To the Editor of Return of the Reluctant:
I can remember the day when Marla told me, “Hey buddy, toupee or no toupee, it’s the size of your wallet that counts. No matter how ugly you get, I’ll still happily jump your bone.” Five minutes after she said this, I was on the phone with my attorneys about a prenup. But as we all know, somehow I messed it all up.
You might call me a heartless tycoon. But I’m smarter and better than you. Feelings are the stuff that I reserve for scoundrels named Mark Singer, whose liver I am now using to wipe the floor of one of my many apartments. Let that be a lesson to my critics.
I like to think that my heart of anthracite is an advantage. It keeps my ego in focus. There’s a big DT in my bathtub and a mirror above my bed so that I can get a nice view of Melania’s merkin. Can you say as much?
Whether you like it or not, facts are facts and hubris is hubris. And when it comes to contending with the real pests of our society — namely, beady-eyed freelancers skipping from gig to gig, I know how to sway my muscles.
Jeff McGregor will never be published in the New York Times Book Review again, nor anywhere else. He will work as a waiter for the rest of his life. Because I am Donald Trump and he is not. My terror is great and it has struck godless fear into Sam Tanenhaus’ soul. Your brownie watches, Mr. Reluctant — Mr. Champion, Mr. Segundo, whoever you are — no longer apply. Just before publishing my letter, I made sure that Mr. Tanenhaus’ hair would turn prematurely white. Let his consternation serve as a warning.
Do not dare to cross my path, for I am a human Katrina who sold off his sense of humor on eBay three years ago for the princely sum of $2.2 million. That’s what I call business.