Enlisting the Break-Up Pros

Dear Wakaresaseya Agency,

We were recently perusing the news when among the usual fare of planetary plagues, unsurvivable hurricanes, and right-wing Christian three-ways, we read about your surreptitious services. We don’t mind confessing we’re entirely intrigued.

Can it be true there are businesses in Japan dedicated solely to breaking up relationships? And that people hire these covert agents to bust up their own marriages by luring their spouses into affairs??

It’s hard to believe — but then again, if someone had told us six months ago that we’d be marching to save the US Freaking Postal Service and shoveling mountains of money at Ole Grampa Biden, we’d have laughed in their unmasked face, sputtering, “Shyeah, right, I’d sooner homeschool my kids!”

Frankly, we’re embarrassed it took us this long to learn about you, when you’ve apparently been slipping under the covers undercover for 20 years. We’re normally quite up to date on the cruel and creative ways that couples enjoy making one another miserable. But we’re busy trying not to die over here, and general existential despair has left us just a skoosh behind in our zeitgeist chasing.

Now, we’ll be honest: Morally, we feel that paying someone to trick your better half into cheating is a weenie way to extricate yourself from holy conjugality. But alas, as Americans, we very much applaud the capitalist ingenuity of profiting from other people’s shortcomings — weeniehood included.

Speaking of short weenies, I’ll cut to the chase: Are you familiar with our current president? We’d like to hire you, oh, wily Wakaresaseya — immediately and on the down-low — to help us break up with Donald Trump.

Word has it you’ve used every trick in the book from hidden lapel cameras and “chance” encounters at the gym to medical-record blackmail and fake mafia debt collectors. So you should find it no challenge to woo an oversized infant away from a toy he’s not yet mature enough to understand but is reluctant to relinquish from his tiny, sticky fingers.

To put it in nuptial terms, the parlance of your industry, the man (and I use the term generously) is an abusive spouse. Foul-mouthed, ill-tempered, and incapable of forming whole sentences, he’s a pathological liar who golfs when he’s supposed to be at work, spends our hard-earned money on military parades, and locks our kids in cages. He embarrasses us when we take him out to meet other world leaders, thinks a pussy grab constitutes foreplay, and appears to be having a torrid affair with an uptight Russian fellow who poisons people.

Also, he snores.

We’re trying the traditional route, of course, doing everything we can to ensure he’s not reelected. But with the nation’s great minds saying our democracy and environment may not survive another Trump presidency … we really can’t take any chances. Our “wedlock” is deadlocked, and we’re frantic to doff this ball-and-chain bozo.

It may help your operatives to know some things about him, so you can decide on your plan of attack. He doesn’t read. Or exercise. His favorite food (again, being liberal with the lingo) is KFC and McDonald’s. His hobbies are Twitter and making fun of people. He dreams of being carved into Mount Rushmore. And he is most likely to fall in love with someone who looks like himself. Or his daughter.

Once you’ve entrapped or enticed him away, we don’t care what you do with him. Teargas him. Lock him up. Build a wall. We understand that you offer “after-care” services to ensure that your targets don’t come crawling back from whence they came. (“It’s like a cancer operation,” a Wakaresaseya told the L.A. Times in 2002. “You remove the tumor but need to make sure it doesn’t grow back.”) Amen to that and keep the chemo comin’, capiche?

One final thing: Don’t worry about your $150,000 fee. Mexico will pay for it. Mark our words.

Gratefully,

America’s Better Half

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