The Follow Me Don Chronicles #2 - The DC Horse Strangler

Welcome back, all four of you. On this installment of The Follow Me Don Chronicles, I'm cutting out a few of the less exciting tweets to our beloved leader in the interest of time. Also I have a huge backlog of tweets. Send help.

Don hasn't followed me back yet. I was desperate by this time. I stretched the truth. Have I been beat up at school? Not for a few weeks, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I told him that only his follow could prevent any further beatings from the cool kids, but I think he saw through the ruse. Once again he ignored the tweet like he ignores his children, focusing instead on steaks and a wall. Back to square one.

Maybe he'd respect an actual opinion. Maybe he'd appreciate a twitter follower acting as a member of his cabinet, giving him advice on how to run the country. Surely he doesn't have enough of those, right? I was the angel descending from on high that he'd been looking for - a smart person with good opinions and smart person traits and stuff. I called him out: regulations have done wonders for this country. I mean, isn't a government nothing but regulations? Regulations have kept children from getting their hands Anakin'd off by factory machinery, kept roads as a thing that even exist, and kept us from making extinct hundreds of species. Surely they can't be that bad in moderation, just like high fructose corn syrup and opposite-leaning news sources? But yet my target of obsession loomed just out of reach like the brake pedal for a midget in a run-away car.

If there's one thing Herr Trump loves, it's accusations. I thought I'd put on my best TMZ reporter impression and accuse him of something so sinister, so heinous, he'd have no option but to respond. I accused him, the leader of the free world, of strangling horses in his spare time. Not one to make such a pernicious statement without leaving an out, I offered him the option of agreeing that his hands are, in fact, too small to effectively strangle a horse. Surely a man needs large hands to strangle a beast with such a robust head mount. Wimpy dough kneaders aren't going to be enough: you need some serious man mittens to snuff the life out of Equidae. I added a request for a follow back, and a heart to show my willingness to hear out his side of the story, then sent my tweet. The Don Juan of Democracy didn't respond, or even follow me back. Cue sadness, despair, and Samuel Barber's Adagio For Strings, Op. 11.

Simple misunderstanding here. Google says cabinet also means a body of advisers to the president. What I'm confused about is there's several people next to my boy Donald, not just one. Shouldn't it be bodies, or do they all just sorta legion inside of one guy at every meeting? I don't get politics.

Trump didn't follow me last after the last tweet, so I doubled down on the horse strangling accusation. I explained away the way out I left him last time so that he can't just be like "nah bro my hands are actually too small you're totally right and handsome and girls should be all over you like couches on trashy lawns". The only way I see our commander in chief asphyxiating a horse is by hanging on its neck. If he doesn't deny it, then it's surely true, or else he'd deny it. That's the whole point of denial. To deny, he'd have to reply to me finally and maybe he'd be like "wow this guy's cool and girls should want to date him like an archaeologist with an artifact" and then he'd follow me.

(If anyone wants to illustrate Donald Trump hanging around a horse's neck like a koala I'd be so grateful and maybe even pay you a few tens of dollars.)

My next stroke of brilliance came at 11:19 PM, when I realized that Mike "Thinks 'Convertible' is a Synonym for 'Gay'" Pence is my next best shot at getting that coveted Twitter follow by the pres. A proxy is just what I needed. Maybe Donald finds me annoying, as hard as it is to believe, but if a man he respects as much as Mikey tells him to follow me then surely he'll do it. A friend once told me to ask out a girl I liked so I did and she rejected me and her friends all laughed at me and I cried in the bathroom and then slipped on a wet floor and hit my head but I did what my friend said so this is a comparable experience. Still, though, Trump, Donald J. didn't follow me. Kyle remained a sad excuse of a human being who is also sad emotionally.

To be continued....

The Follow Me Don Chronicles #1 - Humble Beginnings

I have recently set a goal in my life. This goal is one I hope to accomplish sooner rather than later, but I will not stop until that goal is accomplished. I have recently set a goal to get the 45th President of the United States, Commander in Chief of the United States Armed Forces, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains, ya boy Donald J. Trump to follow me back on Twitter. This is the Follow Me Don Chronicles.

