Nei, Tommy Lee skrev ikke "Tommy Lee's åpne brev til Donald Trump"

Svaret er: NEI. Enkelt og greit, og her er vi ved kjernen av problemet med sosiale medier. Folk leser en morsom overskrift, trykker på en knapp og deler. Ytterst få gidder å sjekke om kilden er legitim, "for det er jo sikkert noen andre som har sjekket det før meg" - ikke sant?

Nå har det seg slik at dette åpne brevet til Trump er hysterisk morsomt og veldig godt skrevet. Og det kunne jo vært skrevet av Tommy Lee, som hater presidenten intenst. Det er altså ingen stor skade skjedd her, men til neste gang: sjekk kildene dine før du deler saker og meninger på sosiale medier. OK?

Så. Hva SKJEDDE egentlig? Hvem skrev brevet?

Mange tror årsaken til denne "misforståelsen" er at Tommy Lee en gang delte dette åpne brevet, skrevet av en viss Craig Alan Wilkins:

Svaret er igjen: NEI. Tommy Lee er en del av problemet her. Heller ikke han sjekker kildene sine. Han har delt et brev som han TRODDE var skrevet av Craig Alan Wilkins. Det var det faktisk ikke. Brevet er skrevet av Aldous J. Pennyfarthing, og beviset finner du på dailykos.com.

Jeg er ikke den første som skriver dette:

Pennyfarthing oppklarer kaoset i DENNE ARTIKKELEN: "No I'm not Tommy Lee or Craig Alan Wilkins but I do hate Donald Trump" (klikk for link).

Det er såpass god underholdning i språkføringen her at du like gjerne kan lese hele brevet når du først er i gang:

Enten HER, eller her:

SKREVET AV ALDOUS J. PENNYFARTHING!

Dear Fucking Lunatic,

At your recent press conference - more a word salad that had a stroke and fell down stairs, you were CLEARLY so out of your depth you needed scuba gear. Within minutes of going off air your minions were backpedaling faster than Cirque De Soliel acrobats... In India a week ago, i couldn’t get past the bit about your being the most popular visitor in the history of fucking india — a country of a BILLION human souls that’s only 3000 years old, give or take.!!! Trust me - Gandhi pulled CROWDS.. You pulled a cricket stadium and half WALKED out...

Do you know how fucking insane you sound, you off-brand butt plug? That's like the geopolitical equivalent of “that stripper really likes me” — only 10,000 times crazier and less self aware.

You are fucking exhausting. Every day is a natural experiment in determining how long 300 million people can resist coring out their own assholes with an ice auger. Every time I hear a snippet of your Queens-tinged banshee larynx farts, I want to scream!

We are fucking tired. As bad as we all thought your presidency would be when Putin got you elected, it’s been inestimably worse.

You called a hostile, nuclear-armed head of state “short and fat.” How the fuck does that help?

You accused a woman — a former friend, no less — of showing up at your resort bleeding from the face and begging to get in. You, you, YOU — the guy who looks like a Christmas haggis inexplicably brought to life by Frosty’s magic hat — yes, you of all people said that.

You attempted — with evident fucking glee — to get 24 million people thrown off their health insurance.

You gave billions away to corporations and the already wealthy while simultaneously telling struggling poor people that you were doing exactly the opposite.

You endorsed a pedophile, praised brutal dictators, and defended LITERAL FUCKING NAZIS!

Ninety-nine percent of everything you say is either false, crazy, incoherent, just plain cruel, or a rancid paella of all four.

Oh, by the way, Puerto Rico is still FUBAR. You got yourself and your family billions in tax breaks for Christmas. What do they get? More paper towels?

Enough, enough, enough, enough! For the love of God and all that is holy, good, and pure, would you please, finally and forever, shut your feculent KFC-hole until you have something valuable — or even marginally civil — to say?

You are a fried dick sandwich with a side of schlongs. If chlamydia and gonorrhea had a son, you’d appoint him HHS secretary. You are a disgraceful, pustulant hot stew full of casuistry, godawful ideas, unintelligible non sequiturs, and malignant rage.

You are the perfect circus orangutan diaper from Plato’s World of Forms.

So fuck you mr. president. And fuck you forever.

Oh, and Pence, you oleaginous house ferret. Fuck you, too. You'll be as useful as a chocolate teapot against a medical crisis you Bible thumping cock socket.