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Dear Mr. Trump,
Remember me? I sit right there in the front row at your rallies, waving my poster that says UMM MORE LIKE HITLERY CLINTON. Have you seen it? It’s the one with the picture of that heinous hag wearing a German military uniform and a swastika armband. I printed out the color copy of her hideous face at a Kinko’s, but I drew the little cockroach moustache on there myself. She looks better with it, in my opinion.
Anyway, I’m always first in line to get into your rallies and speeches. That’s been my thing. I get up really early, pack a can of chili and my camping chair, and beat your advance team to your next stop. Even though standing behind you will get me on TV, I always choose the front row so I can wave to you. Do you see me?
Mr. Trump, ever since leaving Marty I’ve got a whole new lease on life. I basically told him “You’re fired!” and then got in my Camaro and buzzed it to South Carolina to see your speech after you won the primary. That was back in February. You spanked ‘em real good, Mr. Trump! No turning back now.
These have been the best months of my life. Before that, I worked at a Target in Muncie, Indiana. And not even the good Target on the nice side of town. And just when I couldn’t fold another damn tank top, you gave me the courage to tell my manager Carmelita to stuff it so I could find a job that puts American workers first. Truth be told, I haven’t found one just yet, but after I’m done following you across the country and campaigning for you, I’ll settle up. Heck, when you become President, the offers will probably roll in like monster trucks. It’s time to finally take our country back!
Point is, I can’t just sit back and watch as America burns to the ground under that socialist immigrant Obama. Before you, I thought he was just a you-know-what, and that was bad enough. But Kenyan? I don’t think so.
To be honest, we’ve been going down the wrong path since that idiot “Dubbya” got us into the Iraq War, which is right around when The Apprentice started airing. I’m not blaming you. I just wish you had been President then. You would have just gone into Iraq and bing-bang-boom! Game over.
Because you’re right. We don’t win anymore. We just go to these deserts and try to make nice with a bunch of Muslims who hate us. Oh yeah, let’s just invite them all to dinner. I’ll call Marty. It’ll be a marvelous time.
The way I figure, we got all these nukes. What’s the point in having them if we don’t use them? I may not know what a nuclear triad is, but I know that if we don’t nuclear try-ad something, we’ll be in big trouble. I’m not sure why we keep tap dancing around the problem when we could just go in there and kick some ass.
There wouldn’t even be a Middle East if you had been President on 9/11. Think of how much better off we’d be if you just wiped it off the map the first time. No Syria, no ISIS, no problem! We’d be standing there in a pile of dust and sand and shrapnel, filming the real sequel to Mad Max. Not that pile of rubbish where a bald, handicapped supermodel plays the lead. Nice try, lady. These feminists have gotten completely out of hand.
I’m getting off track here.
Mr. Trump, I’m really writing because there’s something I just have to say. I can’t hold it in anymore. I love you. I think you’re the greatest thing to ever happen to this country.
I never knew what perfection was until I saw you. You’re handsome and healthy and successful, and you’ve probably never worn a t-shirt. Suits and ties only for this guy. And yet, a man of the people. You’re exactly what this country needs.
A guy who knows when to keep his hands clean (when you eat pizza) and when to get down and dirty (umm, it’s called winning).
A guy whose New York accent is more FDR Freeway than FDR, that crippled liberal who couldn’t keep his lesbian wife in check. Nice life, Wheels.
And that’s why when Marty said you look like a tuft of gilded cotton candy glued to the top of a jack-o-lantern, I knew it was over. I left him that day, Mr. Trump. I left him for you.
When you started your campaign, I’d listen to your speeches and just think, Finally! Someone who gets it. You took it straight to Lyin’ Ted and Little Marco and losers like John McCain and Jeb Bush, using words so hot and sharp that the wallpaper in my parlor started to curl and peel from the walls. I’ve never felt so inspired and angry. And now it’s Hillary’s turn.
I’m out here yelling every single day, but I don’t know if you hear me. I know your Secret Service detail does. They’re always looking at me. I’ve told them a million times that I’m no trouble, no trouble at all. Just here for The Donald. Just here for The Truth. Just here for The Gospel. They don’t smile a lot. I don’t know why. They should feel honored to protect you.
Mr. Trump, you’re the only one I trust to tell Russia and China to sit the hell down. The only one who will finally put the Mexicans back in their place (behind a wall). The only one who will get these Muslims out of our country and finally tell the world, “AMERICA’S BACK, JACK! NOW GET BEHIND US OR GET OUT OF OUR WAY!”
I know where I stand, which is behind you 100 percent, even when I’m in front of you waving. I’ll be with you every campaign stop, screaming your name, doing whatever it takes to get you elected. I just want you to know I’m here. I want you to help me like I’m helping you. I want you to care about me the way I care about you. This is love, Mr. Trump. I may not be rich like you, but I’m giving you all I got.
Your wife Melania is a lucky woman. And the way you look at and talk about your daughter Ivanka makes me extremely uncomfortable (with jealousy). If it doesn’t work out with either of them, just know I’ll be here for you. I may not be the prettiest, but you have a way of capitalizing on things when they get ugly.
With Love, Adoration, and LOYALTY,
Rita Marie Muller
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