Dear Mr. President,

Dear Mr. President,

My name is Rook T. Winchester, and I’m writing to request a seat at your next Roundtable on Antifa—that rare Washington ritual where you and your hand-picked chorus attempt to criminalize the concept of opposing fascism.

I know I wasn’t on the last guest list. I was probably bumped for someone who possesses more flags than they do functioning neurons. That’s fine. But next time, you’ll want me there. I actually know what Antifa means. Not the shadow-puppet version with Soros payrolls and ninja pajamas, but the literal one—anti-fascism, the notion that opposing authoritarianism is still good manners in a democracy.

To assist the discussion, I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation that’s part civic seminar, part exorcism. Slide 1 defines “fascism” in single-syllable words so nobody has to squint. Slide 2 illustrates that “anti” means “against.” Slide 3 walks through the part of history where the anti-fascists were called “the Allies,” complete with photos of American soldiers punching Nazis—something we used to celebrate instead of subpoena. By Slide 6, the audience may feel the first stirrings of critical thought; that’s normal and mostly painless. Slide 10 introduces my proudest visual aid: a venn diagram titled “Things You Can’t Declare War On”—ideas, weather, and prefixes all sharing one perfect circle.

Now, I understand your roundtables usually feature a mix of retired propagandists, acting officials whose titles start with “acting,” and people who think “deep state” is an address. I promise to blend right in. I can nod gravely, sip bottled water during applause breaks, and look patriotic under fluorescent lighting.

Still, let’s be honest: your last event didn’t need more loyalty—it needed content. You had all the smoke, none of the fire. Bring me in, and I’ll give you both.

To sweeten the deal, I’ll bring cheeseburgers and Diet Coke—the sacraments of your administration. You can stack them like policy papers and call it infrastructure. I’ll even let Pam Bondi weaponize the ketchup packets if it keeps morale high.

So, please, Mr. President—let me join you at the table. Let me watch the precise moment you realize Antifa isn’t a person you can indict. Let me witness the birth of a new constitutional crisis over a prefix. I’ll take notes, keep my laughter mostly internal, and file the most honest account since Watergate:

“The Day America Declared War on Grammar.”

Yours in perpetual disbelief,
Rook T. Winchester
Independent journalist, Antifa’s accidental press liaison, and PowerPoint presenter extraordinaire.

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