U.S.A
For those of us who speak in complete sentences, Trump, besides everything else, is a linguistic nightmare. Now he is testing that language on our elections. He is an asshole (the technical term).
Just pay attention to how President Bone Spur’s national security language works: it starts with manufacturing a simple sentence. Begin with emergency, and call it "security." Join a protest, you’re a “saboteur”; practice nonviolent disobedience, you’re a “domestic terrorist.” Migration: you’re “a killer, a rapist, an unwelcome invader. Watch a protest from a sidewalk, you’re “loitering” or, even worse, a stalker. Tariffs, “The most beautiful word ever spoken.” Defy him, you might wind up dead.
To put it with ladylike politeness, Donald Trump is a wig-wearing feculent garbage bag of sociopathic, parasitic, pathological, stupid, cruel and ugly pack of fecal matter, which means we real patriots must unite to never let this diaper load of unadulterated shit anywhere near the grounds of the White House again. The smell of sulfur alone should put any human with nostrils and a brain off.
Oh, and did I forget to mention President Gold Toilet Seat tawdry tongue that mouths off the vilest of obscenities, his miserable misogyny, his rabid racism, his disdain for the military, his clear toxic phobia about the rule of law, his deep-seated greed and grift, and his turning his presidency into the Home Shopping Network, his toady toddler tantrums, his squeaky weak megalomania, his whiny sperm children, his hilarious love of Hitler that’s not funny at all, his bending of the knee to the Kremlin, and his fondness for licking Musk’s whatever, and his love of self-that’s so all-encompassing, there is no room or even affection for anyone else.
Did I forget to mention his 34 felonies, six bankruptcies, his carnage, his history of child rape and sexual assault, and, of course, his coveting of our nation’s most closely-guarded state secrets and then dispensing them to the biggest bidder, which I have no doubt is his favorite, his dearly beloved Vlad the Cad Putin.
And then there’s his hubris, his kindergarten dropout vocabulary, his fast- galloping dementia, and above all, and as any women who has ever read Vogue Magazine in her life will tell you when you put on makeup don’t forget to include your allegedly wounded pink ears (they can’t grow back cartilage.) And, for Pete Hegseth’s sake, use a make-up sponge, not a trowel.
And lastly, this is the Redecorator in Thief roaming the federal government with a gold paintbursh in one hand and the national credit card in the other.
He gets the gold; we get the bill.
Let's take a final look, and heed its warnings before the Trump Train comes completely off the rails and nails us into nothingness. . []
ILENE PROCTOR
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