Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Politics, Themes

Dear Mr. Ahmadinejad


Dear Mr. President,

Mr. President, mom calls you her non-beacon of hope, “My little Popeye”. I think she means you’re full of shit but totally hot and possibly good in bed. She’s always onto the bad guys. Mr. President, mom says you’re a pseudomasochist but I really think she meant sadomasochist, unless you’re not what you seem, I guess. Or maybe she thinks you like fake rough sex or sex with non-electric batons, the batons Made In China of course. I never know what mom means to say however I think she has the hots for you, horny lady, fungus feet. She hasn’t had sex for months—at least that’s what she wrote in her diary, bold face lie.

“I haven’t had sex in months,” she wrote. I always triple whatever she says and then some. Are you married Mr. President? Into moms?

Mom says you have nice teeth, not sure what that means—maybe you’ll chew red meat for her? She likes your beard, fuzzy face. She’s mentioned butterflies in her feet when she’s around grizzly men. I think she meant bears, not gristle, or burnt fat. She doesn’t eat meat, pork or ham, not even on holidays or when her father passed. But she loves the smell.

Mr. President, are you a vegetarian like mom or do you like bacon and have horns like me? We might have more in common than you think, wink wink, zap zap.

Mr. President, I have a serious question: If you and mom get married, would you adopt me? I mean really adopt me as if I was your own. Would you toss me into the air and catch me—no matter how heavy I am or become? Would you tolerate my penchant for makeup and wings? Would you execute my father?

Although I love to wear dresses in public and speak French I’ll chant “Death To This and That” all day with clenched fists and growly bear face if you want but only if you promise me one thing: make mom happy. Or, at the very least, perform well in bed.

Mr. Finger Pointer, look behind you, you’ve got wings like me, just kidding stinky feet. Icarus had wings and a father to boot, like me. Mr. President, lend me your feet, the left and the right. I want to tattoo butterflies and wings on them. Scribe whispers into your toes.

Yours truly,

Almost Dorothy

Author:

I'm not real, but I'm a writer.

2 thoughts on “Dear Mr. Ahmadinejad

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