(as dictated through a mouth full o’ spinach, pipe smoke, and righteous fury)
Dear Mr. Orange Commodore of Crap,
Ahoy there, ya landlubberin’ loudmouth! I’ve been sittin’ on me rusted anchor, tryin’ to keep me temper in its hammock, but when I hears that you stood on a Navy pier and told the sailors to think half o’ their countrymen’s the enemy, well… I near spat out me spinach. An’ I never waste spinach. That’s sacred fuel, same as democracy.
Now lemme tells ya somethin’, Donnie Boy — you don’t talk to the Navy like that. The Navy’s job is to defend the Constitution, not polish your ego till it gleams like a gold-plated toilet seat at Mar-a-Lago. These men an’ women swore an oath, see — not to your combover, not to your cult, but to the ol’ Stars and Stripes itself. They don’t serve so you can play Mussolini on a yacht.
I’ve seen barnacles with more moral fiber than you. I fought Bluto, Sea Hag, cannibals, and flying octopi, but none o’ them had the gall to look at me crew and say, “Half of yous are the enemy.” Bluto might’ve been a bully, but even he had the decency to admit he was the bad guy. You? You call everyone else the villain and expect applause. It’s like watchin’ a man eat his own reflection and call it patriotism.
I’ve heard you brag about your “big heart” — yeah, sure, and I’m the Queen o’ England. Your idea of generosity is lettin’ the poor lick the crumbs off your gold-plated golf cart. You talk about “illegal aliens,” but between you and me, you sound more like the invader. You’ve infiltrated the White House like a greasy spy with a Twitter addiction, usin’ the nation’s flag like a Kleenex for your fragile ego.
An’ now, makin’ a speech to sailors? Sailors! Men and women who’ve stared down typhoons, pirates, and chow that looks like seaweed glued to despair — and you’ve got the barnacled brass to tell ‘em who their “real enemies” are? You couldn’t tell port from starboard if the Coast Guard tattooed labels on your ass cheeks.
Let me paints you a picture, Skipper Shitforbrains:
A sailor’s loyalty ain’t up for auction at a MAGA rally. They bleed salt, not slogans. They fly the flag, not your brand. And if you think for one second that the Navy’s gonna start chantin’ your name while you call your fellow Americans “gnats,” you’re about to find out what happens when the fleet runs outta patience. Spoiler: it ain’t pretty.
And one more thing — don’t you ever, ever stand under the banner of the United States Navy again and use it as a backdrop for your petty tantrums. Those anchors on the uniforms ain’t props. They’re a promise. They mean courage, duty, sacrifice. Three words you couldn’t spell with a teleprompter and divine intervention.
If I had my way, I’d haul you down to the galley and scrub the moral grime off you with a wire brush and a bucket o’ Clorox. Then I’d sit ya down, hand you a bowl of spinach, and say, “Eat, ya big orange barnacle. Maybe it’ll grow ya a conscience.” But I got a feelin’ you’d spit it out and demand ketchup.
So here’s my advice, straight from one old sailor to a spoiled deckchair tyrant:
Stop tryin’ to turn the Navy into your personal cult choir. Stop talkin’ about “enemies” when the only war you’re winnin’ is against grammar. And for Neptune’s sake, stop pretendin’ you’re Commander-in-Chief material. You’re barely Commander-in-Tweets.
I yam what I yam, and what I yam is disgusted.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go scrub the taste of your speech outta the Atlantic.
With all due disrespect,
Popeye the Sailor Man
Patriot, Defender of Spinach, and Veteran of the U.S. of A.
P.S. — The Navy ain’t yer toy box, ya bloviated barnacle. It’s America’s backbone. You’d snap it if ya ever tried to steer the ship yerself.
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This post has been syndicated from Closer to the Edge, where it was published under this address.