Dear Mr. Trump,
Thank you for saving my marriage.
For some time now, my husband and I have spent our evenings in our rocking chairs, watching reruns of "Upstairs, Downstairs", and wondering, "Where did the magic go?"
Then YOU came along, and one of the benefits (the only one, actually) of your tenure in the White House has been Friday nights. Now, each and every Friday night, we eagerly await the hour (which is exactly one hour after Wolf Blitzer signs off the air) when all hell breaks loose in Washington, D.C. Et voila! Enough excitement and drama to last us a whole week. Along with anxiety, uncertainty, incredulity, fear and loathing. Nuclear War Weekend was particularly stimulating.
However, I must say that last week's Friday night news dump - while impressive - was a little uninspiring. Which is odd, given that your spectacular performance as a human spittoon managed to outshine Hurricane Harvey:
You pardoned Joe Arpaio. (Which means you finally managed to do something that even God couldn't do.)
You let it leak that you'll be ending the Dreamer program next time you're in a bad mood. (Oh, yes, you did. I've known for quite some time now that you're one of the "leakers".)
You fired Comrade Gorka. (Won't do you any good.)
You made it official that LGBT people are no longer welcome to get their asses shot off in defense of the country. (Can the draft be far behind?)
The Wall Street Journal reported that Mr. Mueller thinks that two of your homies, Mike Flynn and Peter Smith, might have been in touch - on a nefarious matter - with a mutual friend named Yorgy, who weighs 400-pounds and sits on his bed. In Moscow. (No kidding.)
And you headed off to Camp David (I didn't know it had a golf course) during one of the biggest natural disasters in U.S. history. (The USA cap was a nice, though somewhat unconvincing, touch.)
But none of it was - you know - funny. Maybe I've just been missing The Mooch.
So I waited. And was rewarded.
Lo-and-behold, like manna from heaven, along comes Felix Sater, your bosom buddy and former "senior advisor". (Whyever did you let him print those business cards?)
I have a feeling that we're going to be hearing a lot about Mr. Sater in the future. He has all the makings of a great Trump sideshow:
He was born in Russia.
He's a New York real estate developer.
He has mob connections.
He was convicted of stock fraud.
He's an FBI informant. And he's currently cooperating with the FBI on an international money laundering scheme.
The stuff of dreams. Oh, this guy is going to sing like a canary.
But Mr. Sater's real claim to fame is that he once did a year in the slammer for - are you ready? - "assaulting a man with the stem of a broken margarita glass".
Top that, Anthony Scaramucci.