It started simply enough: I wanted Post Malone, an accomplished musical artist and memelord to follow me on Twitter. My initial idea was to ask someone larger to follow me, like DJ Trump himself, then offer it to Post. I figured Mr. Malone would be jealous and follow me back. The idea failed, and to this day my follower list has not been graced by the likes of Post Malone. 

After 24 hours, upon coming to terms with the fact that Post would not follow me back but instead ignore me like a soccer mom at a beggar's intersection, I decided to loft my goal. Instead of a memelord, I'd get the world's most powerful person to follow me back.

It's all about street cred. A person's worth is determined by their Twitter followers. I tried the same tweet again, this time replying to one of his tweets. Maybe a direct reply would catch his attention. But alas, the Trumpmeister didn't listen. On the bright side, four people liked it, and that's just great. You guys are great. Thanks, guys. I appreciate you.

The next two were still simple. A simple plea for recognition. I threw in a pinch of human interest to appeal to his soft interior lurking beneath an excess of orange flesh. My premise: I'm a sad, lonely man who just wants friends. The reality of the claim helped my story, too. But that didn't sway him either. Donald J. Trump was still not following me.

I grew angry with Don. I wanted a follow back. I lashed out at sweet Donnie. However, I stand by my statement. Political beliefs aside, his Twitter message is unclear and muddled with all the stagnant bacteria festering behind his largemouth bass lips, much like chew spit. His thoughts flow effortlessly from his noggin onto Twitter like musical notation from a prodigious composer tapping the well of inspiration. But they shouldn't. Regardless, DJT still didn't follow me. I pressed on, ever the wiser, ever the resilient.

Donald, the bill can wait. What could not wait, I'm afraid, were my exams. My finals were imminent, along with my stress. I needed luck, and I needed it from the man with the power to end the world in a fiery hailstorm of nuclear explosion. I figured by now Don and I were on a "cool initials instead of names" basis. He'd be DJ, I'd be KN. Together we'd chill on the stoop and wreck havoc in our neighborhood, all while wearing the flyest kicks and the phattest pants. But distaster struck before the dream became a reality: he didn't follow me back.

Now it was time to play politics; if the language of sympathy didn't jive with him, I'd have to speak a language he understands. Or doesn't understand, depending on which way you lean. Either way, I thought perhaps a nomination would clinch the follow back. There are few people in this elite club. It consists mostly of Fox News reporters who he knows won't make fun of him for his Twitter wordvomits, the White House Twitter, Mikey P. The Gayhater's Dream, the children he remembers exists, his businesses' Twitter accounts, and Vince McMahon, owner of World Wrestling Entertainment. Next to be added to the list: your boy Niles.

Well, chums, he didn't take the bait. Instead, he ignored me like he always does. It's like the tens of thousands of replies he receives to every tweet is too much for him to read or something. Next I wanted him to know I could be trusted. I've never leaked before, and I never will, should J. Trump trust me with his tweets. Maybe Don would even appoint me as the new FBI director? I mean I'm trustworthy enough, nearly as handsome as Comey, and the thought of testifying at a Senate intelligence hearing makes me so sick with anxiety that I would never do anything wrong. I can't even talk in a college class of 30 people, let alone a room full of old people who look at you like you took one too many of their butterscotch candies.

Perhaps the most sacred of days could convince him to follow me back. It was my birthday, and I went out all out with my appeal to his emotions. In this tweet, I was playing the role of myself, but without having received a birthday wish from any of my friends. Also my dog hated me. Nobody can say no to a sad, lonely man on his birthday, abandoned by his friends, loathed by his animal companion. Imagine, if you will, a man, alone, blowing out a single candle on a cupcake, his face dimly lit by flame's soft glow, his dog sitting the corner, glaring angrily at him. The man begins to sob softly. He ponders: how had his life come to this? "If only," he thinks to himself, "the 45th President of the United States followed me on Twitter." 

To be continued, since he has not followed me back yet. Donnie, if you're reading this, follow me back please.