An open letter to Melania
Please help us.
I know the joke; “Melania, blink twice if you need help.” But all kidding aside, we really need your help. I don’t know what your upbringing was like; I hope it was in a kind, loving family that sat around the soup pot each night. I hope you were not overprivileged and coddled (like you-know-who) and that you have seen the spectrum of wealth; not only because people who have played economic chutes and ladders are way more interesting to chat with at cocktail parties, but also because it may inspire you to help us. I’m counting on your life experience causing you to infiltrate the 1% for the benefit of the American people.
You know as well as I do, the system is rigged. Our congress is bought and paid for by those wealthy old white guys you hang out with in Florida. If your husband doesn’t know it, he’s a moron, and if he does, well, then he’s a liar too. He and his cronies are stealing our future and all the media can talk about is a sad sack movie producer who was sexually harassing half of Hollywood. Don’t get me wrong- I don’t know a single woman who has never been harassed, and I’m sure you saw plenty of unpleasant opportunities in your modeling days, but we need to change the perspective of our society as a whole instead of just firing the old pervs. I always think people should be held accountable for our actions, but the standard of decency in this country is on a slippery, seedy slope, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, the POTUS is on tape admitting to being a sexual predator, and that’s only the tape that’s been released.
I cannot imagine the ordeal it must be to wake up every day married to that. I feel for you, and I hope you marry for love next time. I have to tell you, living under the reign of The Orange One feels like being a kid in a nasty divorce, where one parent keeps using the kids to get back at the other until Christmas is ruined and everyone’s crying. You can feel it in the collective conscience; people are on the defensive, trying to anticipate the next fiasco: a ban on religious freedom, a Machiavellian seizure of our public lands, a tweet that starts World War III… and if there’s one thing that can bring a country to its knees, it is lack of access to professional sports. The people who watch the NFL are generally the same God-fearing, Doritos-eating, patriots who show up to support our troops at parades, but now they’re supposed to stop watching football?! Not a good idea. My sister was in the Peace Corps in Guinea and she witnessed this firsthand. Rolling blackouts, empty market shelves, limited access to healthcare; the good people of Guinea will put up with a lot, but when the power went out during a football match— riots and looting in the streets.
Americans are just as passionate about our sports teams, trust me. The proof’s in the body paint. So, Mel, here’s the deal, you help us out by whispering sweet-middle-class-tax-break-nothings into his ear at night while he sleeps, and here’s some age-old advice for picking a good one next time:
How to Preserve a Husband from Edith Farwell’s cookbook, Fun with Herbs (1887)
Be careful in your selection; do not choose too young, (well done there, Melania!) and take only such varieties as have been reared in good moral atmosphere (Ah, well…) When once decided upon and selected, let that part remain forever settled and give your entire thought to preparation for domestic use. Some insist upon keeping them in pickle while others are constantly getting them into hot water. (That’s yours! I know, he’s a rare specimen of malignant narcissism.) Even poor varieties may be made sweet, tender and good by garnishing them with patience, well sweetened with smiles and flavored with kisses to taste; then wrap well with a steady fire of domestic devotion and serve with peaches and cream (consensual pussy and cream?) When thus prepared they will keep for years.