Dear Mr. Trump

Dear Mr. Trump,

I thought I'd take a little break from checking condo prices on Cape Breton in order to send you a thank-you note.

Yes, a thank-you note.  The first of many, I hope.

No Nervous Nellie here!  On this: the grim, dark, murky day of your inauguration as President of the United States, the very skies entreating the cruel and uncaring Fates with anguished sobs, I have poured myself a glass of wine (the first, I think, of many tonight), and decided to look on the bright side.

"What bright side?" one might ask, and one might be right, if short-sighted.  I will remind my gentle (and terrified) readers that every experience (no matter how unnatural/bizarre/repugnant) is ever wasted, but for the lessons to be learned therein.

 And here's what I learned, just today:

1. There is a God.
2. Only one.
3. He's a guy.

Thank you.  That's a big lesson.  No too subtly delivered, either.  My mother ship, to whom I beam up news from this planet, will be glad to hear that's finally settled.

The best thing about this Guy-God?  He is personally on our side.  The United States of America.  He likes us.  And our best friends.  A lot.  So, no worries.  I thank you, Mr. Trump, for letting us know about that.  I'll cancel my therapist.

There are a couple of other things I would also like to thank you for, sir:

1. Pointing out that I've been mispronouncing the word "redistributed" my whole life. 
2. Initiating the process to kill that pesky Climate Action Plan.  And while we were all looking at Melania's dress, you clever-boots!  I live in Chicago.  Make no mistake about it, dude, I am absolutely fucking thrilled by global warming.

Lastly, Mr. Trump, thank you for prompting me to write.  I have a feeling that you will be a constant source of inspiration, if not enlightenment, for the next four years.  Two years, if Melania pushes you out of bed and you break your hip.  But, hey, I'm not a political strategist.

With gratitude, best of luck and Go Packers!

Underemployed