A Letter to Donald Trump from the Rich People Conspiracy

Dear Donald Trump,

It pains me to write this letter, old chum, especially after the top notch weekend we spent throwing champagne bottles at poor people in Central Park and paying homeless men to kiss, but the vast Rich People Conspiracy asked me to express our concerns.

Here’s the predicament, old bean: You’re embarrassing all rich people.

We’ve spent years indoctrinating the poor and the rapidly shrinking middle-class that you had to be smart to be rich, and you’re single-handedly destroying that idea.  Do you know what would happen to the social and economic fabric of America if the lower classes realized how many nincompoops slip up through the success cracks?

You would not believe the trouble I’m having with my valet, Godfrey, and I believe his contemptuous attitude can be traced back to watching your balderdash statements on that lighted electric box contraption with the plays inside that all the heathen, mouth-breathers watch.

Godfrey rarely deigns to speak or utter a cross word–he even apologized to me for sneezing when he caught a cold the time I left him out overnight on the giant human chess board during a hurricane–but yesterday he remarked completely out of the green how every time Trump was asked to explain a crazy idea or confronted with facts that disputed his absurd take on events, Trump replied by shouting how successful he was.

I didn’t like Godfrey’s tone, I didn’t like the fact he was speaking even more, and I didn’t like the fact he was mentioning your propensity to shout how successful you are when answering tough questions because all rich people do that, and we never suspected the poor knew we were blowing hot air.

Godfrey is rapidly forgetting his place.  I swear, old chum, you would shudder if you had seen the impertinent look Godfrey shot me when I told him his wife had been accidentally crushed by Warren Buffett’s mechanical top hat game piece during our live-action Monopoly game last weekend.  Godfrey asked why we couldn’t have played the regular board game Monopoly, and I answered with a top hole rejoiner, “Board games?  They should call them bored games.”  On my life, he did not even crack a smile–the first time any of my servants have ever failed to greet my sporting quips with their pedestrian cackle.

At our Rich People Conspiracy meeting we discussed whether we could let you off with only a warning to tone down your folly, but Rupert Murdoch is convinced you possess no filter to decipher between an intelligent statement and utter poppycock rot, and have surrounded yourself with so many Yes Men that you may actually believe your twaddle, just because you said it.

Therefore we must insist you refrain from speaking publicly for one year.  If you refuse, you will be punished by losing the following rich people privileges:

1. Withdrawal of access to the vaccine that prevents cancer instead of the one we give everyone else that causes cancer.
2. No parking validation at this summer’s Butler Smackdown XXIV.
3. Last pick at the poor people stables in the Spring Poor-riding Races.
4. At Christmas time you will be relegated to a non-speaking stable animal in our annual evil version of the Nativity play.
5. Removal of your name from the secret list of rich people who the government does not expect to pay back money if they don’t feel like it.

And on a personal note, I shall be pained to ask you to return your half of  the heart-shaped BFF solid gold bidet I got you for last year’s July Christmas.

Your Old Chum,

Charles Vanderbilt Rockefeller Kennedy Walton Koch Vanderbilt du Pont XVI