Dear Mr Trump,
I just wanted to reach out and congratulate you on your jaw-dropping appointment as President Elect of the United States of America.
I was unable to follow your campaign very closely as, well, I have a life, but please don’t infer any insult from this, I love it when people start gobbing off with no thought or concern for either their own credibility or personal safety.
I for one applaud you.
It’s inspiring in a way.
Walling off an entire country? Talking about your winky? Grabbing minges, and showing the world your Mrs-ziz’s boobies?
You have left no stone unturned in your rampage of unfiltered sentence makery, and that
wig of yours?
I mean puhh-lease? Going on stage and parodying a elderly chap with a squirrel on his head? How do you come up with this stuff?
Honest sweetie, in lieu of the Real-Top-Gear squad blowing up stuff, credit where credit is due, you have made a huge contribution to the sum total of all the laughter we have enjoyed in the Single-Mum household this year. I honestly think that without you I wouldn’t have fallen off the sofa even once in 2016.
When I heard that you are one of the few people who have failed to make money running a casino in Atlantic City, my uncontrollable paroxysms of giggles actually caused me to lose control of my central nervous system resulting in chicken supper and Pepsi Max all over my favourite furry, Marks & Spencer sofa blanket.
Pepsi Max came the wrong way out of my nose and I had to resort to asking Annabelle to leap out of cupboards to ‘frit me up bad’ as I was under the hiccups for a good hour afterwards.
Between you and me, I think a little bit of wee-wee came out as well but that could just have been the aforementioned Pepsi Max, either way, fair’s fair, you’re right, making ladies unmentionables wet definitely seems to be a talent of yours.
In fact I find myself in a bit of a moral dilemma; on one hand I selfishly want to keep you around and ‘saying stuff’ but, on the other hand, back in the real world, someone has to keep the trains running and obviously, all you’re managing to achieve in that sense is the riling up of a load of Mexican drug lords and IS suicide bombers.
Knowing our royal family, pretty sure it would be safe to say that the prospect of having to call in Hugh Hefner’s interior decorator to re-wallpaper Buckingham Palace’s ‘meet’n’greet’ room with leopard skin and 1 carat gold leaf, so you feel at right at home on your trip, is enough to add Prince Phillip’s name to your list of potential assassins.
I live fifty miles away from London but even I heard Queen Elizabeth’s horrified squeaks of ‘What??? He’s got to come here???’ when our Prime Minister called her up to say “Farage’s drunk again, we need to distract the Trump chap, brace yourself Queenie, you’re up,”.
No, in many ways it’ll be a sad day in the Single-Mum household when the bullet slash nail-bomb, that is currently, in a dark cellar (slash cave) somewhere, being mutteringly engraved with the words ‘Yeah, I’ll Fucking Well Make America Great Again’, finally connects with the Texas sized, high-viz bullseye you are diligently painting on that lingerie-melting arse of yours.
Connect it will though.
A sad, sad day.
On the upside, and in a greed fuelled, moral-compass lacking, self-servingly opportunistic frenzy that you should, quite rightly, take personal credit for, many, many people are gonna win big at the bookies so, in an ironically amusing turn of events, you will indeed be the cause of a certain amount of wealth redistribution among the working classes.
I will miss you enormously but, the show must go on and also Real-Top-Gear has just come onto Amazon and loads of other stand-ups release new DVDs at Chrimbo so it’s all good.
Life will go on.
Anyway, gotta jet but in the time you have left, keep keeping it real dude.
Love and hugs,
Single Mum xxxxxx