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An open letter to Donald Trump, from the desk of Patrick Bateman.

'Patrick Bateman 1270 Avenue of the Americas, Suite 2800 New York, NY 10020 August 31, 2025

To the Tangerine Tyrant Squatting in the Oval Office,

As I sit here, carving through my rare Wagyu ribeye with the precision of a Zwilling J.A. Henckels chef’s knife - I’m forced to confront the oozing pustule that is your presidency. These United States, once a glittering altar of liberation and aspiration, now languish under your authoritarian boot. A travesty so repugnant it makes my thrice-daily exfoliation routine feel like a Sisyphean punishment.

Your administration, Mr. Trump, is a masterclass in crass incompetence, a gilded turd polished to fool the witless. You wield power like a brain-damaged chimp, obliterating democratic norms with the finesse of a drunk toddler finger-painting on the Magna Carta. Executive orders flung like cheap confetti at a Mar-a-Lago gala, each one eroding the Constitution with the subtlety of a sledgehammer smashing a Fabergé egg.

Your sycophantic court—those White Supremacist ghouls—all spineless enablers in ill-fitting suits. Nothing but a grotesque burlesque of governance—a clown car of incompetence careening through a dumpster fire. A true rogues gallery of loyalist toadie bootlickers who grovel at your bloated feet, their integrity as nonexistent as your tax returns.

The Constitution? You treat it like a cocktail napkin at one of your gauche ballroom bacchanals. Scribbling over its sacred text with illiterate decrees - nothing but Sharpie-fueled edicts with the manic energy of a coked-up used-car salesman.

The economy? A Ponzi scheme for plutocrats—a rigged slot machine for your crony capitalist pals— its levers pulled by tax cuts for the obscenely rich. The working class bled dry, drowning in the bilge of your deception, left to scramble like roaches under your garish chandeliers. Inflation soars, savings evaporate, wages stagnate, and yet you preen like a Nazi in a spray-tanned haze, touting “success” as if reality bends to your Adderall-fueled rants. Oh look, there you go again, hawking “wins” on Truth Social with the coherence of a stroke victim’s fever dream.

Your border policies—cages for kids, walls for optics—are less about security than stroking the xenophobic egos of your base, a mob so brainwashed they’d cheer you waterboarding the Statue of Liberty if you called it “patriotism.”

January 6th wasn’t just an insurrection; it was your magnum opus of treason. A riot of mouth-breathers you incited and then abandoned like a failed TRUMP branded venture. That drooling mob of Walmart Vikings desecrating this nations capital, only to receive your full criminal pardon. Accountability? You dodge it like you dodge drafts, debts, and mirrors.

Your war on truth is almost admirable in its depravity, branding the press “enemies” while your propaganda machine churns out fiction so blatant it makes my own curated reality seem pedestrian. Oh, how you loathe their scrutiny, branding them “fake” while your own disinformation think-tanks parrot perjury with the precision of a German-engineered printing press. You’re not a Machiavelli; you’re a cartoon dictator in a too-long tie, shouting over dissent like a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving.

I could go on—Foreign policy? A geopolitical tantrum of global embarrassment. You alienate allies, and fellate dictators, cozying up to strongmen whose brutality you envy. You simp for Putin with a devotion that screams “Kompromat.”

The climate? You deny it like you deny your receding scalp, gutting science while the planet suffocates on your ghastly ignorance. I care little for polar bears, but even I find your disregard for basic facts offensive to my sense of order.

Your rallies? Narcissistic circle-jerks that make a Def Leppard encore seem dignified. You’re not a leader; you’re a knockoff Caesar in a dollar-store toga, a walking case for institutionalization. The White House, under your tacky touch, is a redneck’s idea of opulence—gold-plated schlock that looks like a Vegas brothel had a lovechild with a McMansion.

Resign, you bloviating landfill. Crawl back to your pyrite encrusted hovel in Trump Tower, where you can rage-tweet into oblivion and spare the nation your rancid stench. You’re a walking caricature, a man whose legacy will be a footnote in history’s ledger of failures, right between Nero and that guy who thought New Coke was a good idea. I’ll watch your collapse over a glass of Château Lafite Rothschild, savouring your ruin like the perfect bite of Ossetra caviar.

With utter contempt, Patrick Bateman

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