Dear ‘The Donald’,
First of all, thanks for making me call you The Donald, it really isn’t clear just what sort of noun you are without it. Secondly, a Masseuse is a term for someone who does massage as a practice. It’s not the name of a herd of moose. It’s not something Dr. Seuss fans say to each other. It’s not the female version of master, sorry Melania. There’s no such thing as masseuse shoes and no one ever says ‘hand me masseuse’ but you. Just needed to get that off my chest, and yes, that’s the only thing I need off or on my chest. Also, I know I’m not the skinniest thing skating around in a size six, but if you could please hold off calling me Rhino Pudding and asking what all it will take to blow my horn, that’d be swell. Honestly, I sometimes wonder how I put up with you all these years. Luckily I’ve had my cat Rhino Pudding by my side for constant comfort. Speaking of, it’s weird how you knew I was a cat person way before I mentioned it. I just remember you shouting ‘get that pussy home’ over and over again as I walked across the parking lot leaving work. You were always very perceptive in that way. I guess I can’t fault you for that.
Oh yes, and those shoulders. I remember the day we had to tear down the doorway and reshape it into a giant exclamation mark just to fit those far-reaching, epically carved flesh plateaus you call shoulder-blades. I have been officially diagnosed with Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, arthritis, Cubital Tunnel Syndrome, Epicondylitis, etc. from just trying to dig these feeble little lady digits deep into the rock hard, ultra dense mathematical equation constituting your arm-bar anatomy. I really tried, The Donald, but I’ve run out of masseuse’s excuses, the pressure has grown to a point and I just can’t grope, grab, I mean grasp the strength needed to milk campaign trail stress out of those massively mythological back-crowns. I know you understand. You were always so understanding. Like when I was up on that ladder changing a light bulb, and you were under, standing, staring up my dress. You can always be counted on, and you make such a solid spotter. I know you’re capable of holding America’s soft ass tight as she waddles down the angelic stepping stones of democracy, back into acceptance of a representative best case scenario based republic. You really taught me the purpose of concepts like faith, and hope, and forgiveness. The day you showed up naked wrapped in a clear shower curtain. You said look, its like my whole body is in a condom, now fuck it with your fingers. That was fucking deep The Donald.
But I am sorry, I do apologize. I’m going to have to move on to another career. Do you have any suggestions?
“Female soccer player.”
“Grape crusher at a vineyard.”
“Foot fetish prostitute.”
“Feet massage expert and call the parlor I wanna take off masseuse and foot you”
“Sideshow Claw Hand Lobster Girl.”
“Author a tell-all book about the intense yet inspirational task of alleviating The Donald’s stress throughout this historical campaign. Write it with your feet. That’s the thing. First book written by foot.”
Thanks TD. I can always count on you to drop bombs. Well, I’ll check ya later The-Don Greyjoy. All that glitters ain’t gold but fuck gold I got platinum on. Love peace and white police. Catch you on the flip my flop. Thanks for the memories. Keep grabbing them by the cat, my friend. Any cat lover knows, that’s where the heart stays anyway.
-The Donald’s Masseuse
ps: Did you know that instead of build or building you could use the words erect or erection? Was waiting until I quit to tell you that, but there you go, enjoy. Erect something tremendous. Your career has been a monumental erection.