The year is 2022. We are in the backyard of Trudi Glockenspiel and Mr. Snuffy, a typical ‘Burbian couple living a typical boring life in ‘Burbia, the land that time forgot. Trudy and Mr. Snuffy are digging up their yard with great intensity, hoping to find something that qualifies as interesting to talk about. Or to spread around the neighborhood as, well, fake news. Or the real deal?
Suddenly, Trudi’s shovel hits something metallic. Ping! Ping! We hold our breath as Mr. Snuffy digs his way around Trudi’s discovery, finally pulling out a shiny metal canister wrapped in red, white, and blue ribbon. Mr. Snuffy carefully lifts its lid, exposing dozens of folded pieces of paper. Each appears to be a letter to a person living and/or dead.
Here is a curated collection of what Trudi and Mr. Snuffy found.
Fake News of Hysterical Importance
Dear Senator McConnell,
I’m writing to you because I want you to explainify why you’re such a buzz kill. I mean, everything coming outta your mouth is, “no, no, no.” Where’s your “yes,” for doobie’s sake! Are you so damaged by the fact that you closely resemble a turtle that you are biologically incapable of sharing the bounty of our great and beautiful country, which just happens to be goin’ down the tubes right in front of my eyes?
And bein’ that I’m blind, that’s a pretty neat trick. So stop being a Nervous Nellie and cough up some cash for the poor black folks.
All my best,
Stevie Wonder
Dear Senator Ted Cruz,
You are cordially invited to join us on an all-expenses-paid vacation to Cancun where we’ll spend 11 days drinking margaritas, swimming in an infinity pool, and fighting off bandits with our AK47’s.
Assuming we survive this experience as a family, we will return to Texas where you will be forced into wedlock with Governor Abbot. The two of you will then be transported to Jeffrey Epstein’s island where you’ll be forced to shampoo the rugs and turn tricks in the town square.
Sincerely yours,
Every Voter in Texas Who Lost Power and Just About Everything Else in the Big Storm You Ran Away From in 2021
Fake News, Felines & Wizards
Dear Donald Trump,
Tis is Fluffypuss and Peekaboo, mommy’s kitties. (By the way, mommy hates you. She says you’re a bloodsucking fool with no heart and no brain and a teenie weenie wiener.) We’re writing to you ‘cause we think you’re a meanie. That’s ‘cause you won’t let cats and dogs get married. Also, you don’t love animals. We never see you cuddling a pussycat or puppy or even a bunny on Easter.
Whazz up with dat, Mr.-Ex-President, you narcissistic bully? Yeah, and hey, how’s it going, stealing millions of bucks from your blue-collar, anti-immigrant, redneck, anti-vax, death wish followers so that you can kick democracy to the litter box?
With all best wishes to you in your future endeavors in Sing Sing,
The Fluffster and the Peekabooster
Dear Mr. Wizard of Oz,
My name is Mitch McConnell. I’m writing to request a meeting with your Wizardry at your earliest convenience. At this meeting, I will jerk you around and rip away your curtain unless you grant me the following: A brain, a heart, and a pair of red ruby slippers AND. YOU. MAKE. PEOPLE. STOP. SAYING. I. LOOK. LIKE. A. TURTLE. This is non-negotiable!
Now you may wonder why I, one of the most powerful men in the US of A, would need such items. I mean, except for the slippers, don’t I already have a brain and a heart? In all honesty, your Wizardness, I lack the aforementioned items, having been born minus such conveniences. Although I must say that to the Average and Below Average Joe, it looks like I have them.
After all, I can walk and chew gum at the same time, drive a golf cart, and tie my Speedos. Ooops, I mean, sneakers. But, sadly, sir, I’ve historically underperformed in America’s Got Talent for Extreme Moral Corruption, allowing those dancing and singing assholes, Lindsay Graham and Ted Cruz, to outstrip me. {Note to self: did I mean “outstrip me” literally?}
However, if I had a brain, I would finally rise to the top, like cream in a cuppa joe, and get out from under that ridiculous clown with the orange hair. As for a heart, well, my informants within the Democratican party tell me that having a heart, the kind that has feelings, increases your chances of getting laid by a stripper from Babes with Boobies.
As for the ruby slippers, I’ve always wanted to dress up as a transvestite and vogue my way down the avenue at the New York City Halloween Parade. Not that I’m gay or anything like that. I’m just, well, adventurous.
Please let me know if you are free to meet with me. If you’re not tied up – oooohhhh, I love bondage words! — I’ll send you a first-class ticket to Washington, DC, paid for my impoverished constituents in Kentucky.
Full of BS as always,
Senator Mitch McConnell
Dear Marco Rubio,
This is your conscience speaking. You are dead to me!
Sincerely,
Your Amygdala
Dear Uncle Abe,
I’m so sorry you’re dead.
