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We the people of the United States, in order to dissolve what unity we have, establish injustice, insure domestic idiocy, provide for the common offence, promote the general despair, and secure enmity toward ourselves by our posterity, do ordain and establish this obnoxious political spectacle, the election of 2016.
Amen!
And, Donald, the end of your necktie belongs up around your belt buckle, not between your knees and your nuts. Trump’s haircut makes Kim Jong Un laugh.
Trump’s grandfather, a German immigrant, changed the family name from Drumpf to Trump.
Right now you could be teaching some young plastic surgeon how to remove Donald Trump’s ruptured gel-filled silicone brain implant that is endangering Republicans everywhere.
Our political parties were despised to begin with and were given, by law, the role in government they deserve, which is none.
The 2016 presidential campaign is the most severe case of American mass psychosis since the Salem witch trials of 1692.
Trump’s suits fit too badly to be an accident. They fit as if they’re from his Donald J. Trump Signature Collection, priced from $155.87 and making you look like a hundred bucks.
Donald Trump is a flying monkey. Except that what the flying monkeys have to say—”oreoreoreo”—makes more sense than Trump’s pronouncements. Better the she-ape of neo-Marxism than the flying monkeys’ king on his 757, going to and fro in the earth, with gold-plated seat belt buckles, talking nativist, isolationist, mercantilist, bigoted, rude, vulgar, and obscene crap. Better the devil you know than the devil who knows nothing. A devil who can’t even figure out where the gates of hell are, and they’ve got his name right on them at Trump Tower.
Better a nit of wit than a louse. Better a mangy cat than a rabid dog. Better the scurrying of mousy progressivism gnawing at the fabric of society in the White House than a rat on the Oval Office desk. Better to root up the garden of free enterprise with the Democratic pig than run off a protectionist cliff with the Gadarene swine Republican. Better a Scylla rock of a Clinton, which can be climbed and conquered, than a Charybdis whirlpool that takes us down the toilet with Trump.
As I write, eight months of the new presidency have gone by. Donald Trump is well into his third trimester. If he’s as pregnant with ideas as he says he is he could have one at any moment.
Under the tremendous, huge leadership of President Trump and his very, very good, really great advisors such as Hulk Hogan, Gene Simmons, Bobby Knight, Ted Nugent, Mike Tyson, Kid Rock, Lou Ferrigno, Dennis Rodman, Wayne Newton, and Gary Busey, lots of really very incredible enormous things are getting done.
