Okay, kids, so I’m going to read aloud now, which I’m great at. One of the best. And it’s going to be fabulous and very historic. So shut up and listen.
’Twas the night before Christmas . . .
Look, wait. I’ll continue, obviously, but what kind of word is that: ’Twas? Very pretentious, with the apostrophe. Possibly British. I beat British people in deals all the time. Very pale. So not a great way to start a story. Terrible.
Anyway, it says here: The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. That’s Santa, by the way. And he’s no saint. That’s hard to hear but it’s the truth. Tom Brady, very close friend of mine, very famous—he played Trump National Golf Club with Santa. Guy took two mulligans a hole. Some saint.
Don’t look at me like that, little girl. It’s not my fault Santa’s a loser.
Where was I? So Santa, supposedly a good guy, now he’s yelling at his reindeer, very bossy. “Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!” Ridiculous names, by the way. I own my own herd. Very luxurious fur. Bought them off a Finnish king. Killed him in the deal. Gave my reindeer better names. Terrific names. Steve. Mike. Bill. Solid American names.
So he’s on the roof now. The prancing, the pawing, all very annoying. Damaging the shingles like a criminal. The sack with the presents. Look, I don’t want to spoil the story here but come on: Elves? Really? We’re supposed to believe there are thousands of little elves up there making the toys? It’s Mexicans. We know it.
Probably even the reindeer are Mexican. It should be, “Now Pedro, now Ricardo, Juan Carlos maybe.”
They’re possibly the ones melting the icebergs, too, with their fajitas and their jalapeños. There’s your global warming. If it’s not Mexicans, it’s the Chinese. China is killing us. I see you’re crying, kid, and you’re right to cry. China is absolutely killing us. They’d melt an iceberg right in front of us and laugh in our faces.
He had a broad face and a little round belly. That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. So an obese person. Diabetes maybe. Probably going to relocate his workshop to Minnesota for the Obamacare. Another fat guy, too many cookies, and suddenly his quadruple bypass is on our dime? Very disrespectful to the taxpayer. Find yourself a Mexican elf doctor, Señor Clausalez.
Let’s skip ahead because I’ve got a reservation at Per Se. Very hard to get, and I got it. I just pick up the phone. Table for two, four, whatever. Come anytime, they say. And I do. I’m really rich.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot. And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. So probably a pimp of some kind. Lowlife. Homeless maybe. Huge, huge loser. Basically a break-and-enter situation and Obama just looks the other way. Typical.
Kids, ask yourselves: What’s Santa’s angle here? He just gives away all these toys for free? Doubtful. Very naive. He’s in league with ISIS. Getting us to lower our defences with free checkerboards and iGizmos. And then, boom, look what’s under the tree—a dirty bomb. Or you unwrap a box and inside there’s a Muslim.
You think Rubio will stop them? You’re dreaming, kids. He’s weak. Weak like a baby’s hands. We need the guy who wrote The Art of the Deal. Who, by the way, is me. Very savvy and wealthy. Wealthy means rich, kids.
Fine, call me a “poopyhead.” I can take it. But all the major commentators, they’re saying: “Trump is right. Trump’s a genius.” Free Mexican elf toys are killing our economy. Poof, there go our jobs. Unemployment. Sadness. Mass hysteria with ladies shrieking. Santa Claus—there’s your red menace.
And NORAD is tracking him the whole time, telling you kids his location! It was all over the Internet last year. He’s in Maryland. Now he’s in New Jersey. But do they blow him out of the sky? No. Very shortsighted. They’re thinking, “Sure, destroying Santa will make America great again—but then I won’t get my hula hoop. I won’t get my Bic pen or my Monopoly game.” Very selfish thinking.
Donald Trump doesn’t care about a hula hoop. I can buy 10,000 hoops. A million. Every colour you could imagine. I’ll be the one who gets Santa something for Christmas. A Stinger missile possibly. Kaboom! Merry Christmas, America. I’ll buy it with my own money if I have to. I don’t care. I’m really rich.