I’m the Mona Lisa, and I Demand to be Repainted as the Sexpot That I Am

“Trump Wants Smithsonian to Create a Different Official Portrait. . . The painted portrait from President Trump’s first term was completed more than four years ago, but never unveiled. Now he wants the National Portrait Gallery to commission a new one.”  – New York Times, February 13, 2026

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 I’m the Mona Lisa and I hate my portrait. I don’t look sexy, or glamorous, or powerful. I look mid. I demand to be repainted.

 

When I sat for the portrait, I was dressed in a bright pink halter top revealing a heaving cleavage while holding my yellow pet cockatoo to showcase my playful side. I recently got a spray tan, had my teeth whitened to near-neon, and had my hair straightened and layered professionally. I’d just finished doing fifty push-ups so that my triceps would look ripped. I was ready to be the muse.

 

Then the artist revealed the painting to me, and I nearly puked. It’s so drab. Where is the pop of color? Why does my hair look so frizzy and my face so pale? My voluptuous form is covered up by something resembling a bedsheet. Is the painter gay? Where is my beloved cockatoo? WHAT THE HELL?

 

And my features? Don’t get me started about that “enigmatic smile.” That is a euphemism for a painter who has no idea how to paint a mouth. I expected to see my dazzling teeth in a single band of white, each tooth indistinguishable from its neighbor, like a Hollywood actor. Instead, I see a non-smile. A scowl. A smirk. It can only be categorized as a smile because one side of my mouth is slightly upturned. However, I think that was only because the painter sneezed mid-stroke. He has a cockatoo allergy.

 

I am beginning to think that he is not even a real painter. I found out afterwards that he has many jobs, including engineer, sculptor and even a goddamned botanist. He clearly knows more about photosynthesis than paint. What a hack. During the sitting, I was giving him side-eye the entire time, which is the only accurate element in the painting.

 

I hate the way the painter captured my cleavage. He painted only the tiniest hint of a shadow on my decolletage. This does not capture the breadth and depth of my mountainous bosom. I tried to reveal the tiniest hint of my nipple, in a tasteful yet titillating nod to my sexual appeal; however, nada. No nipple in sight. I look like a librarian. Not a sexy librarian, but a stern librarian who, for some reason, is sitting in some random field and not at the disco as directed in the commission contract.

 

My name isn’t even Mona. Or Lisa, for that matter. It’s Bambi. Not that you care. You spend hours in line at the Louvre to see me and then you complain about how small I am. How unimpressive. How there is something “off” about my expression. Imagine how I feel? In real life, I am a sexpot. I am lithe, given all the Pilates I do. My hair is strawberry blonde, for god’s sake. This famous painting of me is an epic eternal insult.

 

I wish you could see my expression now. It is full of disdain for you, the public. Disdain for allowing the veneration of this monstrosity and thereby immortalizing my shame. You are also responsible for elevating the fortunes of this no-talent botanist pseudo-painter who is apparently colorblind.

 

I demand to be repainted as the sexpot that I am, and the original painting should be consigned to the scrap heap where it belongs.

 

Thank you for your attention to this matter!