7/7/2015, 4:02 pm
[img]/images/Pinkie_Donald_Trump_Mean.jpg[/img]
Dear Mr. Trump,
It seems like every time I log onto the Internet these days, I see a screaming headline about some has-been who had their fifteen minutes of fame fifteen years ago, now trying to rack up another fifteen by the simple act of publicly denouncing you. And it seems to work.
I haven't been at The People's Cube for fifteen years yet, but lately it seems as if I had my fifteen minutes here a long time ago. No one pays attention to me anymore. Half the new Cubists probably don't even know who I am, or if they do, they see me as someone their mothers used to read on The People's Blog. I feel like a cross between Miss Havisham and Norma Desmond and my shovel. I don't even have my “waxworks”—to wit, Father Prog Theocritus and Marshal Pupovich—to prop me up and make me feel special anymore, even if the only way they did so was by stealing out of my purse. The important thing is, I got attention from them.
Alas, no more. Too often these days I wake up in the afternoon and say to myself, “This is what it would feel like to be George Takei, arguably the least popular regular on the original Star Trek, if he didn't have his sexual orientation to keep him relevant. Otherwise, who'd give him the time of day or even admit to their fellow Trekkies that he was always their secret favorite?” (Of course, that's only after I ask the first question that pops into my mind each time I wake up: “How can I be offended today?”)
Indeed, I thought of questioning the fluidity of my sexual orientation in hopes the media would notice and I could get a phone call from President Obama to congratulate me on my courage and all that; but with more than 50 choices offered by Facebook, I can't make up my mind which will get me the most attention, sympathy, and above all, free stuff from corporations hoping to prove they care almost as much as I do.
So I thought, what better way to try and cop another fifteen minutes and be relevant again than by posting my own open letter to Donald Trump? Surely next time I go online, there it will be, front and center on the homepage: COMMISSARKA PINKIE BLASTS DONALD TRUMP. COMMISSARKA PINKIE'S OPEN, HEARTFELT LETTER TO TRUMP WILL MAKE YOU CRY AND STAND UP AND CHEER ALL AT THE SAME TIME. PINKIE TO TRUMP: YOU'RE MEAN. Soon it'll be on websites all over the net and for another fifteen minutes, the masses will take notice of me again.
Anyway, here it is, my open letter to you, cobbled together with select passages copied and pasted from other open letters and statements of denouncement, so everyone will know I'm on the right side of history by saying the same stuff everyone else is saying.
Mr. Trump, you're mean. You stink. I'm not Mexican, and I've never tried to play one, but when you say the mean, hateful things about Mexicans that you said, then by gum, I will eagerly and happily identify as a Mexican for the sole purpose of saying that what you say hurts me. It hurts me bad. It makes me want to demand that you pay me reparations for all the pain and suffering and agony and anguish you've caused me with your mean, hurtful, hateful, stinking words.
You don't speak for anyone save your fellow Republicans. I notice none of them have denounced you for the mean, rotten things you said. That's because they agree with you. So why don't they say so? They're certainly stupid enough to parrot the stupid things you say, you stupid man. Or maybe they're all even stupider than I thought. Imagine that. Imagine being so stupid, you're too stupid to say anything stupid. That's just how stupid everyone in the GOP is.
Oh, sure, a couple of the candidates might've mumbled something mishy-mashy and mushy to the effect that maybe you shouldn't have said what you said. Oooh! Zing! Talk about conviction! Pfft! Not! They certainly didn't sound as if they meant it. In fact, they sounded as if they were only saying it because everyone was pressuring them to denounce you and they figured they'd better or they might lose the Latino vote. Like they ever had a chance of getting it to begin with. Still, the very least they could've done was condemn you as if they really, really meant it.
Like I'm doing.
You should, nay, you MUST apologize, Mr. Trump. Granted, no one will accept your apology. No one will forgive you. No one will like you any better for it. Everyone will still hate you. And no one who'd rather be dead than vote for you will switch their vote to you anyway if you do, because they're going to vote Democrat and even if they're dead, they'll still vote Democrat. But you have to apologize anyway.
Why? Because if you're going to run as a Republican, then you have to play by Republican rules—as decreed by the Democratic National Committee, of course. Say something stupid, and all other Republicans must condemn you. And they must do so without saying “in the strongest possible terms.”™ Those five words are strictly reserved for use by the Obama Administration, in particular the State Department, anytime ISIS engages in misconduct or shows poor judgment or otherwise makes a mistake. No. Your fellow Republicans must be infinitely more explicit than that.
Allow me to offer a few examples. You, Mr. Trump, are a flaming bomb-thrower. You're a hostage taker. You are a terrorist, a murderer, a traitor, and you're holding a gun to the collective heads of the Mexican people with one hand and strapping explosives to their collective chests with the other. Then you want to say, “You're fired!” and BANG! BOOM! Blow them all up!
I could say more. Oh yes, plenty more. But I need to wrap this up so it can go viral, and start waiting for my phone call from President Obama. I'll see you next year, Mr. Trump. Oh yes, I will definitely see you next year—from my lofty perch in the seat of honor next to the First Lady at the State of the Union Address, while Obama exhorts everyone to applaud me for single-handedly saving America...from you. And all with this post.
You're the one who'll be fired, you meanie. Nyeah!
Pinkie
___________________________
Commissarka Pinkie is a regular contributor to The People's Cube, with a lifetime commitment to raising awareness of how much she cares. When she isn't busy making an issue out of everything, she enjoys spending other people's money, jumping on bandwagons, and playing moral authority and victim cards.
