Dear Santa,
You know, every year since I was eight I’ve written you asking for a few simple gifts, and every year you’ve ignored me. In that first letter all I asked for was an Arabian stallion with a gold saddle. And what did I get from you? Nada, hombre. And I’ve gotten bupkis every since.
You think I’m naughty or something? Sure, I’ve done some things over the years that regular folks might call “naughty,” but everyone involved either had a great time or made some money, so what’s the harm? So unfair. You shouldn’t be so judgey. I mean look in the mirror, fatso. You make Rosie O’Donnell look like Giselle Bundchen.
You do know I’m the new President of the United States, right? I’ve been so good this year you wouldn’t believe it. Millions of people love me—absolutely LOVE me—and love the wonderful things I promised to do for them. They voted me big-league into the highest office of the land, if not the world. Could a naughty person have accomplished that? Oh sure, I might’ve fibbed to them here and there, but that’s just how you make a sale. (Oh, and by the way, if you want to see a really naughty person, just look at Crooked Hillary Clinton. Such a naughty person. Very nasty woman. I would leave a big fat lump of coal in her stocking if I were you.)
So as usual, all I want for Christmas is a clone of my beautiful daughter Ivanka—the same thing I’ve requested for the past ten years THAT YOU HAVE NEVER DELIVERED. You’re supposed to be some sort of magic elf, right? You can get this done, correct? How hard could it be? I mean, MAGIC, right?
If you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Not literally, because I never touch fat people. I could create a new position for you in my cabinet, like Secretary of Jolliness or something. Or how would you like a nuclear-powered sleigh? I mean, what’s with the flying reindeer? So old school. Sad. You need to upgrade, or that Amazon weasel Jeff Bezos might be taking away your gig. So let’s make a deal. I’m the best at making deals.
Otherwise, if I don’t wake up Christmas morning to an exact duplicate of my hot daughter under my tree—which, by the way, is a thirty-foot Caucasian fir flown over all the way from Russia by my friend Vladmir, the the best and biggest tree, solid gold ornaments, so classy, you can’t miss it—I will not be happy. And come January 20, I’ll be sworn in as President and Commander-in-Chief, meaning I’ll have the world’s greatest military and a whole bunch of nukes at my disposal, know what I mean? And I have your address. The North Pole, right? I don’t know where that is exactly, but I have some very smart people working for me who can find it.
Maybe you’d like to come to Trump Tower to negotiate. I’d be fine with that. I’d love to get a picture with you. Maybe I could sit on your lap. No, that would be weird. I could have Ivanka sit on your lap. No, I’d rather she sit on mine. (So hot.) You and I will do a deal and just shake hands. That’s what grown men do.
Give my people a call and we’ll set something up, OK? And don’t try to weasel out of this. Remember—I have a Twitter account and I know how to use it.
Merry Christmas!
President-elect Donald J. Trump
*Not an actual letter.
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