Donald Trump’s Letter From A Birmingham Jail

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A letter from Donald Trump

Tonight’s Office Hours starts at 8pm Eastern. It features an evening with Donald J. Trump, or maybe Robert Smigel. Also joining us will be the Professors and Mary Anne: Professor Mary Anne Cummings, Professor Adnan Husain and Professor Ann Li. I look forward to seeing you!

The following is a letter from Donald Trump written in the not too distant future:

December 21, 2024.

Merry Christmas, and, for you people of color, happy holidays.

I hope 2025 brings you joy.

My fellow Americans, it is I, Donald Trump writing to you from a Birmingham jail where I await sentencing after being unfairly convicted of some minor offenses like treason, rape, money laundering, rape, tax evasion, sexual assault, election interference, more rape, bribery, rape, along with rape, rape and rape.

Total witch hunt.

Never before in the history of America’s criminal justice system has someone been treated this poorly.

I feel like Sacco and Vanzetti, if Sacco and Vanzetti were innocent, which they were not.

Innocent people don’t have accents.

And yet, everyone feels sorry for Sacco and Vanzetti.

People call them martyrs.

Not me.

I like martyrs who don’t end up dead.

Joan of Arc? Loser. And a two at best. More like Joan of Bark. If you catch my drift, and if you don’t I’m saying she’s a dog, because that’s what dogs do, they bark. Joan of Bark.

Jail, like Joan of Bark, is not pretty. The drinking water is brackish, the paint is peeling and the air conditioning doesn’t work. I can’t believe my name isn’t on the place.

I’ve met, however, some interesting people.

Yesterday I joined a gang of white supremacists who call themselves The Republicans.

Although I spend most of my time in solitary I am never alone.

The spirits of Dr. King, Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Ghandi and all those other lightweights who don’t deserve a national holiday are with me right now.

They’re telling me they can’t believe how great I’m holding up. Frankly, it’s a little embarrassing.

Ghandi just said my hunger strike is like nothing he’s ever seen before. Thirty minutes and only a party sized bag of Grandma’s peanut butter cookies and a Capri Sun apple juice box. That’s all I’ve had for the last thirty minutes of my hunger strike. He can’t believe my willpower.

And the spirit of Dr. King is also with me. Dr. Lester King who kept me out of Vietnam by inventing a condition known as bone spurs.

And then of course Nelson Mandela is with me, which is somewhat surprising because he and I didn’t always see eye to eye on things like Apartheid.

But here he is. I didn’t know you could wear those stupid loud shirts in the afterlife. Apparently, you can.

I was hoping heaven had a dress code. But just like the last days of Studio they seem to be attracting that bridge and tunnel crowd.

If I can impart any wisdom about the joint, it is don’t become anyone’s bitch.

That’s why my first day in the yard I looked for the toughest looking guy and in front of everyone I said, “What are you looking at?”

And then I proceeded to beat the living crap out of him just to show everyone I’m not to be trifled with.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt, because naturally the toughest guy in the yard was me, Donald Trump. It’s not easy kicking your own ass.

I must leave you now. It’s already mid-December and my inauguration is almost a month away and I still haven’t picked an attorney general.

I’m thinking of nominating this Alex Murdaugh guy I just met. He’s a lawyer who tells me he specializes in violent crime.