The Last Laugh: A Letter to Mr. Trump

Dear Mr. Trump - 

I won’t honor you with the title of President because you haven’t earned it. Not in votes. Not in behavior. Definitely not in respect on any level. Indeed, the “Mr.” is merely the result of years of devotion to Miss Manner’s daily newspaper column

I know you will never read this letter. I’m going to write it all the same. 

Because I’ve come to realize something that I don’t think you know. Or perhaps you do know it very deeply inside the darkest corners of your mind. Perhaps it is the reason for your mental illness.

You see, you may have connived your way to the pinnacle of power, the epitome of all success. But I will get the last laugh. 

I am younger than you. My children are younger than you. If my math and the 2010 US Census are correct, 87% of Americans are younger than you.

Odds are very good that you will die long before I will. Definitely before my children.

And we are the keepers of your legacy. 

After you are gone, we will remain to write the history books. We will tell the truths and report the facts. Not your mind’s twisted, distorted alternative facts, but the cold, hard realities. We will choose what gets remembered and what gets forgotten.

You will not be remembered as a great man. You will not be recalled as having been beloved or popular. The adjectives “admirable” and “respected” will never be attached to your name. Your attributes will not ever include “wise” or “compassionate”. 

Your meager successes will fade beneath the bright light we will shine on your failures. The name that brings you so much riches and pride will become, once again, the punchline of a bad joke, the short-hand slang for a corrupt, morally bankrupt politician. “He’s a real Trump,” we’ll say, and that will explain everything we need to know about a person.

We will not build monuments in your honor or remember you on holidays. The company you keep will be Hitler, Putin, Hussein, and Chavez. You will receive credit for bringing on the darkest time in America’s history. A host of ills will be placed at your feet.

We will openly mock your tiny hands, your ridiculous spray tan, the bad toupee. We will speculate how small your manhood must have been to warrant such overcompensation. We will point at the pictures that demonstrated how few people supported you and how many hated you. We will watch the videos and we will mock you, as you once mocked a disabled reporter. 

And the best part?

You will be powerless to do anything about it. You won’t be able to tweet your outrage. You won’t be able to force your surrogates to try to sell us your lies. You won’t be able to threaten and bully and abuse your power.

You will be gone, but we will remain, and we will be laughing at you. We will teach our children and our grandchildren to laugh as well. 

That will be your legacy and your hell. Doomed for all eternity to be laughed at.

Call it Karma.