Dear John,
I'm your friend, right? I mean, you call me that all the time, it's the only consistent message you seem to have. If I were not your friend, I would not be writing this, because it would be none of my business. As your friend, I feel that it's my responsibility to speak to you honestly.
I'm worried about you, buddy. You look so angry all the time, so deep down disturbed, like you're going around looking for somebody to stab in the chest. What have you got to be so pissed off about, bro? You're a U.S. Senator, you're worth a hundred mil or more. Cindy's looking hot. Are you having those nightmares again where your first wife is an interrogator for the Viet Cong? If so, you oughta see Cindy's doctors. They'll give you something for that. If I were in your Ferragamos, that's what I would do.
Is it this Sarah character they've stuck you with, pal? Is that it? If she's the problem, I share your anger. She seems stuck in cheerleader mode. Hockey mom? Moose hunter? Jesus Jetson, I mean, here you are, a man of the world who dines with heads of state, a high-rolling power player if ever there was one, and they saddle you with some slot machine who just fell off the Zamboni. She's not bad lookin', I do have to say, and if this were you and me back in the Tailhook day, we'd be holding lots of flute recitals down at the beach, right, chief? I caught you eyeballing that ass, bro-hammer. As your friend, someone who knows your history of chasing quality P on a global scale, I'm begging you, don't go there. You sneeze on that, it gets pregnant, and then you got problems that even Joe Lieberman can't fix. Three more weeks, sport. Twenty-one days, and she's out of your life forever.
Have you had an MRI lately, John? It's claustrophobic as all hell, like somebody jamming you into a torpedo tube on the Bowfin. My advice is you get a couple of meds from Cindy and it's manageable. The reason I say get the MRI is that you seem confused at times. Uncertain about your direction. Like when you walked in front of the camera the other night after the debate like some rookie intern on the Amarillo local news. Or like when you called me 'your fellow prisoner' last week. John...I wasn't there with you in Hanoi. That wasn't me. I don't know who you were talking about, but I wasn't there. I'm just saying, they can catch things early with those MRIs. We are not what we once were, Uncle, never will be, and no one is sorrier about it than this compadre. But our inevitable slide can be a graceful one, my friend. I don't want you to see you embarrass yourself and do something like piss your pants on national TV. That would be tragic.
Probably what bothers me most about our friendship is how you seem to have sold out everything you've ever believed in to try to win this election. As your friend, I am here to tell you that not only is it not worth it to any man to sell out what he believes in to get himself any job, even POTUS, it is especially tragic to see it happen to a man like you, who has always stood for the highest virtues that this great country has to offer. Few men have been tested like you have, sir. You have always come through with flying colors. Until now. Keep flying, Mac! Don't let the vultures pull your proud career into the gutter and feed on it like roadkill. The good soldier fights with honor, not anger. And not with the kind of out-and-out hate I see you unleashing at your rallies like some rogue cop lets a K-9 loose on a crowd.
If, after reading this, you don't want me to be your friend any more, I will completely understand. But let me tell you, if this is the way you're going to continue to behave, I don't want to be your friend, either.
With all good wishes,
Mike