Mariella Gattini

Mr. Shallow is so into himself that I’m sure he thinks I’m talking about him. He’s best friends with Mr. Fart. In fact, they are so alike, people believe they are twins. Both are so unsuccessful with real women that they have to buy their love elsewhere. Yes, and their prenups are tight, lawyerly tight, because they know that sooner or later they are going to get tired of their inflatable girlfriends, so they’ll replace them with younger models, literally. They need their women ignorant, so they are easily discarded.

Today, Mr. Shallow is so appalled because they are flagging his tweets. Awww!!! Mr. Shallow, really? That’s your conundrum? Are you looking for another outlet? Awwww!!! That’s not fair!

Mr. Shallow, seriously, your veneer is so thin that we can see your rotten heart. You know, we, as in real women like Nancy, Elizabeth, Kamala, Alexandria, Kristen, Amy, and even Hillary, believe it or not. Ah, and don’t forget to include Angela, too. They are among millions of us. If we had met you in other circumstances, we wouldn’t have given you a second look, because it’s obvious that your bank account is compromised. It’s written all over your face!

I know, you promise yourself that one day you would be the most popular bully in the world. For that reason, you still have on the wall of your office—where you accomplish nothing—the poster of Syndrome. Yes, Buddy Pine, The Incredibles’ nemesis, is still your hero. It seems to me that you don’t remember how the story ends…, but I digress.

Now that Mr. Fart is pooping on every congressional seat, Mr. Shallow needs to create a distraction so he has produced his own videos inviting people to follow him. Where? He doesn’t say, because it’s a trivial deflection that leads nowhere, really. The important thing is to make people look the other way, so they don’t see the other one pooping all over the place. Aw, Mr. Fart, stop it, you’re gonna need a diaper! Stop popping those pills into your mouth, it makes it worse! And look at your hair; it’s a mess. When is it that you’re are going to fix your mop once and for all? You’re bald, so what?

Sorry, Mr. Shallow, how inconsiderate from my part, allowing Mr. Fart to intrude in almost every one of my sentences. It should be about you and only you, but you both are so alike that I can’t resist.

People are dying all around, but what do you care? You think you look good on TV. I have news for you: You don’t. No matter the amount of botox in your cheeks. Botox is not your friend, but since it’s poison, it goes well with you; you are two of a kind.

Oh, my Gosh, Mr. Shallow, this pandemic is a nuisance to you! It’s ruining your life! Because everything is about you, and only you. What if the most vulnerable are dying? What do you care? The poor and the not so poor, of any race, are a burden to you. You don’t understand them, so you despise them, because you despise everything that requires understanding. Don’t they realize that there is a bigger tragedy here? The tragedy is that people don’t get that you are not joking; you actually believe what you explain to them over and over again. Let me spell it for you: You don’t care about what happens to them. How can you possibly be more clear? Stop it, they are going to make him break a nail. Do you see what Mr. Shallow has to endure?

What do we women have in common, you say? We are intelligent and strong women looking at the grotesque spectacle that you are. We are a massive group of people who is going to outlive you and your mob of delinquents.

Taking the little benefits away from the unemployed, really? To force them to go back to work to jobs that don’t exist anymore, where is your sense of decency? Oh, that’s right, the least amount of money in their pockets, the more in yours—that’s your rationale. And don’t forget the numbers, the numbers that you think are going to make you look good. Sorry, that’s an impossible feat. We are going to make sure of that.

We are intelligent women, the kind you can’t possibly put in a box to play with them later. We come in different sizes, colors, genders, and creeds. And we are U.S. citizens, who are so out of your league you will never catch up with us. We come from generations of women who have been keeping countries together, and cultures, and languages. The kind of women who believe that Thelma & Louise didn’t have to end that way, but that, in any case, they didn’t die in vain. And we come in droves.

Remember, you live in a country that defeated a king. You? You’re small potatoes. What did George III said in Hamilton? …“I’ll kill your friends and family to remind you of my love”….

You don’t even need to kill the ones in desperate need of medical attention, Mr. Negligence is doing that for you. The more people die, the more money in your pocket.

We will never forget how people died under your watch, never. Women have long memories.

It’s time to say goodbye to you, Mr. Shallow, and to your best friend Mr. Fart. We overcame the Nixon-Pinochet combo when we were kids, vulnerable in every possible way. Today we are grown ups in complete control of our own lives—we will put you and your mob in the rear-view mirror, and no, we will not jump into the abyss.

Hand in hand we will restore this country’s safety and honor, just like our previous generations have done over and over again. They can say whatever they want on a national television run by men. They are not speaking on our behalf. The change comes from us—we are the treasure of this country.

Goodbye, Mr. Shallow, we don’t want to see you again, we actually never did.