Aldous J. Pennyfarthing - 101 Rude Letters to Donald Trump #03 - Dear Pr*sident A**clown: 101 More Rude Letters to Donald Trump

DEAR PR*SIDENT A**CLOWN: 101 MORE RUDE LETTERS TO DONALD TRUMP

Copyright 2019 Aldous J. Pennyfarthing

All rights reserved

Published by:

Pennyfarthing & Dash Publishing, a wholly owned subsidiary of OReillys Falafels and Loofahs Inc.

Aldous J. Pennyfarthing lives in the Pacific Northwest with his beloved wife, Penelope Middleton-Smythe, and their mutt terrier, Fiddlehead Stinktrousers.

In contrast to Donald Trumps shambolic bearing, appearance, and comportment, Pennyfarthing is a natty hail-fellow-well-met and a gentleman. He resorts to the fatuous japery contained in this book out of a sincere love for country.

Also by Aldous J. Pennyfarthing:

Dear F*cking Lunatic: 101 Obscenely Rude Letters to Donald Trump

Dear F*cking Moron: 101 More Rude Letters to Donald Trump

The Fierce, Fabulous (and Mostly Fictional) Adventures of Mike Ponce, Americas First Gay Vice President

Also, follow my posts at Daily Kos , and be sure to sign up!

And check out my Facebook page at Facebook.com/trumpworstpresident and my Twitter @AJPennyfarthing .

Special thanks to Ms. Emma Dash for the help and encouragement and for loaning me a heaping cup of insults.

Oh, sinnerman, where you gonna run to?
Sinnerman where you gonna run to?
Where you gonna run to?
All on that day

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Introduction

Jesus Christ, this asshole.

Seriously.

Many years ago, before Donald Trump the presidential candidate started spraying his mind diarrhea all over our collective Jungian unconscious, I was a callow, Pollyannish political junkie who could still confect a precise measure of mirth and outrage over the fact that Dan Quayle couldnt spell potato.

There I would stand a dry Belvedere martini in my right hand, an opera-length cigarette holder balanced between the delicate, tapered, alabaster fingers of my left as I skewered the know-nothing philistines across the aisle with my surpassing Voltairean wit.

Oh, heavens , I tittered, regaling my upper east side Manitowoc* society friends with a dazzling volley of urbane flourishes. Dan Quayle cant spell potato . Can you imagine? I mean, whats next? Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!

Needless to say, I want to go back in time to meet 1992 Aldous so I can preemptively beat him to death with a remaindered copy of The Art of the Deal . Because I would Gorilla Glue my balls to a Mackinac Island taffy-pulling machine if it meant Dan Quayle could be president right now, and that cant happen as long as this timeline remains intact. Who knows? My praising Dan Quayle to the rafters back in the early 90s could be all we need to derail this ayahuasca fart of a reality and get back to something resembling normalcy.

You see, once upon a time we lived in a world where something like I dont know a credible rape accusation against a sitting president was earth-shattering enough to stop the whole of Christendom in its tracks.

Today, unless 45 th president and multiply accused alleged rapist shows up as a crossword puzzle clue, the story is out of the newspapers in less than a week.

On June 21, 2019, New York magazine ran a book excerpt from veteran journalist E. Jean Carroll in which she claimed Donald Trump had raped her in a department store dressing room.

The story jibed with everything we know about Trump, and yet it disappeared from the headlines faster than a passed-out hooker from a Mar-a-Lago cabana.

In denying the accusation, Trump attacked Carrolls looks as subtly as a Trump can: Number one, shes not my type. Number two, it never happened. It never happened, okay?

Uh huh. So Trump is really choosy about the women he rapes? Is that what hes trying to say? And whats with the snide allusion to her appearance?

First of all, Donald Trump looks like 12 different kinds of scrotum patched together with gently used dental floss and gum. So he really shouldnt be making any sort of comment on another human beings appearance.

Secondly, rape has nothing to do with physical attraction. Its about dominance and humiliation which we all know are Donald Trumps stock-in-trade.

Finally, the only sensible way to approach a Donald Trump statement is to assume its false unless you have extremely compelling evidence to the contrary. The guy lies as often as he exhales. Hence, Carrolls story easily cleared the threshold for credible accusations.

So did it stick?

Nah.

The media spilled a soupon of ink over the he-said/she-said back-and-forth and then quickly moved on to the next barrel of salty filberts.

And can you blame them? Theres just too much outrage, shit-slurping insanity, and rank dishonesty to get a handle on in this transcendently outrageous, insane, and dishonest era.

So I had to start writing these letters to Donald Trump our illustrious asshole-in-chief to 1) keep myself sane, 2) provide a needed catharsis to my kindred spirits (i.e., all yall), and 3) see if I can somehow bore through Trumps cranium to the rich nougat center inside and plant a seed of sanity therein.

1) is accomplished. I sure hope 2) is happening. 3) is a long, long slog currently in progress. (Does anyone have a diamond drill bit they could lend me?)

But these books and you can find the first two installments, Dear F*cking Lunatic and Dear F*cking Moron , at a website near new you are not just Hail Mary attempts at an intervention. They also serve as a chronicle. The sheer volume of Trump scandals, Trump gaffes, and Trump stupidity is simply overwhelming. My sincere hope is to gather in the boom harvest of wanton fucknuttery from the Trump years and try to scrape together a few crusts of bread with which to nourish and salve our weary souls.

So here we go again.

If this is your intro to Pennyfarthing, I urge you to go back and read the first two installments in this series. Youll find a complete primer on Pennyfarthing therein.

Incidentally, the working title for my next and what I pray to all that is good and holy will be my last installment in this tetralogy is Goodbye, Asshole .

Please make that one the last in the series. Please. Only you, the long-tormented members of our countrys sane community, can make it so. I need we all need the rest.

Thank you.

And enjoy.

*Yes, I was born and raised in Manitowoc, Wisconsin. No, I dont know Steven Avery. Stop fucking asking.

April 1, 2019

From the Desk of Aldous J. Pennyfarthing

To: Donald Trump, our long national nightmare

Dear Pr*sident Assclown,

Wait, how the fuck can you be getting crazier ? I mean, whats the endgame? If you dissolved into a colony of fruit bats and blotted out the sun for a fortnight, causing global harvest failures and touching off a 100-year world war between the U.S. and a subterranean race of gonorrheal she-orcs, Id be, like, Huh. Yeah. That sounds about right.

I swear, every day youre pr*sident feels like drowning in a sperm whales vagina with a crate of unexploded Korean War ordnance lodged up my ass.