Dear Diary,
Donald Trump is my bad biker boyfriend.
He abuses me. Calls me names. Embarrasses me in public. I never know what he’ll say in front of my friends.
Love hurts but I keep coming back.
I was dating one of the good boys, a sensitive type. I was really into him.
Then I caught him partying in Washington with the Democrats at Le Club. He had excuses. He said he had to get along because they still ran everything. Then I started getting overdraft messages from the bank.
Turns out my old boyfriend had been spending money like he was running the printing presses at the Treasury. Who knew he actually was running the printing presses at the Treasury? For a guy who sang every Sunday in the choir, he seemed to know a lot of people at the massage parlor. He promised he’d change but never did.
But that wasn’t the last straw. One day, we ran into a skinny, intellectual-type outside Le Club. Harvard guy. He didn’t look so tough; more like a golfer. Next thing we know, he was blitzing us like he was flying Air Force One. Obamacare, trade deals, Planned Parenthood funding, debt limit increases, a zillion Executive Orders. That dude sky-jammed everything he wanted down our nets.
My boyfriend did nothing except say, “We’ll get him next time.” But the dude kept raining dunks on us. I wanted a real man to stand up for me but my old boyfriend was busy playing fantasy football and growing facial scruff, or posing in front of a mirror at the gym.
Every morning I’d get up and something else had fallen apart. The creditors were knocking down our door. My crazy old neighbor from Vermont raided our freezer and stole our BBQ grill, railing against the 1% who ate “his” steaks. The Russians down the block knocked over my mailbox and ran their hot-rod over our lawn. When we complained, they put my mailbox back up and ran over it again.
And what did my old boyfriend do? He whined, put more product on his hair and went back to watching the Kardashians.
Then Donald came along. And he doesn’t indulge in fantasy football. He plays tackle.
Brioni leather jacket. Killer Harley, dripping chrome. Whatever he wants, he takes, and it is his. Want to see my tattoo? He made me get a “Trump Stamp” because he puts his name on everything he claims.
At first, my old boyfriend laughed at him. Now, he’s scared to be in the same room.
And Jimmy Olson, cub reporter, can’t stop gushing over the Donald. He’s the best thing to happen to cable news since satellites. They don’t want my bad boyfriend and his posse to walk away.
Donald is not as good to me as my old boyfriend. He makes promises I know he won’t keep. When I ask him why he didn’t come home last night, he said, that’s just the way he is. He tells me not to worry because everything is going to be just like our nights together, “YUGE,” “fantastic,” and “fabulous.”
I tried running away. I even left The Donald for a few days. But when we walk by a towering skyscraper with his name high up in lights, all the other boys I’ve known seem inadequate.
When I came home last night, my old dad was waiting up, sitting and crying in the dark. He said, “That boy is going to break your heart,” and he may.
But when Donald runs his fingers through my hair and surges in my polls, I feel like nothing bad could ever happen to me.
He’s my bad biker boyfriend — but some people out there are worse. And my old boyfriend can’t protect me from them.
I can’t wait any longer for a hero.
Donald is mine and I am his and people better get used to it. He’s the one I’m going to marry. And that’s something nobody in Le Club is going to change.
— Gloriosa O. Patria