Open Letter to President Trump: I've Got Melania

(By Cyril Blubberpuss, Conservative-American)

The Honorable Donald J. Trump, Chancellor President of the United States

The White House or Mar-a-Lago or Bedminster or Camp David

     Now see here, Mr. Chancellor President, as a Republican American, I am willing to do anything and everything for flag and country provided it glorifies or covers up for the GOP. I have already done several favors for your own family including once putting up Paul Manafort, Don Jr and Eric for a night after they frantically knocked on my door on 5th Avenue one evening smeared with dirt after a "job" in the New Jersey pine barrens. I didn't even ask Eric about the dirty shovel and bloody machete he brought into my house.

     And don't even get me started about the time Ivanka did the same thing a year later when her makeup was smeared, her dress torn and muttering something in a fugue state about "incest (being) the final straw." Then I had to deal with a sweaty and out of breath Michael Cohen waving an IOU for $130,000 under her pretty nose and your son in law Jared on my intercom every 30 minutes squeaking, "Thyril, where'th my wife? Do you have her?"

     But putting up your wife and son Barron these past 24 days has been trying on even my famous patience.

     And your silence on the matter since Melania disappeared from the public eye after May 10th has given rise to conspiracy theories that even Alex Jones would find ridiculous. (Although he has advanced his own, that she's getting the high, hard one from President Obama at his sex palace in Nairobi while the Mueller investigation records it and plans on playing the whole thing during your upcoming talk with him in the hopes of getting you to trip yourself up. Again, Alex the Human Sweat Gland said it, not me.)

    

 

     And now we have to see these pathetic things up and down fucking 5th Avenue!

     What's next, Mar-a-Lago Craigslist?!

     Now, don't get me wrong, having your wonderful little boy Barron has been a joy. In fact, it's a been a double joy for my kid brother Cecil.

     ...who's taken a really, really intense interest in your 12 year-old son. In fact, I had to almost literally pry the dear boy away from my sibling when he began telling him of the good old days when he operated cecilsprays.com back in the 90's.
     And, of course, nobody's been happier about having your family than my sweet, darling, 43 year-old unmarried daughter, Bertha.

     At first, Bertha Ceciline thought she'd gotten the perfect companion with whom she could snuggle under her kd lang fleece comforter while binge watching her full DVD collection of AMC's Women Ice Road Truckers of Alaska. However, midway through episode one, Melania had begged off and said something about having to be "anywhere but here."

     Now, again, Mr. Chancellor President, hosting this part of the First Family has been nothing but an unmitigated joy and I hereby reiterate my pledge to do everything for the Republican Party, especially if it makes Hillary Clinton (another favorite of Bertha's for some strange reason) look like a full-on Commie bull dyke. But even my patience is wearing thin, sir.

     In fact, right now, my kitchen staff is going crazy trying to reproduce authentic dishes, at your wife's request, from her native Slobenia or whatever you call it. And even as I write this, I do so through a noxious fog of something smelling like a yak's armpit and a mutant strain of garlic. And where the hell am I supposed to get a pair of platinum runcibles even in uptown Manhattan?!

     Sir, a word between gentlemen, if I may? This may be about the nasty rumors that are currently being circulated about your alleged affairs and people are beginning to talk that she's had enough. This is why she refuses to go to Trump Tower and is, instead, at my house. She says the entire staff at Trump Tower now speaks Russian, not her native language, and that the Trump Grill on the ground floor even sells borcht and knockoff Beluga caviar. She says the waiters and busboys take pictures of her where ever she goes and talk into their sleeves.

     Now, sir, I've always been a firm believer that a man's sexual peccadilloes are his and the GOP's own affair (no pun intended). And, as Stormy Daniels reminds us time and again, like children a man's squeezes on the side should be seen (preferably on Surround Sound Blu-Ray) and not heard. Now before you dismiss my concerns completely out of hand, allow me to offer a story from my own turbulent past.

     Back in 1964, when you were a strapping young lad of 18 and ready to embark upon a career erecting phallic-shaped buildings and cultivating bone spurs, my sainted mother Cymbeline left my father Ambrose over very much the same thing. In desperation, Dad even called in a favor and brought in an aging Cardinal Francis Spellman, then the archbishop of our city's diocese.

     "Now, Frankie, see here, you are going to go to that Fred Trump's house and read the Riot Act or whatever you papists call it, and tell my wife to get back this very instant. This is getting to be an embarrassment and we have a Republican fundraiser than I'm hosting coming up."

     Now, just because your father put up my mother for those terrifying 12 hours while he regaled her with stories about the time he was arrested in the middle of a KKK rally in the Roaring 20s, it does not mean I have to repay the favor, although I gladly have. The situation is different and my father's affair, ashamed as I am to admit it, was very real (although it must be said my poor father, who was too vain to wear glasses to correct his myopia, couldn't've possibly known that his love interest worked at the Moulin Rouge or what that drag fest typically featured).

     Melania has to go home now. My brother Cecil is searching in vain for Barron who's now hiding in a miniature closet beneath the main staircase, my daughter Bertha is crying for Melania (who's taken to carrying a cleaver where ever she goes) and my entire house smells like a cross between a Polish wedding reception and sheep dip.

     I realize that at times, the Republican Party is just one big, dysfunctional family but this is taking it to extremes. And I'm getting kind of tired about seeing those Zivs and Zhigulis parked across the street from my house.