Dear Donald

From Miss Piggy

Dearest Donald,

It is moi, Miss Piggy, and I am writing because you have committed a sin so grotesque, so tasteless, so fundamentally idiotic that even the Muppet chickens gasped. You called a reporter—an intelligent, courageous, unflinching professional—“piggy.”

Let’s pause, darling.

Let’s breathe.

Let’s let the stupidity of that choice settle into the air like the unmistakable scent of a bargain-bin cologne worn by a man who thinks intimidation is a personality.

You were asked about the Epstein files. A serious question. A necessary question. A question every decent human with a pulse should want answered. And instead of behaving like anything resembling an adult, you snapped. You barked. You lashed out like a startled sewer rat cornered under a bridge with too much hairspray and not enough self-control.

You didn’t insult her.

You exposed yourself.

She stood there in the truth.

You stood there in panic.

She held the line.

You lost your mind.

And then—mon dieu—you invoked moi.

You said “piggy.”

At a woman who was doing her job with more professionalism in one sentence than you have shown in your entire, overcooked, chaotic lifetime.

There is ONE Piggy.

ONE.

And she does not answer to you.

I built that name with talent, beauty, star power, and a legendary karate chop feared by icons and monsters alike. You? You hurl it as an insult because a woman dared to speak to you without bowing first. How fragile you must be to crumble under the weight of a question delivered by someone infinitely stronger than you have ever been.

That reporter showed courage. She showed integrity. She showed the world what a real professional looks like. Meanwhile, you flailed like a collapsing parade float struggling to stay inflated. You weren’t “fighting back.” You weren’t “being tough.” You were simply terrified. Terrified of a woman, a microphone, and the truth you keep trying to stuff into a closet full of your old scandals.

Calling her “piggy” didn’t diminish her. It diminished you.

It made you look cheap.

It made you look weak.

It made you look like a coward thrashing in quicksand of your own making.

And let’s be clear: A man who calls a woman “piggy” because he cannot withstand a factual question is not strong. He is not clever. He is not bold.

He is a big, loud, pathetic problem.
A problem the size of a collapsing casino.

A problem wrapped in insecurity, hairspray, and whatever the hell those suits are made of—polyester? denial? both?

So here is your final lesson from moi:

The reporter you tried to belittle stands taller today than you ever have.

She asked for truth.

You served up fear.

She did her job.

You embarrassed yourself.

She kept her dignity.

You lost yours somewhere between the plane door and your next tantrum.

My name is not your shield.

My title is not your insult.

You are not worthy to utter the word “Piggy” unless you are referring to your own reflection.

Consider this your warning, your education, and your verbal karate chop to the soul:

Do not use my name to attack a woman who is braver than you.

Do not weaponize my legacy to mask your cowardice.

And do not mistake your insecurity for strength.

You wanted to shame her.

Instead, you shamed yourself.

Furiously, fabulously, and forever out of your league,
Miss Piggy

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If this letter made you laugh, gasp, fist-pump, or mutter “holy hell,” then you’re exactly the kind of delightful troublemaker who belongs inside Closer to the Edge.