Letter from a Billionaire Stranded on St. Barths

A powerful artifact

My Dearest Lisa,

I write to you with a heavy heart and anchored yacht. After exhausting all possible escape routes, I fear my crew and I are stranded here, moored nearly a hundred nautical feet from a lavish resort. What was once a Caribbean paradise is now a prison. Our chef says in order to make ceviche from his fresh catch, we might have to get limes from the on-island grocery store, instead of the organic ones he helicoptered in from our last resupply.

If our sustenance continues to dwindle at this rate, I fear we are soon going to have to eat a Bezos.

My suffering pales in comparison to that of one of my stranded comrades, Leonardo DiCaprio, who was nice to me because I promised to switch to biodiesel for all the unmanned drones I manufacture. Before you read it in the newspapers, I want to be the one to tell you that Leo had to bow out of the Palm Springs International Film Festival. The Palm Springs International Film Festival. This is a terrible misfortune not just for him, but for the entire pussy posse he supports back at home. If his sweet daughter weren’t on hand to console him (they appear to be very close, which you don’t often see with a teenager!) the heartbreak alone would have surely finished him.

But Lisa — as you play Sunday squash back at home on the Upper East Side with your tanned, chiclet-toothed personal trainer Derek, weep not for your wretched husband’s suffering. Weep for the nepo baby DJ flown in for New Year’s Eve who is completely out of cocaine. We fear she will perish by sunrise, right in the middle of her mother’s Oscars campaign.

Know that, for me, with this torture has come enlightenment. I realize now that backing Donald Trump in three consecutive presidential elections and one ballroom was a mistake. Not because of the breathtaking idiocy of his tariffs or the rollback of human rights or even how his administration did such an amateurish, sloppy job of redacting the files about the innocent fun we had with dear ol’ Jeffy Epstein (LISA FOR THE LAST TIME WERE PLAYING CHARADES WITH THOSE GIRLS!). No. It’s about how I’m now actually affected by his shortsighted impetuousness for the first time.

As I stood on the deck of our beautiful vessel “Phallus-sea” last night and screamed into my phone at the CEOs of NetJet and Wheels Up and the secretary of transportation and the chairman of the FAA to no avail, it hit me: I was not going to be able to get what I want. Even though we (I) have $25 billion.

I fear this is the first time I faced a consequence since Susan (who now also has $25 billion) caught us in my office so many times that I lost plausible deniability.

But as the sun sets over the turquoise waters of St. Barth’s, and the influencers at Le Toiny start to repeat their outfits, I just pray I’m back by gala season. For tax reasons.

And if this terrible war will be the end of me, know I died as I lived: Trapped in a decadent hellscape of transactional relationships amongst the worst people in the world, eating pass around appetizers cooked and served by smiling people who hate me.

As you (and Derek) gaze at the moon from one of the 128 windows of the penthouse tonight, know that I am beholding the same sky. And I hope you join me in praying, as I do, for peace, for private jet loopholes in the airspace restrictions, and for the staff of the Rosewood to swim out to the boat if our dinghy and tender run out of gas. I really like their guac.

Until your lip filler explodes,

Your husband