So last week I clearly failed to time travel back to Jamaica Estates, Queens, in October 1945 and disrupt the tragically fruitful coitus of Fred "Christ-what-have-you-done?" Trump and his beloved Scottish bride Mary Anne. Suffice it to say I still have some kinks to iron out with the whole time travel deal, and it turns out that DeLoreans still fetch a pretty penny. Suck it, Chrysler! You had your chance!
Ennnyhoo, despite my best efforts, little Don Juan "The Con" Trump was indeed birthed and with a little luck and a hefty inheritance, managed to lie, cheat, and bluff his way into the White House – and presumably the hearts of millions of American voters who we can only assume are still trying to find their asses with both hands. That's quite a feat considering we live in an era when asses are literally as big as they have ever been.
If you don't believe me, you clearly need to spend more time on TikTok ... or maybe following Don Juan around the golf course with his suicidally depressed Secret Service detachment. I mean, there is a certain amount of excitement you get when seeing the dough bulge out of a tube of freshly opened biscuits, but imagine following that pasty white biscuit through 5,000-plus plodding holes of bogey golf? And no, to the best of my knowledge the Secret Service does not issue air sickness bags to the president's detachment. That probably explains why they're always looking somewhere else. Maybe that's why they call them a detachment.
So yes, I fucked up and dropped the ball on the coitus interruptus gig, and, at least as of this writing, DJ the C is still locked in the White House crapper firing off a fusillade of increasingly deranged tweets, whipping the deplorables into a blood rage, and basically topping the shit sundae of the last four years with an indigestible maraschino cherry of psychotic idiocy that will become a red beacon of hope for every dim-witted, megalomaniacal rich kid who thinks he has the moxie to run the show.
Truly, we should expect nothing less all the way to January 20, when there is a decent likelihood that Don Juan the Con will bury his face in a huge pile of cocaine and come out of the White House spraying bullets from a machine gun/grenade launcher à la Tony Montana. My guess is that he won't get off more than a few rounds before his deeply disgruntled Secret Service detachment frags him, but that will probably be a much more humane execution than the one he would receive from the as-of-yet unnamed Russian Oligarchs he's into for half a bil.
We should all probably say a little prayer for Sleepy Joe and Kamala, because, like the maids who had to clean up that pee-soaked Moscow hotel room, they have a lot of work to do.
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