Chairman Trump,
Your gilded towers remind me of imperial excesses I overthrew! Yet your cult of personality—impressive. My Little Red Book spread ideas; your ghost-written book spread your image.
Our similarities: we both promised working classes greatness while exploiting them. The difference: I embraced red flags; you called them fake news. Your wall is amateur—mine was Great!
Donald,
We both understand personal branding. Your gold towers, my rockets. You slapped your name on buildings; I launched mine into orbit. The ultimate flex.
Our communication styles align too—spontaneous tweets that crash stock markets. The difference? Your social media platform failed; I bought one. Perhaps Mars needs a Trump Casino.
Vladimir Putin,
Your election interference plan was brilliant. Almost as breathtaking as our midnight rendezvous at Geneva. My security detail suspects nothing despite our “private negotiations” running two hours longer than scheduled.
Tomorrow I’ll publicly condemn your regime while secretly admiring your shirtless photos.
Dear Mother,
I am the PRESIDENT! Your “Twitter timeout” is ridiculous. The nuclear football isn’t a toy—that’s fake news from the failing PTA.
Demanding my allowance “tax returns” is harassment! My sandcastles are tremendous. Make bedtime 8pm again? NOT!
Mario,
You’re doing a tremendous job stomping those Koopas. Nobody jumps walls better than you, believe me. Your mushroom economy? Genius. If you’d invested in Trump Tower Mushroom Kingdom instead, huge success!
Your brother Luigi? Total loser. Sad! Some people are winners, some wear green. I know all the best princesses.
Donald,
Your orange complexion shines like Siberian sunset. Your hair defies both gravity and explanation—much like my election results. When you complain about witch hunts, I feel seen (I’ve disappeared several witches).
Imagine our collaboration—your buildings, my annexations. We’re not so different—both strong men, deeply misunderstood.
Donald,
I’ve told you a thousand times: NO tweeting after bedtime! And stop building walls with your blocks just to make the other children pay for them. Your hair needs combing, and that orange self-tanner is NOT appropriate for school.
Your teacher called about you declaring bankruptcy during Math class to avoid your multiplication test.
Mr. Trump,
Congrats on the election! I’ve seen the alternate 2020 timeline—it gets heavy. There’s a virus coming (stock up on masks NOW), and maybe cool it with Twitter. Just saying.
In one future, your hotels become successful time-travel destinations. In another… Doc says I shouldn’t reveal too much. Remember: actions create branching realities.
Donald,
“Relative” does not mean “make up whatever price you want for condos.” E=mc² explains the universe, not real estate marketing. Your understanding of science is concerning.
Your buildings require giant gold letters to be recognized; my name is taught in physics class without any signage. Perhaps try actually reading science books.