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He’s been Donnie’s docile doormat for too many painful months, but he’s going out with a boot to the boss’s fat ass.

Truth In Satire

Sean Spicer’s Ruthless Resignation Letter

Revenge is a dish best served on your way out the door

For months he has seemed like nothing but a skittish yes-man who’d left his spine back in his hometown of North Hempstead, LI.

But, yesterday, White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer put on his flak jacket, wielded his ninja swords, and left a bloody path of sycophants in his wake as he dashed out the White House door.

Nice going Spicey, we knew you could do it…ill-fitting suit and all.

Here’s the resignation letter that dropped a thermal detonator on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Dear President Fuckwad,

If you’ve read this far, you know that I believe you’re a truly historic moron whose mistep-a-minute, goofball presidency would be phenomenally funny if it wasn’t so spectacularly dangerous.

Surrounding yourself with a gaggle of ass-kissing flunkies (yes, I admit I was one) doesn’t make you seem more authoritative or powerful, it just proves you’re a sniveling weakling, an insecure man-child, and an unstable ignoramus with zero ability to lead.

Before telling you what I really think, allow me to elaborate individually on the incompetence and utter uselessness of that cackling cadre of kooks you’ve put into positions of significant power:

Steve “Breitbart Barbarian” Bannon: If there is a more sinister motherfucker on the planet, I hope I never meet that demon. Bannon’s festering face should have been your first clue that the rattlesnake venom coursing through his veins feeds the racist, anti-Semitic, misogynistic views of a demented anarchist. You believe you found a political genius in this conniving sociopath, but what you really found is a guy who’ll drive a sword through your brainstem just when you least expect it. Of course, you’re so self-absorbed, you’ll think he’s coming to knight you.

Kellyanne “Alternative Facts” Conway: And I thought you were the world’s most prolific bullshitter (you are, but KC is better at it). She was looking sharp and talking slick, until she arrived in the “don’t give us that claptrap” pressure cooker that is Washington, D.C.. Now she babbles nonsense like Palin and looks like she’s been pulling all-nighters with a gastric parasite. That Bowling Green Massacre? Even I couldn’t step in a cow pie that deep. Curling up on the president’s couch, smelly feet first? Same kind of statesman-like conduct Kissinger was famous for back when he was counseling presidents. She’s a loose-lipped lightweight, Donnie, but she’s good at getting women to vote against their best interests, so be sure to keep her around.

Reince “Not Ready For Prime Time” Preibus: Oh my god, what a numb nuts, goodie two shoes this guy is. You wanted a scrapper to keep people in line at the White House? Well, Day One I caught him crying behind the curtains in the Vermeil Room. Day Two he asked me where the nurse’s office was because he had a stomach ache. Day Three he was lying down in the Roosevelt Room with a really bad case of the hiccups. Yeah, that’s quite a bulldog enforcer you have there.

Stephen “Westworld” Miller: I don’t know where you found this glitchy android, but he needs a software update. His voice pattern is pure Lost In Space robot, circa 1967, he lacks the blinking feature typical with eyelids, and his audio chip keeps repeating hackneyed, authoritarian cliches from the 1930’s. But his worst feature is that painted on hair — it’s so obviously camouflaging the flip-top door to his control panel. If you must have a cyborg bodyguard, invest in a newer version. Miller isn’t fooling anyone.

Jared “Cliptip” Kushner: So you think we don’t know what’s going on with the nice Jewish boy? The only reason you want Jared by your side, 24-hours-a-day, is because when he’s with you, he isn’t fucking your daughter. What other reason could there be for keeping this grinning imbecile around?

Ivanka The Vacuous: If there wasn’t actual DNA evidence that she was your daughter, the smart money would be on Ivanka having arrived from the same mechanized mannequin assembly plant as Miller. Ruling that out, all anyone can figure is that she’s your beard — as incestuously creepy as that thought and image are to people with scruples.

So, there they are, The Weird And Wicked Six.

And, at the head of this pathetic pack of lackeys is, of course, you: The Commander-In-Tweet, Das Gropenfuhrer, The Cheeto Benito, Donnie Bratso, Grabba The Hutt, Adolf Twitler, The Angry Creamsicle, Hairman Mao.

Shall I go on? Okay.

King Leer, Schmuck L’Orange, Bela Lugrossi, SCROTUS, Creep Throat, The Great White Dope, Prima Donald, The Combover Con Artist, Sir Sissypants, Mango Mussolini, Pudgy McTrumpcake, Boss Tweet, and my personal favorite, The Lyin’ King.

Listen, President Fuckwad, your Hoover-era “wiretapping” accusation was the crowning moment in a long history of destructive delusions, and it marked the last time I’m stepping in front of the cameras with my pants down to my ankles trying to defend another one of your paranoid, predawn Twitter barrages.

This, then, shall stand as my formal letter of resignation. No need to wish me good luck — I’m already golden. MSNBC is paying me $2 million a year to air your dirty laundry.

It’s a wonderful opportunity, in my capacity as a former employee of the Fuckwad White House, to reveal how inarticulate, incompetent, narcissistic, thin-skinned, reckless, and obsessed with your hair you really are.

Oh, one last thing before I go. I found your Iridium satellite phone on the seat of Marine One. Judging by the phone numbers in its call log, this must be the satphone you use to call Putin twice a day.

I don’t really know what to do with a phone like this, but I’ll bet my new colleague Rachel Maddow does.


Sean Spicer, White House Press Secretary (Emeritus)

P.S. Remember, nuclear weapons are for adults!


Thanks to all the many readers, fans, followers, and even my frenemies, for reading and commenting on my posts throughout the year as I continue my commitment to post every day, 7-days-a-week until the Orange Accident is no more.

I read every comment. And I try to answer.

Thank you.


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