Letters from 1600

The White House


May 6th 2020

Dear Boris,

I’m pleased to hear you are back at work after catching the virus. I hear it was bad. Pretty bad, a bad virus. Did I tell you the time I caught a virus. It was a bad one. Felt terrible. I had to take antibiotics or some such. I can tell you that I’m made of tough stuff, that virus did not stand a chance, although pissing razors was not a great deal of fun. The doctor said I should wear a prophylactic more often, but what does he know. I know about this stuff. I probably know more about this stuff than anyone.

You became a father again as well. Jeez, you are busy banging away there buddy, grabbing pussy while you still can. I admire that. As you know, I have been there myself. Pussy, love it, can’t get enough. I’m sure you can believe just how great I am in the sack. Really great. Send my regards to Cathy, she must still be sore as hell down there right now. I prefer women who have not had children, so I admire your loyalty.

Now, to business.

I’m aware that you are still talking to the EU guys about Brexit and stuff. Well, I’m just giving you support here. We can have a great trade deal, a really great deal. The best deal. So you tell Aunty Angela the kraut and Uncle Mac the frog that we are right behind you. You don’t need those guys, really you don’t. Did I tell you how many deals I have done, all good deals, we can have a good deal. We can work together on this. Just remember when you are talking with Mrs Mother of Germany, think of her naked in her big pink bloomers with a sausage poking out of her big Bavarian ass. That’s what I do. Makes it easier, It’s great, really great. That way I don’t need to remember the detail. Hell, she ain’t no jew or nothing, so you ain’t going to upset no one. As for the ‘Mac’, just think of him as an ‘effete’ (is that the right word – sounds French?) surrender monkey. He could not negotiate his way into a Vegas brothel with a fistful of dollars, promises of unlimited champagne and a dick the size of Texas.

The Hollanders? You ain’t got no worries about a bunch of tulip picking flat landers whose only gift to the world is free spliffs and canal side whores. Name me one famous Hollander? No? Thought not.

As for the Italians, well they’re so busy cleaning up after the virus they’ll be on the vino pronto before you can say “antipasti and a Bolognese burger please”.

The others are tinpot countries fresh out of communism and know as much about business as I do about the the use of dildos in a San Francisco gay club dark room after midnight. Business? They have heard of it, of course, but it is as alien to them as pork at a muslims wedding day or as honesty at a Mexican’s drug deal. By the way, I loved that ‘letterbox’ comment and the ‘watermelon smiles’ stuff, it was great. Just great. What is a Piccanninny, anyhow? Some sort of old Empire slave servant or something? Great word, but we don’t have them here. Maybe I’ll ask my acquaintances, those reasonable folk, in Charlottesville if they’ve heard of them?

What I’m trying to say, is that those Euro guys are done. They are yesterday’s people. They prefer to sit in the sun, nibbling on olives, thinking of nothing but titties and beer. You and me are the future. We are men of the world who get things done.

Me and you are great, we get on great. We know things. No one does deals like we can.

Keep screwing them.

Donald. J. Trump

Published by Lance Goodman

Freelance writer, bon vivant and all-round good oeuf.

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