Sincerely yours,
Joey Biden, Prez
Santa Claus Is Real! So is Joe Manchin!
Dear Santa,
This letter is a bit belated, I admit, but I’ve been very busy with my mental health journey. You know, Santa, the road to a higher power, mindfulness, purpose, and getting out of bed. Yeah, it’s been exhausting and I just had to get some sleep. But then, while I was sleeping, I got kissed by a frog, which was a disgusting experience. Did you know that frogs tongue kiss?
Anyway, Froggie woke me right out of my slumber so I raced down to the kitchen in the middle of the night to eat three Entenmann’s donuts with a glass of zero percent fat-free milk, which made me barf a little, but then I cleaned it up. And here I am! Wherever that is.
So I would appreciate your sending me a guy who understands me totally and loves me unconditionally sometimes. If you have one, please send him to the Metarsal Psychiatric Institute. I’ll pay for shipping and handling.
Oh, wait, someone’s calling me. Well, that’s strange ‘cause they don’t let us loonies have phones. I better tune into my fillings. Yeah, whaddya want? There’s no such thing as Santa Claus? Then who’s that fat guy with the curly white beard reading a menu?
Love,
Little Miss Naughty
Dear Senator Manchin,
What’s it like, mister big shot, running around Washington, DC, like Jesus resurrected? You are such a juicy little hypocrite. I know you meet weekly with an Exxon Mobil lobbyist so that Mr. Oily Guy can shove tons of cold, hard cash into your big pockets to weaken Biden’s climate agenda. I could go on, but writing this letter gives me a pain in my ass. In closing, I’d like to remind you that, while I may be poor, I’m not stupid.
Yours truly,
A Democratic, Satan-worshipping single mom with four kids, a minimum wage job, lead in the water, and no way out.
The Fix Is In, Boys & Girls
Dear FIX News,
I’m writing to warn you that your fake news approach to COVID has my GI tract tied up in knots. I mean, it’s been impossible to have a good dump ever since your girlie-girlfriend, the Golden Trumpet, got illegally voted into office. Yes, you fake news hippo-crits, you are on notice. The next time something phony comes flying out of your mouths, I’m gonna dive bomb you with Omicronic-Supersonic-Eggplant Parmesanic.
With all best wishes for your continued spiral down into hell,
Tony Fauci, MD.
Dear George Washington,
How ya doin’? Look, I know you’re dead an’ all, but, frankly, I’m tired of excuses. I think that, if you tried really hard, you could contribute some of your downtime to helpin’ us out. Ya see, you’re the father of our country an’ all and things ain’t so great in the South right now. Yeah, I know. Again!
There’s all this gerrymanderin’ goin’ on and folks of color don’t have the right to vote anymore because we always vote Democrat and the Repelicans don’t like that. Also, nobody can get an abortion anywhere. Not even if you were raped by your daddy. Which is, as you know, kinda a thing down in these here parts.
Look it, all hell’s breakin’ loose, sir. Although, frankly, Mr. Washington, sir, the Democrats ain’t doing us all that much good right about now either. What with Governor Greg Abbott and Senator McConnell gettin’ married and all. Everybody’s in a downright fluster tryin’ to figure out what to get ’em for a weddin’ gift. I mean, if it were me, I’d get ‘em a flapjack maker and a fishin’ pole. But, like I said, that’s just me.
So, let me know your thoughts and what all you can do for us down here. Give my respects to God.
Sincerely,
Isiah Thompkins, the last black person in an unnamed lily-white American city
Does Mike Crapo Give a Crapo?
Dear Senator Mike Crapo,
I just paid $54 a gallon for watered-down gasoline at my local Kum & Go. You know the place. It’s at the intersection of Hell and Beyond in the town of Suck Me Dry, Idaho. I am writing to tell you IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS that my wife, Ruby Snakepits, and I are fed up with high prices, low morals, loose women, and our cigar-sucking banker with a pinky ring. You know the guy.
He’s the inflated sex doll who sits behind the mahogany desk at Suck Me Dry National Bank. Do you know what their motto is? “We’ll suck you dry on every try because, you sucker, you’re one sad fucker.”
Now, here’s the deal, Mr. Big Shot up there in Washington DC. If you don’t get your miserable cronies to lower prices on that prune juice you call gasoline, the following consequences will occur in random order:
You will be forced to say seven nice things about Kamala Harris in the Senate ladies’ room while pronouncing her name properly.
You will sit on the floor of Amy Klobuchar’s office, with a teddy bear on your lap and a lollipop in your mouth. And you will beg Senator Klobuchar to forgive you for being a Repelican.
You will resign from the Senate and get a job as a bus boy at Denny’s or Cracker Barrel. Your choice.
Thank you for your time and consideration,
Ruby and Willy-Nilly Snakepits, Esquires
Suck Me Dry, Montana
Now what would our story be without a video that superbly sums up what has come before?
