Donald J. Trump
Donald “J” Trump
President of the United States 1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW Washington, DC 20500
Dear “The Don,”
What I have to say to you is probably going to come as quite a shock. I know you are probably expecting this letter to be yet another missive heaping upon you glowing praise, but that is not what this is. Nor am I writing to criticize you for the job you’re doing as president. I mean, you seem like you’re doing fine. I’m sure it’s a tough gig.
The reason I am writing to you is because...are you sitting down? I’m assuming you are. Okay then.
I’m your son.
Believe it or not, it’s true. Do you remember the 1997 Miss Teen USA pageant? My mom was Judy Keegler (now Judy Gruen), Miss Teen Wyoming. Apparently, you had taken quite a shine to her at the time. She recalls talking to you in the dressing room at one point, and then there’s a part that was kind of fuzzy, and then she was waking up from a nap and you were there, hanging out in a bathrobe. She said that you were quite the gentleman, at least while she was conscious.
Anyway, you two must have begun some kind of tryst, because about nine months later I came into the world. For the longest time, my mom refused to tell me who my father was. I thought maybe it was because she was ashamed of him, or because he was some asshole she didn’t want in my life—so imagine my surprise when I found it was you, the President of the United States! Did I hit the paternity jackpot or what?
Looking back, it’s a wonder I didn’t connect the dots sooner. My skin has a distinct orangey tint, just like yours. My hair resembles the shell of a hairy tortoise, just like yours. And my hands—well, let’s just say I need both of them to do any pussy-grabbing!
Not to mention all the things we have in common personality-wise. I’m always yelling incomprehensible gibberish at everyone I meet. I just love telling Mexicans to get back in their burrito and go home, or telling blacks that they’re too stupid to process my home loan application, or telling women they should smile more, especially whenever I’m forcing myself on one of them at a party. I mean, come on! Why so glum? It’s a party!
Okay, so...why am I contacting you? First of all, don’t worry. I’m not after your wealth, and I’m not interested in being made the Secretary of Whatever. I just want to get to know my dad. I know that our blood connection is no guarantee that’s going to happen; Tiffany is a case in point. But I hope that you’ll give me a chance to impress you with the man I’ve become. I want nothing more than to sit down with you, share a non-alcoholic beverage, and watch The Five together. Maybe, if we get along swimmingly enough, you’ll even let me type and send one of your tweets.
So I know this is probably a lot to take in, and you’re probably feeling dizzier than James Comey in a room with low-hanging beams. Please take some time to let all this sink in, and let me know when you’d be willing to see me, so we can catch up, and share all our great memories about Mom.
My twin brother John and I cannot wait to meet you.
Mark (Trump) Gruen