The Alex Publius Keaton Papers: Paper I

Greetings, Donald J. Trump,

Alex P. Keaton here.

Though not really. Alex P. Keaton is my pseudonym chosen in the tradition of The Federalist Papers. (Which is fun to mispronounce as the Frederalist papers. (Thomas) More on that in a minute.)

Since the Donald doesn’t appear to be a scholar of history, or herstory, or theirstory, I’ll inform you that the Federalist Papers matter bigly. Bespectacled folk with poor eyesight (historians) rank them among the most significant contributions to political thought ever scribbled within our hyper-permeable borders. VIP intellectual GDP.

Pre GOP.

Three men you likely know little of, with the exception of Alexander Hamilton, wrote the Federalist Papers. They did so to influence the campaign for the adoption of the Constitution. Their efforts succeeded, men in tights ratified the thingy, and the Constitution replaced a real terd known as the Farticles of Confederation. The Constitution ushered in American federalism, the very thing which might save us from you and your orangetarianism.

Putin, however, seems to have grabbed you so hard by the putssy that perhaps not even federalism can save us.

We seem to be simultaneously limping and galloping towards a constitutional crisis.

And tis the season for such a crisis.

You may stand neath the mistletoe with Ivanka as we scrutinize clause after clause after clause…

Have you seen the movie Fred Claus?

It’s terrible. It’s about a real loser, Fred, a repo guy who takes back Christmas gifts. Fred happens to be Nick’s brother.

Vince Vaughn, a semi-closeted Republican, plays Fred. That seems appropriate.

Wasn’t Fred your father’s name?

Hamilton, John Jay, and James Madison, who sometimes receives credit as being the first president to wear pants, wrote under their essays, articles, and screeds under the pen name Publius.

That’s what my p stands for. Not Putin, pendejo, or Polack.

I am Alex Publius Keaton.

Mr. Trump, I wonder what your J really stands for. Jackal? No, too keen. Joker? Maybe. Given the color of your skin, Jaundiced? I know it definitely doesn’t stand for Juggalo. That’s too populist.

Mr. Trump, I know that you don’t care much for bookish pursuits, or politics, but I know you like TV. TV is our point of connection. You are on TV. I am on TV (Nick at Nite). Moreover, I am a made-for-TV Republican. You are a made-for-TV Republican, too.

Though I am fictional, I am a truer Republican than you.

Isn’t that strange?

And I’m a “shakier” Republican. (Yes, that is a reference to Parkinson’s).

I’m as shaky as the republic.

It seems that the Russians have given us a case of political Parkinson’s.

Long ago, men in tights stared into the post-colonial tea leaves and predicted this predictament.

During his farewell address, our first president said, “Against the insidious wiles of foreign influence (I conjure you to believe me, fellow-citizens) the jealousy of a free people ought to be constantly awake, since history and experience prove that foreign influence is one of the most baneful foes of republican government…”

He goes on to describe Europe as the girl at the holiday party wearing too much glitter. Don’t get near her or you’ll get glitter on your shit. And we all know how problematic that is. Glitter is the herpes of crafts.

Washington then waxes about “our detached and distant situation” which shall enable us to keep an ocean’s length away from glitter girl but enter Al Gore.

(Leave Tipper outside.)

He invented the internet (according to the internet) and now, the girl with glitter can go anywhere.

I conjure you to believe me, Trump, the girl with the glitter is everywhere. She’s in a Trojan horse, she’s attacked the DNC, and apparently, she holds some kompromat over you.

As a made-for-TV Republican, this all gives me pause.

Press pause on the TV.

You can nowadays.

Anyways, I have a rerun to go star in. I’ll write again soon. Next time, I’d like to address your aesthetic, which has been aptly described as Liberace meets Saddam. We’ll also discuss my uncanny resemblance to Jodi Foster.


Alex P. Keaton


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