DEAR PRESIDENT TRUMP — Hi! I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Bob. Bob Ali. Subordinate Holy Lance Private and The People’s Most Blindingly Revered Ayatollah No. 37, Supreme Leader Of Iran. I suspect that I’m the highest ranking officer left in The Islamic Revolutionary Guard. Except for the Sparkletts guy, I haven’t seen anyone in a uniform since Monday. Oh. Also? My cell phone’s out. Heck, Mr. Trump. Everyone’s cell phone is out.

As I’m sure from your position as president of the running dog slurping hyena dog dog-food-eating bloodthirsty capitalist dog nation of America (my deceased sergeant’s words, not mine), you’ve noticed that Iran’s goose-stepping military are, this very moment, still kicking your American asterisk until your collective nose bleeds. Do let me know when you guys are ready to surrender. I’m on the midnight janitorial shift so I kinda sleep funny hours. When I woke up under a foot of ash, concrete and a dented take-out tin of pita and tabouli (our military’s dietary staple, not your famous Vegas lounge act), I discovered I’m the last person left in Iran’s government. Someone left The How-to-Run-Tehran manual on my dusty bunk. First thing to do in case our previous administration of terrorists, bullies, louts, liars, hypocrites and bloated bureaucrats was vaporized?

Strike a deal with America.

As you may recall, the Islamic Republic has always been a world leader in peace, freedom and cooperation with our neighbors, be they some next-door-neighbor inferior........

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