Dear Donald,
Let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we? You thrive on sycophancy, so I won’t bother pretending to respect a man who has done everything in his power to make himself unworthy of it. You’ve spent your life in pursuit of wealth, power, and adoration, and yet, after all that effort, all you’ve amassed is contempt, ridicule, and pity.
Let’s start with the basics: You’re a conman, Donald, and not even a good one. Every business you’ve touched has failed. Trump Airlines, Trump Vodka, Trump Steaks; bankrupt, irrelevant, or jokes. Even your casinos, where the house is supposed to always win, couldn’t stay afloat under your leadership. You inherited millions from your father and still managed to bankrupt yourself repeatedly. You’re not a self-made man; you’re a trust fund baby who squandered his inheritance and conned his way into just enough cash to keep up the illusion of success.
And let’s talk about the illusion. The cheap suits, the spray tan that makes you look like a decaying jack-o’-lantern, the combover so pitiful even the wind has given up trying to fix it; everything about you screams insecurity. You project wealth, yet you’ve never been as rich as the real players, never been invited to their tables. You’ve tried to claw your way into high society, but they laughed you out of the room, Donald. They still do.
Your personal life is a trainwreck of your own making. You’ve cheated on every wife you’ve had; women who, let’s be honest, didn’t marry you for your charm or your physique. You brag about your affairs, but we all know they were transactional. Love? Affection? No, Donald, you wouldn’t know love if it hit you over the head with one of your golf clubs. Your children; your greatest achievements, if we’re grading on a curve; are carbon copies of your own hollow ambition. They learned from the best how to con, grift, and fail upward.
And what of your so-called leadership? You’re a coward, incapable of taking responsibility for anything. Every failure is someone else’s fault. You boast of being a negotiator, yet your deals consistently fall apart. Your “beautiful” trade wars hurt Americans more than anyone else. Your “historic” meetings with dictators were nothing but photo ops. Every promise you made to your base was a lie, and even the fools who still chant your name at rallies have started to realize it.
The insurrection you incited on January 6th is your legacy. You didn’t just fail to uphold your oath to the Constitution; you spat on it. You unleashed violence on your own country, not out of principle, but because you couldn’t handle losing. You threw a tantrum, and people died. You’ll go down in history, Donald, but not as a hero or a statesman. You’ll be remembered as a pathetic, self-serving demagogue; a cautionary tale for the ages.
You’ve built your empire on lies, exploitation, and fear, yet for all your bluster, you’re one of the weakest men alive. Your ego is so fragile that any dictator with a halfway decent compliment can manipulate you. Kim Jong Un called you “excellent,” and you practically swooned. The rest of the world’s leaders don’t fear you; they mock you behind your back, knowing you’re too insecure to see it.
And here’s the kicker: None of it has filled the gaping hole inside you. The money, the power, the sycophants; it’s all a bandage over the wound left by a father who was never proud of you. That’s the real tragedy, isn’t it? You’ve spent your entire life trying to prove yourself to a man who gave you nothing but his name, his money, and the curse of his dementia. When you finally succumb to that same disease, when the spotlight fades and the sycophants scatter, you’ll die as you’ve lived: alone, unloved, and utterly insignificant.
We don’t envy you, Donald. We don’t fear you. We see you for what you are: a small, sad man desperately grasping for something you’ll never have. And when you’re finally gone, the world won’t mourn. It will breathe a sigh of relief.
Sincerely,
R.L. Lawrence