An Open Letter to President Donald J. Trump

Dear Mr. President,

Permit me, if you will, a moment to address the world’s most prolific producer of chaos-in-chief, from the confines of my quiet corner of the planet. I shall try to be brief, though, judging by your taste in tweets and truth-social tirades, brevity has never quite been your thing either.

Before your election - against odds, common sense, and possibly a few indictments—I dared to suggest to a friend here that if Americans were to actually vote you back to office, the world might be in for an entertaining, albeit apocalyptic, ride. Then you won. Then came the lawsuits. Then came the “Liberation Day.” Then came the pardons for the ‘patriots’ who broke windows and, incidentally, the law. And with every step, your campaign promises — that once seemed like the drunk uncle’s Thanksgiving rants — started to become policy.

Let’s talk retribution, Mr. President. Or should I say “The Trump Doctrine.” Forget checks and balances - this season of your reality presidency stars you as the avenger-in-chief, wielding vengeance like a golf club at Mar-a-Lago. Your enemies (real, imagined, or previously employed by you) must feel like characters in a Shakespearean tragedy - minus the poetry, plus a subpoena.

You’ve managed to normalize lies, inflate tariffs, and somehow turn governance into performance art. The Constitution? A coaster on your desk. The press? A hostile audience. And as for facts - well, they’re just pesky commercials interrupting your program.

Sir, I do not insult your intelligence. On the contrary - you're clever enough. Just not in a giraffe-on-the-savannah kind of way. The giraffe sees danger before it arrives. You, Mr. President, charge toward it with a megaphone and a slogan. You play the moment, not the long game. And when you do try the long game - like economic policy or diplomacy - it often ends like a Monopoly match flipped in anger.

Now, had your advisors introduced you to a man named Kong Fuzi (Confucius) - not a TikTok influencer, mind you, but a Chinese philosopher with actual thoughts - they might have warned you of his most sobering line: “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” But alas, you dug one - for your rivals. The second one? Well, you might want to keep a shovel handy.

Which ones are your pieces Mr. President

Your tariffs have transformed America’s economy into a whack-a-mole circus. You throw them like confetti at a bankrupt wedding, while Beijing calmly plays Go - the ancient game of strategy - as you hop from square to square playing Stern-Halma (Chinese Checkers) like a child in a playpen, screaming “America First” while your supply chains’ last gasp.

Soybeans? Brazil. Rare Earths? China. Trucks? Japan. And as for your plan to bully Ukraine into coughing up its rare earth minerals - well, you can’t mine a contract. You may be The Artist of Deals, but Beijing remains the Captain of our Go Team, and he’s five moves ahead.

And then, Mr. President, you turned your wrath to Africa - the continent you once described with a term best left in sewage treatment manuals. South Africa, in particular. You accused us of genocide. Bold claim. Even bolder when it’s utterly false. Did you think the African Union would stand idly by while imaginary atrocities unfold? Or that our journalists - not yours, the free ones - would fail to notice the fabrication? You insult not just our integrity, but your own credibility. Though to be fair, that ship was torpedoed somewhere between Stormy Daniels and sharpied hurricane maps.

BRING IT ON!!! We have been ready for centuries

Remember Elon? Yes, our Elon. The co-president you didn't appoint but somehow followed you around like a Twitter groupie. He remains one of us, and he played you like a saxophone - seduced you with satellites, crypto fantasies, and a pipeline straight into your citizens' personal data. Who needs Huawei and Byte Dance (TikTok) when you've got our boy Elon being escorted by US Marshals into your databases to link with  SpaceX to deliver your people’s metadata on a silver rocket?

Mr. President, your presidency is not a reality show. The Oval Office is not a set, and America is not a studio audience. This isn’t The Apprentice: White House Edition. It’s not even a rerun worth watching. Your words have consequences. Your whims become suffering. Your vengeance becomes international policy.

So, from a fellow human being who has watched your show and seen enough to cancel the season:

Please just grow up.

Yours in reluctant attention,
A Citizen of the World