Donald Trump’s Letters Home from Summer Camp


Dear Mom,

Camp is great! Hardly any Mexicans made it over the wall. The headmaster and the other campers don’t mind saluting me, agreeing with everything I say and laughing at my jokes, even minutes after reveille in the bathroom. When I say something that people consider laughable that isn’t a joke, I tell the kid with the southern accent to deport them.

I am afraid I have to go now. It is midnight and I have to get the smart bombs ready for the July 4 camp wide capture-the-flag game. There is no telling what weapons of mass destruction the blue team may have. It already possess the technological capability in the form of two brainy middle school twins from Westchester. Their family immigrated here only four generations ago, and they are treated like U.S. citizens and allowed to get a free education at tax payer expense in the Crestwood, New York public schools. They think they might even have a chance to vote for the Dems when they grow up: Sad!

Look forward to seeing you, any lawyers still left at the Justice Department and what’s his name, the Vice President, on visitors’ day. It will be the most visitors ever.
Your vigilant son, Donald

Quick note to my future daughter Ivanka,

I have reorganized our tent into a luxury condo. I call it the White Yurt. Hanging chandeliers from the ridge poles and calling our C.I.T. a concierge did wonders.

The idea of a casino at the swimming dock has caused confusion. No one knows whether the buddy system pertains only to swimming or also applies to gambling winnings. Also, the younger campers keep trying to skip any silver dollars they win across the lake. Fortunately, I can scoop them all up and keep them at the end of the day; this is because of my almost superhuman capacity to hold my breath under water owing to the great shape I am in as can be attested to by many fine doctors and the camp nurse when I give them enough of the silver dollars.

The shuttle to Mar-a-Lago is just getting off the ground. Please tweet any thoughts about what part of a canoe I should call the first class section and whether the stewardesses should serve drinks and paddle the male passengers as well as the boat.

Your future dad, Donald

Dear Melania,

Late at night we all sit around the campfire, roasting things: marshmallows, s’mores, pictures of Obama and Hillary, green cards, visas, crosses, whatever suits our fancy. We tell stories—Steve Bannon, Betsy De Vos, John Bolton, Sarah Huckabee Sanders and me. They are full of ghosts, monsters and bogey men with foreign-sounding names. They are all made up, but boy! Are some of the things we come up with scary!
Love and kisses,

The Donald

Dear Kelly Anne,

Camp skits by Alec Baldwin? Hashtag: So not funny! Maybe the kids with Philadelphia Eagles T shirts and Ruth Bader Ginsburg wannabes with the thick glasses laugh at his jokes, but he’ll never grow up to get anything like the ratings of the Apprentice.

Elizabeth Warren pretending I haven’t already written the works once attributed to Shakespeare, might not win the Nobel Prize and am not respectful of the rights of women when I grab their pussies? Hashtag: More Fake News from Pocahontas and the Dems, like claiming heath care isn’t perfect! And just wait and see who has the biggest headdress with the most feathers on Native American Day.

Your friend, Donald

Dear Dad,

We were going to go on a hike in something called the Bear Ears National Monument, but I convinced the counselor in charge of nature and outdoor activities that it would be more fun and he would get a big tip at the end of the summer if we flew in and strip-mined it instead. Thanks for sending the helicopter.

I am stringing some of the rocks onto a lanyard I am making in arts and crafts; I will give it to Stormy Daniels at the next camp dance if she lets me get to second base and signs a new non-disclosure agreement.

Speaking of second base, our baseball team hasn’t been so great. Rex Tillerson kept dropping the ball. Mitch McConnell swings like a rusty gate. Paul Ryan always want to take two and hit to right, but he can’t hit my curve ball to save his life. The only thing we are good at is the hidden ball trick as long as Michael Cohen tells us and not the U.S. Attorney where he hid the ball.

A big tall kid named Comey in the top bunk keeps dangling his legs in my face, But not to worry. My friend Rudy says he knows someone who can cut them off at the knees.

Your self-made heir, Donald

Dear Russian Pen Pal Vladimir,

Your hackers are almost as expensive as your hookers. But being able to win a compromised election for Honor Camper with fewer votes than the nicer, better qualified person: Priceless!

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