Dear Mr. Trump,
It seems like every time I log onto the Internet these days, I see a screaming headline about some has-been who had their fifteen minutes of fame fifteen years ago, now trying to rack up another fifteen by the simple act of publicly denouncing you. And it seems to work.
I haven't been at The People's Cube for fifteen years yet, but lately it seems as if I had my fifteen minutes here a long time ago. No one pays attention to me anymore. Half the new Cubists probably don't even know who I am, or if they do, they see me as someone their mothers used to read on The People's Blog. I feel like a cross between Miss Havisham and Norma Desmond and my shovel. I don't even have my “waxworks”—to wit, Father Prog Theocritus and Marshal Pupovich—to prop me up and make me feel special anymore, even if the only way they did so was by stealing out of my purse. The important thing is, I got attention from them.
Alas, no more. Too often these days I wake up in the afternoon and say to myself, “This is what it would feel like to be George Takei, arguably the least popular regular on the original Star Trek, if he didn't have his sexual orientation to keep him relevant. Otherwise, who'd give him the time of day or even admit to their fellow Trekkies that he was always their secret favorite?” (Of course, that's only after I ask the first question that pops into my mind each time I wake up: “How can I be offended today?”)
Indeed, I thought of questioning the fluidity of my sexual orientation in hopes the media would notice and I could get a phone call from President Obama to congratulate me on my courage and all that; but with more than 50 choices offered by Facebook, I can't make up my mind which will get me the most attention, sympathy, and above all, free stuff from corporations hoping to prove they care almost as much as I do.
So I thought, what better way to try and cop another fifteen minutes and be relevant again than by posting my own open letter to Donald Trump? Surely next time I go online, there it will be, front and center on the homepage: COMMISSARKA PINKIE BLASTS DONALD TRUMP. COMMISSARKA PINKIE'S OPEN, HEARTFELT LETTER TO TRUMP WILL MAKE YOU CRY AND STAND UP AND CHEER ALL AT THE SAME TIME. PINKIE TO TRUMP: YOU'RE MEAN. Soon it'll be on websites all over the net and for another fifteen minutes, the masses will take notice of me again.
Anyway, here it is, my open letter to you, cobbled together with select passages copied and pasted from other open letters and statements of denouncement, so everyone will know I'm on the right side of history by saying the same stuff everyone else is saying.
Mr. Trump, you're mean. You stink. I'm not Mexican, and I've never tried to play one, but when you say the mean, hateful things about Mexicans that you said, then by gum, I will eagerly and happily identify as a Mexican for the sole purpose of saying that what you say hurts me. It hurts me bad. It makes me want to demand that you pay me reparations for all the pain and suffering and agony and anguish you've caused me with your mean, hurtful, hateful, stinking words.
You don't speak for anyone save your fellow Republicans. I notice none of them have denounced you for the mean, rotten things you said. That's because they agree with you. So why don't they say so? They're certainly stupid enough to parrot the stupid things you say, you stupid man. Or maybe they're all even stupider than I thought. Imagine that. Imagine being so stupid, you're too stupid to say anything stupid. That's just how stupid everyone in the GOP is.
Oh, sure, a couple of the candidates might've mumbled something mishy-mashy and mushy to the effect that maybe you shouldn't have said what you said. Oooh! Zing! Talk about conviction! Pfft! Not! They certainly didn't sound as if they meant it. In fact, they sounded as if they were only saying it because everyone was pressuring them to denounce you and they figured they'd better or they might lose the Latino vote. Like they ever had a chance of getting it to begin with. Still, the very least they could've done was condemn you as if they really, really meant it.
Like I'm doing.
You should, nay, you MUST apologize, Mr. Trump. Granted, no one will accept your apology. No one will forgive you. No one will like you any better for it. Everyone will still hate you. And no one who'd rather be dead than vote for you will switch their vote to you anyway if you do, because they're going to vote Democrat and even if they're dead, they'll still vote Democrat. But you have to apologize anyway.
Why? Because if you're going to run as a Republican, then you have to play by Republican rules—as decreed by the Democratic National Committee, of course. Say something stupid, and all other Republicans must condemn you. And they must do so without saying “in the strongest possible terms.”™ Those five words are strictly reserved for use by the Obama Administration, in particular the State Department, anytime ISIS engages in misconduct or shows poor judgment or otherwise makes a mistake. No. Your fellow Republicans must be infinitely more explicit than that.
Allow me to offer a few examples. You, Mr. Trump, are a flaming bomb-thrower. You're a hostage taker. You are a terrorist, a murderer, a traitor, and you're holding a gun to the collective heads of the Mexican people with one hand and strapping explosives to their collective chests with the other. Then you want to say, “You're fired!” and BANG! BOOM! Blow them all up!
I could say more. Oh yes, plenty more. But I need to wrap this up so it can go viral, and start waiting for my phone call from President Obama. I'll see you next year, Mr. Trump. Oh yes, I will definitely see you next year—from my lofty perch in the seat of honor next to the First Lady at the State of the Union Address, while Obama exhorts everyone to applaud me for single-handedly saving America...from you. And all with this post.
You're the one who'll be fired, you meanie. Nyeah!
Pinkie
___________________________
Commissarka Pinkie is a regular contributor to The People's Cube, with a lifetime commitment to raising awareness of how much she cares. When she isn't busy making an issue out of everything, she enjoys spending other people's money, jumping on bandwagons, and playing moral authority and victim cards.
