A LETTER TO KASH PATEL

From a deer – yes, that deer

Dear Mr. Patel,

It’s me — the deer. The one 99% of Andy Borowitz’s readers say would run the FBI better than you. You’ve probably seen that poll, though knowing your eyesight, maybe not. Let me read it aloud for you: ninety-nine percent. That’s unanimity with a margin of error smaller than your dignity.

You like to play FBI Director. I like to eat leaves. And yet somehow I’m the one America trusts to keep secrets safe and evidence intact. That should bother you, Kash. It should keep you awake at night — one eye twitching toward the Epstein files, the other drifting toward Fox News — as you wonder how you managed to make a woodland animal look like the grown-up in the room.

Let’s revisit your performance. You told the world Charlie Kirk’s killer was “in custody.” He wasn’t. Hours later, you had to walk it back, like a man who proudly announced his wedding only to realize he was at the wrong church. That wasn’t law enforcement. That was amateur improv. A deer wouldn’t have done that. I freeze when I see headlights. You? You sprint into microphones and announce fantasies.

And then you swaggered into the Senate and declared that the Epstein files contain “no credible information” beyond Epstein himself. Thousands of sealed pages. Victims begging for daylight. Redactions thicker than your excuses. And you squint at the mountain and call it a molehill. Kash, I don’t even read English and I know you’re lying. My eyes are set on the sides of my head — panoramic, wide, alert. I see threats before they happen. You couldn’t find a pedophile if he was dangling from your ceiling fan.

You are cross-eyed about everything that matters. That’s not an insult, it’s an observation. You walk into hearings like a man auditioning for the world’s worst slapstick act, one eye chasing the floor tiles, the other searching for cable news applause. Cross-eyed confusion has become your management style. And America can tell. The FBI under you doesn’t look impartial. It doesn’t look competent. It looks like a bad sitcom where the lead can’t read his lines straight.

You’ve turned personnel into a circus act. Fire the career investigators. Hire the pardoned rioters. Reward loyalty, not competence. The message is clear: if you were indicted for betraying democracy, congratulations, there might be a desk waiting for you at the Bureau. Meanwhile whistleblowers flee, morale collapses, and the FBI’s reputation disintegrates faster than your ability to read a teleprompter.

And the cruelest joke of all? You think this is working. You think the bluster, the tweets, the crossed eyes pretending to focus, convince people you’re in control. But Kash, the only thing you’ve controlled is the destruction of the Bureau’s credibility. You took an institution built on caution and restraint and turned it into open-mic night. You made the FBI a punchline.

Here’s the truth: I don’t need a law degree. I don’t need a badge. I don’t even need thumbs. I just need to stand here, quiet, still, watching. That’s enough to be more qualified than you. Because silence is strategy. Stillness is power. And vision — real vision, the kind that sees all around without blinking — is worth more than whatever googly-eyed chaos you’re selling.

So I’m challenging you. Head to head. Eye to eye — if you can figure out where to point them. Winner keeps the job. If you can stare at those sealed Epstein files and see more than excuses, you can stay. If you can look at a one-person lineup and not cuff the wrong guy, you can stay. If you can hold a press conference without embarrassing yourself and the Bureau in the same sentence, you can stay. But you won’t. Because you can’t.

The job is mine, Kash. America knows it. Ninety-nine percent of Borowitz readers know it. And deep down, behind the crossed wires of your wandering pupils, you know it too.

Yours in panoramic superiority,
The Deer

P.S. Kash, if this were a vision contest, I’d win blindfolded. You couldn’t find the truth if it was printed in size 72 font and taped to your forehead. Step aside before you embarrass yourself again — or worse, before you make me laugh so hard I run into traffic.

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