Dear Mr. President, let’s make a deal

Dear Mr. President,

You may not realize it, but you and I have a common goal: getting me the hell out of America.

I realize that it’s nothing personal on your end, cosmopolitan playboy that you are. But it’s personal for your voters, apparently. As in, the very voters that made you. As we both know, they’re not into the whole trans thing. Bless their little hearts; some folks truly have nothing better to do.

But I get it; you’ve just gotta rile ’em up sometimes. Like with how tragically tiny my hands are, or how pretty I once was (am).

God gave me that varicose vein for humility.

Well, you riled ’em up, old sport, so it’s time to finish the job. If you wanna remain their Second Coming of Christ and get that third or even posthumous fourth term, that is.

So, Mr. President, it’s time to kick me out.

Well, artfully kick me out. Let’s make a deal. A big, beautiful deal.

You see, what I need is a good ol’ threat on my life — but personalized. I need it just artful enough to glide on by all the hard stuff like detention and getting disappeared.

Because I wanna get disappeared my way, thank you very much. Like, to Finland. But I can’t make that asylum claim just yet, since we’re only six months into Project 2025 and you’ve yet to rip the lifesaving…