovered about being President was the ability to affect the markets. For mine and my fellow accomplice’s gain. I remember getting the idea from Vlad. Evidently, he had setup several anonymous shell companies and was strategically invested in our companies. Who would’ve thunk?

I then took it a step further and spoke with a few of my colleagues in the House and Senate. Salivating, we also came together and formed a secret investment club, setting up several off-shore havens in various untraceable trusts. Here’s an example of how it worked: I and the others would short the Pharmaceutical industry on Monday and then I would come out saying something wildly crazy on Tuesday— something like, “Hey, maybe we should require everyone at Big Pharma to give out free drugs!” Something like that. That’s all that was needed.

We’d make money shorting that specific industry and use the proceeds to quickly buy the same stocks back while they were low and watch them rise. The first time I did it, we made a fortune. It was exhilarating! So, then I tried the same thing the following week with a few marijuana ETFs and the next day mumbled something about legalizing weed and forcing my then AG-at-the-time to eat a dozen laced brownies. You get the picture. It was like taking candy from a baby.

And speaking of taking candy from a baby, what did you think of me ripping crying asylum children from the hands of their terrified parents? Sure as hell, Hitler would’ve been proud. But I can’t take all the credit, though. That was my former A.G.’s idea. The only good one he had.

Crazy as it sounds, my wife, a previous undocumented immigrant herself was impressed. Even in spite of the fact our son is technically an anchor baby, and her parents were lucky winners in that so-called chain-migration lottery, but whose keeping score? Just remember: The most important thing about any immigration policy is to make sure all your new immigrants are white. And of course, their political views, conservative. LOL.

As my presidency progressed, with each new day, however, this whole Russia thing reared more of its ugly head. Those goddamn liberals. They take the fun out of everything. Like the fake news scheme that worked before, as a strategy, I started to use the term, “Witch-hunt.” But for some reason, when the FBI raided my attorney’s and my campaign manager’s properties, they flipped like terrified pancakes in a frying pan; it didn’t work so well. Largely, I suppose because they pleaded guilty. With the potential for jail time looming, they in turn, began singing like castrated canaries. Note to self for next time: People in real witch-hunts don’t generally plead guilty.

In the end, as you know, everything came crashing down. I, of course, held everyone else responsible. Who could blame me? I also like how I got the reporters at a few tabloids to once again point the finger at Obama. LOL. And before anyone could shout, “lock him up,” about me—poof—I was gone. It sure is nice living in Russia, although I must say, the winters here are kind of harsh.

Yours truly,
Ronald Clump
Final President of the United States

P.S. Vlad sends his regards.