Hello Santa, it’s me, Barron William Trump the first. I’ve been a very good boy this year.

How are things in the North Pole? Are you also being investigated for working with the Russians? Seems like Russians and the whole “flying reindeer” scam goes hand-in-hand.

Anyway, I wanted to write to you because I’m in need of some presents. I have access to dad’s credit card, but there’s something exciting about unwrapping things from strangers instead of having your servants buy them for you.

My crystal-studded pony from last year is still doing fine, thanks for asking. I was a bit miffed to hear that you were planning on giving Sasha and Malia a horse from the same breeder this year. They’re not even American! Do they even know the true meaning of Christmas in Kenya? They can’t. They don’t have malls or real money there. Might I suggest giving them the White House back instead? New York is more my scene.

I also wanted to drop you a line because I’m pretty lonely in the White House. Dad is always holed up in his office sending mean tweets or golfing and having his neck sunburned. Mom is usually locked in the dungeon, and she doesn’t like to chat from behind the bars of her cell. When she is allowed out, she likes to use her time to put poison in Dad’s morning bowl of Froot Loops (I think it’s only making him stronger, though) or take pictures of herself crying in ball gowns. Fun fact: they’re all couture and many are held together by the tears of former Miss Universe contestants. Maybe those pictures will be worth something someday. After all, my future children are going to need a lot of cash to make up for all this familial disgrace, you feel me?

Jared and Ivanka aren’t much better. ‘Vanky is usually out bribing her sweatshop workers to keep quiet, or using cattle prods to make sure they work faster. Jared is here a little too much if you know what I mean. He’s not a great playmate, mostly because he never wants to share his Legos.

Perhaps this year you could spend a little time with me after you come down the chimney. I’d love to catch up—you know, discuss Bitcoin valuations and eat some cookies. I’ll have my nanny make the snicker doodles you love.

While you consider my request, I’ll let you know what I want for Christmas.

1. My own personal panic room, complete with my soccer jersey and an iPad. Do NOT give the code to anyone but me.

2. Some new t-shirts with a little more razzle-dazzle. They need to be expensive, but they also need to say, “I’m a little boy, not an elderly Russian aristocrat with Benjamin Button disease. LOL!”

3. BFF bracelets for me and Jared—he keeps insisting. I’ll give him this but I will NOT sleep in bunk beds with him as he keeps demanding.

4. The Trump hotels. Let’s be honest, Santa, I’m the most capable one in this family. I can handle running the empire. If you’re skeptical, let me start by managing just the casino resorts. I’m a wiz at blackjack.

5. This isn’t exactly for me, but could you please bring a large, silk soundproof pillow over? Mom likes to scream from her cell, and I think having something to muffle her cries would be healthier for all of us.

6. Platinum fidget spinners for me and all my friends from school.

7. A deep cleaning of my Scrooge McDuck-inspired gold coin pool. Those bad boys have really lost their luster lately.

8. A robot dad who will be nice to me, play soccer with me, and doesn’t hate all brown people.

There are a few more things I want, but I’d better let you tend to some of the poor people first. All for the spirit of giving, right?

I do hope you’ll think about stopping to chat for a bit on Christmas night. We can play video games and discuss the impending threat of nuclear doom that my father’s brought upon the nation.

Much love (and please find a gift for you attached. Hint: it’s $37,500),
Barron


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