President Donald Trump’s fascist tendencies and awful temperament while serving in the world’s most serious governmental office are a grave offense to American values, and will inevitably lead to another attempt to obstruct or overturn an election that doesn’t go his way.
Trumpism is a bureaucratically senseless, autocratically cruel, culturally grotesque form of idiot ethno-nationalism to distract his voters while he plunders the government, and sets up his fuckwit nepo baby children to continue fucking the country over with the ludicrous avarice that has become synonymous with their family name.
His obvious sociopathic egomania is combined with an utter dearth of morality and somehow even less intellectual curiosity. He is a slapstick villain of the personified American id, and cannot help himself but manically stir the proverbial pot politicizing everything in our societal lives like a goddamn Dunning-Kruger blackhole of village idiot confidence sucking in every bit of our hijacked attention with a desperate, circusy need to demand unending rhetorical validation and mob boss style brown-nosing.
But while we reflect on Donald Trump’s general miserableness, we must charitably remember that Mr. Trump was born in 1946, a full 32 years before America stopped widely slathering homes with lead-based paint in 1978.
Since Republicans don’t like political-correctness, I’ll be blunt: Donald Trump’s lack of impulse control, extreme self-absorption, incapacity for empathy, and obvious signs of advanced brain-degradation are hallmark symptoms of advanced childhood lead poisoning.
The Halfway Post has run the numbers, and we can confidently estimate that Trump has consumed not a lead-soaked paint chip less than 900 square feet throughout his formative years. That’s a lot of neurotoxic brain sludge blocking all his axons from transmitting electrical signals in his cerebral functioning!
So the next time you’re giving ol’ Donnie a hard time for his self-destructively dickish nature and cognitive inaptitude, just remember he wrecked up his toddler brain bad, and turned himself one sucked on and swallowed paint chip of Trump Manor after another into a feral, low IQ nincompoop, a word I have chosen very carefully because the political-correctness I suspended above necessitates I ask aloud in public, why doesn’t anyone around Trump tell him he smells like shit?
But I digress… so just once more I’d like to remind you that if you catch yourself laughing at Donnie for getting mad and throwing his burger plates and splashing ketchup on the wall, or throwing temper tantrums about his inevitable dumpster legacy in history until the edges of his face turn bright red around the orange foundation makeup where he doesn’t quite blend it into his hair or neck, just picture little Donald sitting in a soiled diaper on the floor of his bedroom lonely because his parents didn’t give him enough love eyeing another flake on the wall he can nibble on.
I believe we can hate the sin but love the sinner, and acknowledge the fact that, though Donald Trump is nearly unanimously plummeting in historians’ presidential rankings to the bottom 3 because he’s aggressively and belligerently dismantling the 75-year American-dominated world order and shredding apart the civic fabric of our free and fair democracy, we can have sympathy that his childhood coping mechanism for emotional pain was peeling off paint chips one with his teeth gnawing on the walls like a rat!
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If you think Donald Trump is a joke, I published three books for you: Satire In The Trump Years, Satire In The Biden Years, and Trump Comedy.
I’ve also published four existentialist poetry books, Cabaret No Stare, Moon Goon, Hotel Golden Hours, and Nostradoofus.
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