Dearest Donald

There are many people of all shades and persuasions who wish you a speedy return to health. I think various factors propel such sentiments. First there is the humane and sincere propensity to not wish ill on others, to not want to sink into the swamp of hate that ensnares with ties that bind. Then there is the less benign fear of being seen as uncaring. There is probably also a desire to appear civil and mature – and to avoid criticism. Whatever. 

My own feelings about you, arguably the most life threatening scum to ever slither across the planet, are a bit complicated. As an individual, I see you as way beneath contempt. I see  a rampaging beast where I know the beast is just doing what comes naturally. Not an iota of choice involved. A victim of its own inner drives. Often you seem to me like such a beast growling outside morality, outside choice. Donald just being Donald. I can’t hate a spider, a boa constrictor, a lion, nor even a tiny little virus speck. So why hate you?

But the overriding fact is that you are not just another Donald. You are not a speck unto yourself. You are in power, and you cavort with others of your ilk. Thankfully, not everyone who likes you nor even everyone who adores you is remotely like you. Many Trump voters have multiple factors pushing and pulling them into your orbit. Their attachment to you may be mutable. Their escape might even be relatively quick and painless. Others, sadly, are perhaps so deeply embedded in your orbit, so tightly tied, that getting out will be a stupendously hard climb. Providing them ladders is a worthy act. Wishing you well so you can ensnare them even more tightly, not so much. 

But, again, as to you – and of course, everything for you returns to you – you are not just a beast, but also a beast rider, a beast provoker, the Beast in Chief, and I must admit, you are good at it, better than most acknowledge. At once stupid as a turnip and effective as an idiot savant, you may yet make the best of having sickened yourself and having sickened even those guarding you, even those praising you, and of course millions of others by your anti-science self-seeking, power-seeking, deaf, dumb, and blind wizardry. You may get well and use that accident of clueless nature to strut and sputter that the Virus is no big deal: be like me, thank me, praise me, follow me, you would gleefully scream over the corpses of your victims. Skip the masks, skip the social distancing, go back to business as usual. Or, barely less destructively, maybe nature’s neutrality will make you remain sick and you will somehow parlay your pain into sympathy for the devil that is you. Or, finally, maybe you will die. Which outcome would I celebrate?

I am a child of the Sixties. Part of my milieu was love and kindness. Part of my milieu was dignity and respect. It is hard for me to wish ill on another individual. But back then there was also a song that seems to me more appropriate even a half century later than today’s get well soon messages whose motivation I can understand, and even feel sympathy with, but which I ultimately find out of time, out of place. 

So here’s to you Dearest Donald, to you, not an individual but the foremost Master of War against all humanity. I hope someone turns on a stereo near your bed and plays Dylan singing this to you, over and over, just out of reach, so you can’t turn it off, until the end.

And then I would weep for your soul, but you don’t have one. I would bemoan the loss of your intelligence, but you don’t have any. I would lament the loss of your sly and slippery genius for self preservation, but the end of that would be a blessing for all.

Here, then. Listen. Listen. Until The End.

Come, you masters of war

You that build the big guns

You that build the death planes

You that build all the bombs


You that hide behind walls

You that hide behind desks

I just want you to know

I can see through your masks


You that never done nothin’

But build to destroy

You play with my world

Like it’s your little toy


You put a gun in my hand

And you hide from my eyes

And you turn and run farther

When the fast bullets fly


Like Judas of old

You lie and deceive

A world war can be won

You want me to believe


But I see through your eyes

And I see through your brain

Like I see through the water

That runs down my drain


You hide in your mansion

While the young peoples’ blood

Flows out of their bodies

And is buried in the mud


You’ve thrown the worst fear

That can ever be hurled

Fear to bring children

Into the world


For threatenin’ my baby

Unborn and unnamed

You ain’t worth the blood

That runs in your veins


How much do I know

To talk out of turn?

You might say that I’m young

You might say I’m unlearned


But there’s one thing I know

Though I’m younger than you

That even Jesus would never

Forgive what you do


Let me ask you one question

Is your money that good?

Will it buy you forgiveness?

Do you think that it could?


I think you will find

When your death takes its toll

All the money you made

Will never buy back your soul


And I hope that you die

And your death will come soon

I’ll follow your casket

On a pale afternoon


And I’ll watch while you’re lowered

Down to your deathbed

And I’ll stand over your grave

’Til I’m sure that you’re dead


  1. avatar
    Michael November 7, 2020 8:59 pm 

    Mat Grind’s sober comments below are very much worth pondering. And Mike’s original article needs to be remembered.

  2. avatar
    Paulo Rodriguez October 30, 2020 3:48 pm 

    Oomph. That was intense. Thanks Mike.

  3. avatar
    Matt Grind October 5, 2020 6:32 pm 

    Trump dying would probably save some lives, and more easily preserve what democracy the USA has left. Trump living would continue this incompetent and uncaring response to the pandemic. Trump living (as it appears he will) will threaten the integrity of the next election, possibly moving the most powerful country in the world to a dictatorship.

    Normally, I would simply think that the result of Trump dying would be nominal, his replacement would continue doing similar things, and the system would continue on. However, Trump is unusually selfish, and has a powerful base that might allow him to hold on to power, even if he is defeated. Therefore, his death would help matters.

    Whereas, thinking back to George Bush, his death would not have done much good, his replacement would have simply carried on similar policies.

    Trump is different, it seems.

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