DEAR KING BABY

HELP IS ON THE WAY.

Coochee coo, wittle Donald. Ohhh somebody’s CRANKY! Did those mean ol’ Democrats say “no-no” to your trillion-dollar toy box? Did the nasty grown-ups forget your chicken nuggets? Or maybe…uh oh…did somebody make a boom-boom in his big-boy pants again?

It’s okay, sweetheart. America understands. You’re just a baby who never got his nap. That’s why you’re screaming at us from the HUD homepage, throwing your rattles all over DOJ, and shaking your playpen so hard the whole White House sounds like a daycare in meltdown.

But don’t cry, sugarplum. Help is on the way.

We’re sending pacifiers. Pink ones, blue ones, glow-in-the-dark ones. Giant novelty clown binkies the size of your head. Glitter-dipped gold pacifiers fit for a Very Stable Genius. Every flavor, every shape, every nipple in the store, all shipped to your royal crib:

The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500

Because if King Baby insists on turning government into a nursery, then the least we can do is stock the nursery.

And we’re not stopping at pacifiers. Oh no. Some of us are tucking in bedtime stories too. Goodnight Moon, so you can finally wave bye-bye to democracy. Go the Fuck to Sleep, because we ALL need you to. Maybe even a coloring book with nice, big shapes, since laws and constitutions make you fussy.

So listen up, America: grab a pacifier. Toss it in an envelope. Scribble a note:

“Dear King Baby,
Pipe down. Nap time is non-negotiable.”

Then send it straight to the big playpen on Pennsylvania Avenue. Flood the mailroom with so many rubber nipples that the staff needs forklifts to haul them away. Make sure King Baby drowns in his own pacification.

Because here’s the truth: we don’t know if he’s hangry, needs a nap, or just pooped himself again. Doesn’t matter. The solution is the same: give the baby a binky and put him down for a nap.

We will not tolerate fascism. And we will not let King Baby scream the country into submission.

So coochee coo, Donald. Settle down, big guy. Millions of pacifiers are on their way.

Sweet dreams, King Baby.

Love,
Your Very Tired Citizens

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America’s stuck in the world’s loudest nursery, and the toddler-in-chief is rattling the crib bars like they’re campaign podiums. That’s why we’re sending pacifiers to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue — not because we think a rubber nipple will calm fascism, but because laughter is resistance when power demands obedience.

This is what Closer to the Edge does: we document the meltdown, we call it what it is, and we turn outrage into action (and satire into survival). If you laughed, if you nodded, if you’re tired of living under King Baby’s nap schedule, then join us.

Subscribe to Closer to the Edge — because America doesn’t need a pacifier. It needs accountability.