Dear President Trump.

Let me tell you two stories from the year 2000.

First: At the Democratic National Convention in Los Angeles, I found myself among a group of Connecticut delegates exiting a very feisty and enjoyable party. I’m going guess it was 3:30 a.m. Perhaps uncharacteristically, I was the least inebriated person in a group of 30 or so.

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I located some convention staffers and told them I needed a bus. They brought me one. I put all of the partiers on the bus and we returned to the hotel that housed the Connecticut delegation. By now, let us say that it was perhaps 4:30 a.m. I led them to an elevator and pressed “up.” The doors opened.

There stood Richard Blumenthal. In his jogging attire.

You don’t know what kind of force you’re dealing with, Mr. President.

You have weaknesses. Cheeseburgers. Strippers. Chocolate cake. Strippers jumping out of chocolate cakes and brandishing cheeseburgers.

Richard Blumenthal is like the anti-matter version of these things.

Second story: During that same campaign I befriended Blumenthal’s Republican opponent for attorney general, one Santa Mendoza.

(Sidebar: the Fundamental Orders were adopted by the Colony of Connecticut in 1639 and represent one of the first — if not THE first — written constitutions in the modern sense of the term. The Orders specifically mention Richard Blumenthal and that he will be attorney general for a really long period. This is what I mean, Mr. President. Blumenthal is not even restrained by the space-time continuum.)

Back to Mendoza. She was a sharp, funny, telegenic, Latina candidate at a time when the national Republican party was eagerly courting non-white votes. In Connecticut, the party was led by John Rowland and his cronies, who never knew what to make of Mendoza because she did not resemble any character in “Animal House,” which was pretty much their Rosetta Stone for understanding everything.

On Election Day, Mendoza was poll-standing in New Haven. A group of Latino voters approached her and thanked her profusely for being such a stellar embodiment of their politically underrepresented minority. They told her she had made them proud. They thanked her some more.

“Thank you,” Mendoza replied. “And thank you for your vote.”

“Oh,” they said, “we’re voting for Blumenthal!”

This is what I’m talking about, Mr. President. Richard Blumenthal is a force that bypasses normal human instincts.

When you attack Richard Blumenthal, Mr. President, you often seem to think you can gain the upper hand by bringing up his past statements that made it sound like he served in Vietnam, when, in fact, he was a stateside Marine reservist.

That story was splashed all over the front page of The New York Times in the heat of his 2010 Senate campaign against an opponent with nearly unlimited wrestling-derived financial resources.

Do you know what happened? He won the election by a 55-43 margin. Something that could have destroyed a mortal, human candidate gave him the hiccups for two weeks.

So now, you have eked out a little breathing room between yourself and the pursuing hounds, Mr. President, and you seem to think it’s payback time. The people who supported the special counsel investigation must suffer. Your Sarah Sanders wants the press and offending politicians held “accountable.” Your re-election campaign wants people like Blumenthal kept off the airwaves as much as possible.

You think you can drive the rebel Blumenthal up into the hills to crouch amid the brush and live on rainwater and tree frogs? No, it is you who will wind up there, sir, and the tree frogs will not taste like cheeseburgers.

When Obi-Wan said to Vader, “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine,” do you know what the actor Alec Guinness studied to prepare for the line? Old Blumenthal tapes! You can hear the flatness, the monotone in his delivery. He’s wearing jogging clothes under those Jedi robes! Don’t you get it, Mr. President? No you don’t.

I don’t say that Blumenthal has no weaknesses. Of course he does. We know what they are. He likes to look into cameras pointed at him. He likes to speak into microphones. He likes to talk to humans who are writing his words down in rectangular notebooks. He can be roused at 4 a.m. from a deep slumber and immediately start doing these things, unless he’s already up anyway doing some weird abdominal contractions.

Wait. A noise. Something is in my inbox! It’s a press release from Blumenthal, Mr. President, questioning your administration’s handling of the Boeing 737 issue. It mentions “lapses in safety oversight” and leaving “the fox to guard the henhouse.”

And now my Twitter is tweeting. It’s him again! “The fish rots from the head: the President himself continues to hold an ownership stake in the Trump Organization even as he makes policy decisions that could impact & prioritize its bottom line,” he tweets.

You cannot stop him. The Force is too strong.

And, Mr. President, they say there is another. One in whom the Force may be even stronger, if he can learn to control it.

They call this one Tong.

Connecticut Media Group