Another Pro-Trump Letter to the New York Times
(The New York Times has published an entire page of pro-Donald Trump letters to the editor because, apparently, a story every other week about Trump voters isn’t enough. Here’s one they probably wouldn’t publish.)
Every morning, I awake from my oxy coma and thank Jesus for Donald Trump. I get up from the back of the 1987 Cutlass Supreme where I slept. It’s broken down in a ditch just a mile or two from my mobile home that got repossessed. I stretch as best I can, what with this back problem from working in the coal mines across the state line in Kentucky, and I am glad that America is great again. Or it’s on its way because Mr. Donald Trump is our president. I pop one of the two last oxy I’ve got, take a leak in the ditch, and grab my jacket before walking into town.
Because it’s already noon by the time I get to Rogersville, and I know I’m gonna need to score soon, I go over to the post office to see if they’ve got my Social Security disability check. While I’m there, I salute a man with a MAGA hat and tell him, “God bless my president!” I’m not sure he can understand me because I lost most of my teeth, and I don’t think I say the words so good anymore. But he smiles, and that’s enough for me. I could sure use a dentist, but I’ll just have to wait until the mobile dental clinic shows up in these parts. They come around about once a year, and the line is usually a couple of days long, but I know that it’s worth it because I don’t want no free doctors from the government. I’m fine with free doctors from a Christian charity, though.
I head over to the meat and three place where I can get a square meal and plenty to take home for just six bucks, and it’s where Chet likes to meet because he’s paid off the owner. Chet is always happy to see me on Social Security day. If he’s in a good mood, he’ll even buy my lunch. I walk in to Shelby’s restaurant, and Fox News is on the TV. They’re talking about how the liberals want more immigrants to come to America. Fuck that shit. Tell them Mexicans to just go on back and take their little brown children with ’em. I don’t want no rapists and drug dealers here. If I could afford a gun, I’d go down to the border and shoot a couple of ’em to keep ’em out of here.
Chet comes in and sits opposite me. I’ve got a plate of fried chicken, corn, potatoes, and french fries. Chet tells me he’s got some He-Man if I want to kick it up from the oxy. It costs more than the oxy, so I tell him that I’ll just stick to what I know. I sign the back of my Social Security check and hand it over to him. He gives me back two full prescription bottles and a few hundred dollars. “Bank of Chet,” I always tell him. “Better than a toaster.” I ask him what he’s gonna do with his Trump tax cut. Chet stares at me for a minute and starts laughing. He tells me he’ll see me next week.
I pop a couple of the oxy because my back is just killing me. I turn to the TV and see them talking about coal mining jobs and how President Trump is bringing them back. I’d go back to the Perry #1 mine if they reopened it. I’m just waiting for the call. I’d take the regular income, back or no back. Maybe I’d get to see my kids again then. Maybe even get Willow to talk to me, if she doesn’t try to steal my oxy like before.
As I walk back to the Cutlass to lay down for a while before I head out to the bar, I think about how much Donald Trump has done for me. How he has given me my country back. How he is bringing jobs back. How he cares about my problems as a working class man. How I can say, “Merry Christmas” again. How he talks tough to all those Muslims and Jews and fags. How he showed that bitch Hillary what for. And, mostly, how he ain’t a goddamn nigger.
God bless him and his family. And God bless America.
Maddox J. Maddox