Donald Trump's Letter to Santa
Tis the season, God help us all. (I know everyone's doing one of these, but I had to get my licks in.)
Dear Santa –
It’s been years and years since I wrote you last. In fact, it’s been years and years since I’ve even believed in you, ever since I was four and daddy Fred told me he’d had you evicted from the North Pole for elf-overcrowding and flying livestock. But Melania says that now I’m in my second childhood – I don’t know what that means, but it sounds nice – I should go ahead and send you my list of what I want to give to others and, of course, get for myself. Because I have been the best boy this year, just like all the other years. In fact, there has never been a better boy than me. Or smarter! Person, woman, man, camera, TV. See? I’ve still got it!
For Stephen Miller: Some fresh bedsheets. I don’t know why, but he keeps running out of them, or they keep getting eyeholes cut into them, or they’re all sooty.
For Pete Hegseth:
