Dear President Trump,

Here is a bedtime story for you.

Once upon a time, very much like the present time, there lived a man, of sorts, who had become the center of attention of all the wide world. This man, of sorts, was feted and feasted wherever he went, always receiving a double helping of dessert, which he ate with gusto while the plebes surrounding him pretended to be fully satisfied with their single helpings of dessert. This man, of sorts, struck fear in the hearts of those who professed their love for him and loathing in the guts of those who hated his.

This man, of sorts, wasn’t always the center of attention of all the wide world, but at the time of this telling he had been basking in the limelight for the earth’s last three trips around the sun. You see, this man, of sorts, had won the biggest contest in his land because he was able to take advantage of an arcane method of counting votes that over-valued the votes of people living in relatively undesirable settings, so even though he lost what is called the popular vote, he vanquished his foe and laid claim to the coveted oval office. This man, of sorts, achieved this improbable outcome, in part, by convincing the people living in relatively undesirable settings that he alone could reverse their ill fortunes and bring back the way of life they never actually had. This man, of sorts, and his allies, were, however careful not to tell the people living in relatively undesirable settings that the settings were made undesirable by their extreme religiosity and bigotry, which proved toxic for many of their offspring, causing them to move to more desirable parts of the land even though their votes would not count as much in those places.

In addition to capitalizing on the arcane, anti-popular vote counting system of his land, this man, of sorts, was aided in his quest for the oval office by many moneyed figures. Some of these wealthy patrons hailed from near and some of them hailed from such distant points that this man, of sorts, couldn’t have identified them on a globe to save his mother, had he been inclined to do so. Despite their geographic spread, all of these moneyed figures had in common their fervent belief that having this man, of sorts, in the oval office would make them all even more wealthy than they already were.

After a time, though, this man, of sorts, found himself chaffing at the form of governance his land nominally followed. On good days, this man, of sorts, was merely annoyed and frustrated by the limits imposed on him by the others who were elected to keep an eye on him, to check and balance him. On bad days, this man, of sorts, was infuriated by the rowdy bunch of elected officials who loathed his guts and he used his out loud voice, typically in the form of what are known as “Tweets,” to mock and threaten them, which, not surprisingly, further cemented their loathing of his guts.

This pattern of a good day followed by ten bad days went on for what seemed like forever to many in the realm until even this man, of sorts, grew weary of the battles. This man, of sorts, longed for the simpler times before the oval office when his word was gold, when no one questioned him and everyone did his bidding before he even had to ask. So this man, of sorts, summoned those who professed to love him and reminded them that he held their very lives in the palm of his little right hand. He then stared at each of them in turn until they averted their gazes in acquiescence and then this man, of sorts, sneered and sniffed and proclaimed himself King.

Those who professed to love him cheered and the moneyed figures who had paved his path to the oval office did some quick calculations to assure themselves that this man, of sorts, would remain a good bet even after his desk chair was replaced with a throne. Convinced that this would be so, they left the merry-makers to go juice the bots and trolls that would convince the stubborn ones that down is up and up is down, that President is King and King is President.

May we be safe from nightmarish tales.
May we be willing to wake the f*ck up.
May we get that democracy can’t take care of itself.
May we not make peace with despots.

Sincerely,
Tracy Simpson