Hey Tim Scott, We’ve been looking for you. You’ve been very quiet lately. Is everything alright with you and the new wife? Just checking — because you vanished the second Trump got what he wanted out of you. You tried to speak for minorities — even when you were asked, nicely, to stop. But you didn’t. You ranted about how Trump would be so great for us. You said liberals hated seeing you because you were “the exception.” You paraded yourself like a trophy they could flash to prove how “diverse” they were. So, where are you now, Tim? Last I saw you, the Republicans sent you out begging for votes. The last time I heard your voice, you told Trump you loved him — right there, on camera, like a man groveling for scraps. Did you say it because he dangled the Vice President spot in front of you? Or was it a cabinet position you thought you had locked up? Be honest — you didn’t even get offered assistant secretary to anything. Hell, they barely let you stand next to the table, let alone sit at it. You spoke proudly — I’ll give you that. Even when I disagreed with your politics, I respected that you stood your ground. Until Trump snapped his fingers. Then you folded like a cheap suit. And here’s the part you never saw coming: While you were buck-dancing and butt-kissing your way across the stage, they were planning your exit the second Trump got back in power. Now? Trump has gutted everything you ever worked for. Everything you bragged about helping minorities, women, and children — torched. Gone. By the same man you professed your love for. Feeling abandoned, Tim? Feeling betrayed? Good. You should. Because you FAFO — you F***ed Around and Found Out. What did you think would happen? That you were going to get a real seat at that table? Trump gave better positions to accused rapists, known child molesters, and some guy who claimed a worm ate part of his brain — all before he even considered you. He called you “smart,” Tim. And everyone knew he really meant gullible. He freed violent criminals who stormed the Capitol — the same ones who called you slurs. His party whispered that you were “soft,” “weak,” and worse — and still, you danced when they said dance. Now, after all the name-calling, all the humiliations, all the broken promises, there you sit — played, forgotten, defeated. Here’s a suggestion: Maybe try dancing again. Smile real big. Tap real hard. Maybe — just maybe — they’ll let you take one last photo at the White House. But honestly? I doubt it. Beloud