Letter #2 from Donald Trump

To Mr. Reluctant:

Sir! It has been mere hours since I last sent you my all-important message. And you have not recognized the Power of Trump. When I say that I will destroy you, I mean business. Why have you not yet acknowledged the true evils of this world? Does your lack of response indicate that you side with the Mark Singers and the Jeff McGregors of this world? I am a man capable of accurately pinpointing manic depression after being interviewed for two hours by a New Yorker staffer. Understand that you are treading on dangerous ground.

As you sit there enjoying the comforts of your lower middle-class hovel, Reluctant, I am making precisely $2,425.37 for every breath of air I take in. Do the math. That’s a lot of revenue from inhaling alone. You should see what my ledger looks like any time I have blood work. It is frightening, Reluctant. It moves mountains. It is more income than you will ever see in a single month.

I will fly to you on my private jet, Mr. Reluctant. I will humiliate you on my television show, The Apprentice, and make you sorry that your momma ever popped you from her womb. I will use every resource at my disposal to articulate to you that you are clearly in the wrong and that your thoughts are without validity.

Mr. Reluctant, if that is indeed your real name, the New Yorker was saved only recently by blatant advertising — advertising that I helped to effect. David Remnick is a good man, one who has serviced me now for some years. Why are there no advertisements on this petty website of yours? Why aren’t you cashing in on this blogging trend?

I have read Dale Carnegie. I have read Lee Iacocca. I have read the masters that you deign to dismiss. Because of this, you will never find me without a clean pair of socks or enjoying a day without an expensive hot meal.

I hope, Mr. Reluctant, that you are wise enough to understand that, by joining me and allowing me to subsidize your editorial content, you are not selling out, but buying in. You too can have a Melania. (And no, her name is not pronounced like melanonin! That’s your problem, Reluctant. You continue to find humor in the strangest topics. Who do you think you are? A Merry Prankster? Yes, I have read Ken Kesey too!)

Why not have a hearty taste of my kind of America? Everybody else is.

Have your people call mine and take out a high-interest loan with my company.

New York

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