Dear Mr. Trump,
Today I plead the case of Huma Abedin.
I know you're feeling a little cranky today. I know Washington, D.C. isn't West Palm Beach. I know you've been treated very unfairly in recent days by the fake news, who seems to delight in taking unflattering photographs of you on the golf course wearing a polo shirt tucked into giant grandpa pants. (Speaking of which. Dude. Whoa. When your waistline is broader than your shoulders, it's time for a fashion makeover. Unless you're trying to look like a Weeble Wobble. Maybe Ivanka could design you something? It would make her feel important.)
But back to Huma. Married to one of the most loathsome slugs that ever crawled this planet, poor lady, and you want to send her to jail? She's been in jail! She's been in HELL, actually. And I, for one, say she's suffered enough.
So leave her alone. Chill out. Go talk to Anthony Scaramucci, who seems to think you're a sentient being. Or a total chump. Whatever. I'll bet he's the one who gave you the idea that your very existence in the White House prevents airplanes from crashing.
And know this: if someone wanted to put Melania in jail, I'd cut her the same slack.
For the same reason.
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