“I think the bigger problem are the people from within. We have some very bad people. We have some sick people, radical left lunatics. And I think they’re the — and it should be very easily handled by — if necessary, by National Guard or, if really necessary, by the military.”—Donald John Trump, Republican candidate for president of the United States of America, Fox News interview, October 13 2024.
Dear once and possibly future Commander-In-Chief Donald Trump,
Don’t shoot! I surrender!
I am terrified that I might be included in your target demographic of “sick radical left lunatics.” Do you have to be all four to qualify, or just one? If you could please clarify!
I don’t consider myself sick, though I have had the sniffles lately.
Nor radical. Probably the most radical thing I ever did was vote for the independent presidential candidate John B. Anderson in 1980. Remember him? No? Anyway, not exactly a Marxist revolutionary.
I like to think I don’t belong in the lunatic category, but let’s be honest, that’s pretty subjective. I mean, injecting COVID patients with bleach? Only a lunatic would suggest something like that, ha ha! No, wait, don’t shoot!
But I could be fairly described as “left.” It doesn’t take much these days! For example, in my house we compost.
I don’t feel like an “enemy,” but the U.S. military isn’t too concerned with making fine distinctions within the other side once they get rolling. And you have been making me feeling uncomfortably “other” lately.
So let me proactively repeat: I surrender!
Because basically, I’m a coward. I mean, I can probably throw a punch about as well as the next Medicare-eligible U.S. citizen, but I don’t do so good against, like, shrapnel or machine-gun rounds. In the defensive weaponry category, I don’t own so much as a BB gun. And even if I had a military-grade assault rifle like so many of your lunatic, I mean patriotic, fans carry around, it would probably hurt more than help against your Abrams tanks, your Stryker armored vehicles, your mortars light, medium and heavy, your A10 Warthog fighter jets, your what-have-you. And beyond all that, I’m really not interested in opening fire against my fellow citizens, in uniform or out.
So I’ll go peacefully. You can pick me up anytime and cart me off to Guantanamo. If possible I’d like to take along a few books, a package of Nutter Butters, and a bottle or two of Jameson’s.
If, on the other hand, the nice, sane, thoughtful, principled candidate wins, as I desperately pray that she does, then you can take your mean-spirited fascist threats and stick them up your fat felonius spray-tanned gold-plated [expletive] [expletive] sand-trap.
Sincerely, Garden of Eaton
The Garden of Eaton 