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Dear Mr. President, Who Are You?

Dear Mr. President,

Why you send me to be a hero and win medals but I’m poisoned?

Dear Mr. President,

Why I got no groupies? Why I gotta work? I hate my job. You like yours?

Dear Mr. President,

Surely those rumors about your having nothing but paste and pudding in your codpiece are not true. But the Liberal Media is relentless. Heavens, can’t we do something?

Dear Mr. President,

Why did they spend my tax money on National Defense when it can’t be defense cause defense is when you stand on your porch or lawn with a rifle to protect what you have and I have done no such thing. Would like a refund ASAP.

Dear Mr. President,

The last novel I read was Finnegan’s Wake. I don’t think I’ll read another. I don’t care for novels anymore. I liked The Wake though, and I like poetry. Oh, I also liked Killing Hope, by William Blum and Blowback by Chalmers Johnson. How about you?

Dear Mr. President,

This sucks. I know “life’s a bitch and then you die” and blah blah blah, but really, even my 88-year-old grandmother who was a Commie during the Depression because she had no work (unlike yer granddaddy who sold all sorts of stuff to the Third Reich) and then lost her brother to WWII said it’s never been like THIS. Such misery, anxiety, despair world-wide and all you talk about’s the war on this; the war on that; the war on this, that and the other thing; all of which, according to one of your leprous courtiers, the U.S. Military can prosecute simultaneously and emerge victorious… Things were a lot better before YOU showed up.

Dear Mr. President,

Why are my toes crusty, cracked, twisted like I’m old? Am I old?

Dear Mr. President,

Did your Mom’s dog REALLY write that book, or did she hire a ghost? Rumor has it Millie read little but the sports pages and the comics and didn’t have the discipline to complete and submit a publishable manuscript. Hey, I’m just telling you what I’ve heard…

Dear Mr. President,

My wife is missing some jewelry; I “lost” my favorite shirt; there’s only 15 percocet in the medicine cabinet (last count there were twenty) and half that bottle of Single-Malt scotch we’d been saving for company has mysteriously evaporated. Now, we’re not ACCUSING you of anything, but…

Dear Mr. President,

Am I really a man of my time? Why does my three-year-old have asthma? What ever happened to Spring? And Autumn? It’s always hot or cold but never fair. Once I knew the scent of cherry blossoms and dove head-first into a mogul of brown leaves. Broke my collarbone (there were bricks under the pile), but I had fun.

Dear Mr. President,

May the Lord give you the courage to perform laser surgery and say cool stuff like, “Honey, I forgot to duck,” even though you stole the election and you’re an imbecile, a shallow boy — it must be embarrassing to have your daddy settle your affairs and get you jobs and stuff and then you mess up every damn time.

Dear Mr. President,

Forget my last letter. I’m drunk and unemployed. I refuse to say “no” to drugs (except for that junk you spray up your nose when it’s congested). You think maybe you could get me a job? Have Laptop, will travel.

Dear Mr. President,

Please get the FBI off my back. I’m not dangerous, just bored. Humor me.

Dear Mr. President,

As Jefferson set the table and Washington carved the bird, we went to war. Armed with an egg-launching blunderbuss, I wasted Red coats, Hessian scarves, Sioux buttons… then in the future, on a distant planet, I did jitterbugs and Tangos with my M16, I’m not sure why. Perhaps in the excitement I believed it my duty to smoke them all. Waste ’em without mercy. Have you had similar experiences? If so, please share.

Dear Mr. President,

I wanted to tell of my betrayal, but you being dead for years, it seemed so pointless.

Dear Mr. President,

Do you really need to chew so much gum? Stay away from gassy foods.

Dear Mr. President,

The future holds mud-pies and balls of yellow snow. We know that. But who’s gonna eat it, Mr. President? Who’s gonna take the hit? We know that too. You promised to protect and serve. Yet it’s up to us to defend ourselves from the slings and arrows of a pissed off world with, with what? Fat free potato chips? Chewy chocolaty goodness? Surely your military’s not for OUR defense – stirred up hornet’s nests and left us naked. Please stop laughing, Mr. President, it’s not funny.

Dear Mr. President,

I’m no longer a member of your book club. I hate books. Please do not contact me ever again.

Dear Mr. President,

The manual said “breathe.” Can you do that much? Just breathe?

Dear Mr. President,

The undead, snoring in cubicles, arise at night to suck milk-blood of Tofu. What I’m trying to say is: must we have porridge again? The children are starving why won’t you feed them?

Dear Mr. President,

What is your problem? WHO ARE YOU?

Dear Mr. President,

Poets are not the ‘unacknowledged legislators of the world;’ they’re merely unacknowledged. Please, talk to me. I know you know I’m out here. Let me know you care.

Dear Mr. President,

C’mon really it’s not like you’re Lenin or Stalin or Hitler or Mao or even Nixon dark-hearted little men who climbed cursing and spitting to the top of the human pile and did what they wanted to do all along pour gasoline on the haystack burn burn burn – you don’t have the brains or the guts though possibly you’re just as evil – you’re more like Louis XVI a billiard ball without a number a cue ball I think they call it blank white smacking other balls but somebody’s holding the stick or you’d be nothing static sit there inert tell me for god’s sake who’s got the stick who’s cueing you all blue with chalk and scared of the planet look at you leader of the “free world” can’t even channel surf and chew a pretzel without endangering the security of…of whom?

Dear Mr. President,

We all have our mishegas. To mish is human, to gas, divine. We mish a lot of stuff – zip! – right past our ears while we are doing what we think needs doing. Eventually we tire and go home. Don’t push yourself too hard. When you get tired, go home.

Sincerely,

ADAM ENGEL

ADAM ENGEL spent the best years of his life feeding the future President, burping him, changing his diapers, teaching him “good from evil,” and even cleaning up after the little guy took one pull too many off the bottle of “baby formula.” AND THIS IS THE THANKS HE GETS? It’s enough to make a man vote Democrat. If you’ve had similar experiences nursing future presidents/dictators/CEOs contact: asengel@attglobal.net

 

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Adam Engel is editor of bluddlefilth.org. Submit your soul to bluddlefilth@yahoo.com. Human units, both foreign and domestic, are encouraged to send text, video, graphic, and audio art(ifacts), so long as they’re bluddlefilthy and from The Depths.

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