Jared Kushner Would Like All Of You Ungrateful Jerks To Know He Still Hates You

Jared Kushner Would Like All Of You Ungrateful Jerks To Know He Still Hates You
US Mission to the European Union - Public Domain

Hi folks, Jared Kushner here. I’ve been listening to everything you have all said and written about me for the last few years, while I was working hard to bring peace to the Middle East and leading our nation’s robust response to the coronavirus and everything else I screwed up — er, successfully did while working in my father-in-law’s White House.

I know about all the jokes, all the slanders, all the screaming about nepotism. All the anger, when everything I did was in service of America. I've heard the sneering and the cracks about how I’ll never get to go to a Manhattan cocktail party again without someone spilling a drink on me or throwing an entire plate of canapés in my face.

And yes, I’ve heard everyone asking if this thin, high, reedy assault on the auditory senses of every living creature in the universe is indeed my real voice.

To all of which, I can only say: Fuck you, I’m rich.

Go ahead, call me names. I’ve heard ‘em all. Rich boy. Daddy’s boy. Harvard squish. Stretch. Rapacious capitalist scum. Slenderman. Jewish Shawn Bradley. Walking hangman drawing. Human dandelion. Candlestick Dick. Lurch. Lurch but stupid. Gooseneck. Beaker. Plumette. Ionic column with eyes. Sentient pipe cleaner. Train track. Beady-eyed handlebar. Smirking human void. Suit-wearing spinal column. Lisa Simpson-voiced motherfucker. Yiddish Plastic Man. Gearshift. Pubescent loser from math class. Dolphin-voiced talking broom handle. Squeaky toy. Lamppost. Lamppost with hair. Lamppost with feet. Scraggly-chinned douche nozzle. Baby-faced curtain rod. Baby-voiced salt lick. High Pitch Harry. Money Bags McGillicutty. Skinny Bones McGee. Tall drink of liquid shit. Tom Cotton.

And those were just the ones Steve Bannon called me.

Hang on, the ball and chain is calling. Hey, babe. What? Tonight? No. Why not? Um, I don’t know. Tell him it’s a Jewish holiday. Tell him we’ve got Marlins tickets. Tell him season five of “Virgin River” just dropped, I don’t give a shit. Hell, tell him I’m in Israel watching a kibbutz get renamed for him, that’ll get him off my back.

No, no, I love going to your dad’s house. Nothing I enjoy more than being surrounded by a bunch of leathery old saddlebags while eating a wilted wedge salad and watching your zombie-faced stepmother stare into space in a room decorated like a Uzbekistan brothel while your dad goes on and on about that one time he fucked Vanessa Williams. Lord knows those stories never come back to haunt him.

Yeah? Well, I hate you more, you blow-dried bucket of crap! How about that?

Fine! Bye!

Jesus Christ. I could tell you some of the names Bannon had for her.

What? Oh, we have a very happy marriage. She very happily makes me eat shit on a daily basis, and I very happily point out every wrinkle the exact moment her face creases.

Yeah, I know, you all thought different. You thought, how can they be miserable, with the constant vacations and the power and the near-total lack of self-awareness? You’ve all seen the glamour shots of us on the way to state dinners and the adorable pictures where we’re playing on the White House lawn or celebrating Hanukkah with our smiling tow-headed children or I’m giggling at Ivanka’s hilarious mispronunciation of Yiddish phrases.

All lies!

God! What am I doing? I was perfectly happy running esteemed media properties into the ground and evicting poor people from my slummy apartments and almost bankrupting my family’s real estate empire. I lived in New York but had enough money that I didn’t have to take the subway or mix with any lower classes.

Then of course my father-in-law was all, Ooooo, oooo, a black guy made fun of me, I have to run for president now! And it all went downhill and I'm getting dragged in interviews by British reporters.

Oh sure, it wasn’t always like this. Actually, some parts of it are still pretty great. We’re building a giant mansion on an exclusive island in Florida, big enough for Ivanka and I to have our own wings so we never have to actually see each other. Someone is helping my memoir become a best seller by bulk-buying copies of it. The Saudis are throwing money at me like frat boys on their first-ever trip to a strip club.

It could be worse. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been flying over New York or DC or Miami in a helicopter, looked down at the masses thronging the streets like it’s Day of the Locust on meth, and shivered up and down my spine as if a Saudi intelligence operative had walked over my grave?

I don’t know how you people live like that. Fortunately, I don’t have to.

My elderly Jewish grandmother had a saying: rich or poor, it’s good to have money. And like I said earlier: fuck you, I'm rich


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