Donnie Dissatisfied

And the big bully half mast flag.

Once upon a time, in the teeny, tiny, widdle Floridian swamp town of Whataboutmeville, there lived a world famous melon-hued malcontent by the name of Donnie Dissatisfied.

Donnie was a sad, saggy, sore headed, sloth of a specimen, who was known for the microwaved spaghetti and meatballs stained Tupperware container patina of his skin, his Shrinky Dinks small-fry fingers, and his whirling dervish, whimpering, pout-parade, whine-palooza meltdowns (which he’d been known for since that dark and stormy day when he first appeared to the locals… a dirty diapered ginger baby, dressed in a red hat and matching tie, left alone to holler and cry on a tree stump deep in the swamp).

The locals didn’t know what to make of him. Where had he come from? Where were his parents? Why were his digits so… diminutive, his diaper so dirty, and why was he so… ill-tempered?

They took him in and tried to calm him. They tried everything they could to soothe little Donnie’s rage. He hissed at puppies, bristled at books and shunned anyone who so much as dared a snuggle. Nothing worked, aside from when one of them tripped, or burned themselves, or seemed especially sad. Those were some of the few things the cantankerous carrot top cherub seemed to genuinely enjoy.

He wasn’t particularly verbal nor especially smart. He seemed to have been raised by crocodiles, or sea snakes, or Spanish moss, or maybe, just maybe, he simply spawned right there, out of that tree stump, deep in the darkest, most menacing part of the swamp.

No one was really sure.

But as he grew, what they would come to learn, what he made abundantly clear in very short order, was Donnie’s particular talent, a knack, if you will, was finding the cloud in every silver lining.

Something was always “wrong.” Something was always befalling him. Being done “to him.” He was a perpetual “victim.”

Donnie’s day began with a symphony of complaints. The sun was too bright. The coffee was too hot. His toast was too toasty. His breakfast table was a battleground of grievances, where no cereal box was safe from his scrutinizing gaze. His long-suffering 14th set of adoptive parents, Mr. and Mrs. Windmill, often listened with a resigned expression that seemed to say, "Here we go again."

He hated them. How dare those Windmills not understand the crucial importance of the color of toast?!? How dare Mr. Windmill (the breadwinner as it were) get an extra piece while Donnie who did nothing around the house, was left with less?

He couldn’t hold down a job because his bosses always seemed to expect him to actually work and not tweet and watch tv all day, he didn’t have any friends because the ones he did have didn’t like it when he threw rocks at their heads, he didn’t date because he was always grabbing women by their pussies without their consent, and he failed at school because the teachers refused to allow him to pay other kids to take his tests for him.

He wanted hamberders, and women he could assault, and money and power, and a daughter he could ogle, and fealty he could demand without deserving, and an office and a plane he didn’t respect, and toilets that flushed his chewed up paper scraps, and more than anything in the whole wide world, he wanted the remote fucking control.

Donnie was dissatisfied to say the least with his life in the swamp. He’d come to hate that swamp. The people there didn’t understand him. They didn’t appreciate how put upon he’d always been. They didn’t treat him better than everyone else for no reason whatsoever like they were supposed to. The great big strong locals didn’t come up to him with tears in their eyes to thank him for, well, for simply existing.

They didn’t understand that the nasty, hateful, sexually abusing bigoted boy they’d always tried to be kind to, was the “second coming of Jesus.”

He didn’t need that swamp. In fact, he vowed one day, that he’d drain it. That would certainly teach the Windmills a lesson!

But then he got to thinking - how exactly was he going to drain the swamp and destroy those cursed windmills?

He didn’t know. Until one day when he was standing on a NYC corner spewing vitriol about black Americans for no reason whatsoever… and suddenly it hit him.

Hate. Yes, that was it. Hate would bring him glory. The kind of hate the swamp dwellers didn’t like. The kind they were too polite for, too “Christian” for. The kind they were too afraid to say out loud.

So he said it. He said all of it. Out loud. All the time. And he told everyone else they could too.

And just enough people liked it because just enough people agreed with him. And just enough people didn’t care that Donnie was a terrible person that nobody liked. Just enough people didn’t mind that he abused women and hurt our police officers.

They just wanted someone who hated who they hated too.

He had won. Again. Despite all of the bad things he’d done. Despite all the horrible things he had said. He won.

But Donnie wasn’t happy.

Why? Because a lifetime public servant peanut farmer former president who was more popular than him had died. A very old man Donnie mocked relentlessly because he reminded him of all those seemingly “nice” folks at the swamp. Donnie wasn’t happy because people wanted to “pay their respects” to the house-building peanut farmer. He was mad as hell because they wanted to “honor him”, they wanted to fly the flags at half staff, and they wanted to do it during DONNIE’S special: “stand next to the woman you pay to be your wife and put your hand on a Bible you do not read, and recite a bunch of words you do not believe, so you can pretend to do a job you do not care about” party.

And Donnie’s parties were the biggest in the history of the world, all the best people said so. So, the paltry peanut farmer needed to stand down.

Even if he was dead, he still needed to. Because this wasn’t about him. This was about Donnie.

Donnie didn’t care that it was about something bigger than himself. There was NOTHING bigger than him. And that great big bully half staff flag for a former president who loved our country so very much wasn’t going to rain on Donnie Dissatisfied’s parade.

Even if he was going to find all sorts of things to complain about anyway.

That mean flag and that lifetime public servant were going to have to take a back seat, or there’d be hell to pay. And by hell to pay, it really just means a lot more whining.

So much whining.

We really are sick of it.

*All joking aside - Has there ever been a bigger whiner in the history of the world? Have we ever seen anyone so perpetually “put upon”, so constantly “mistreated”, so eternally victimized as that “man”? That man born to immense wealth. That man who has for the entirety of his existence benefitted from being able to fail upwards. That idiotic, unattractive, incurious, charmless fuck who landed in our Oval Office not on the basis of merit, but because of the depths of his depravity.

Has there ever been anyone in our collective memory who has complained MORE about what HE didn’t get than him? We’re talking about someone who could literally shoot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue and get away with it.

But my God, he really thinks he has it worse than anyone has ever had it in the history of time. And he tells us every single motherfucking day.

He is detached from reality. That we well know. But this is all about much more than his incessant bellyaching. Grievance is essential to his hold on society. He’s a self-obsessed, thin-skinned, sociopathic narcissist who really does believe he’s the single most persecuted man in the history of the world.

He hasn’t yet gotten back into the office he tried to steal. And it’s still so fucking annoying, isn’t it?

He’s like all of the children from Willy Wonka rolled into one, isn’t he?

Apologies to Veruca.

See you next time. Stay safe. Stay strong. Stay sane (ish). And stay hydrated. (As I am on the stomach bug mend).

Love always,

Jo ❤️