Trump’s on the balcony, you know where Abe Lincoln… where…. But, no, that’s all ancient history now. We have to think in terms of the Nightmare. Get our minds right. I don’t think that I ever appreciated the freedom like I should have. We have lost so much.
But, the idiot’s got a fucking blowtorch, oxygen, and acetylene, and he’s scouring the damn coffee service. That’s his paranoid delusion of the hour: he’s always been a nutcase about “germs,” and obsesses constantly about ending up dead from poisoning. But if I was to eat his instant heart attack lunch, I’d croak off by dinner.
He’s screaming again, and throwing expensive shit. When he gets like this, the interns and Juniors head for the hills. He talks about killing his enemies like he could kill a man more than once. And he babbles constantly! He goes on and on repeating threats, cursing, and spinning lies out of thin air with such junky-like radiance, that you can hardly believe that he is real, and not a hallucination. Red-faced, beady-eyed, and babbling insane, hate-inspired garbage. With intent to kill.
Donald’s “perfect” performance in the Response was so “Godfather-ish.” He thought of the news (in January) of a potential pandemic as made to order – a godsend. There had been a couple of pandemics before, and they didn’t kill all that many losers (except the 500 million in 1918-19; but, who’s counting?) He’d played a hunch before, so he jumped at the “opportunity,” and went all-in, and talked his usual line of bullshit. He could always just pull the don’s ultimate trump card: He would just do what they did, the epidemiologists, and if they were wrong, he’d blame them and accuse them of incompetence, and if they were right he’d tout his own wisdom, and “managerial skills.” He would get the major distraction that he so desperately had to have, be the “wartime President,” maybe even postpone the election. “This is easy!”
Meanwhile, this, “President,” rambles on about how he knows all about Pence: “the little rat-fuck.” But, he keeps coming back to the pandemic: he watches one ticker for the stock markets, and one for the body counts. “Nobody ever had this big a disaster, not this fast, not this big a body count. Nobody is bigger than me,”
Now, Trump is deciding who is to live and die. New Yorkers weren’t “loyal,” so they die. Louisiana, the capitol of “let them die’ism” is praised to the heavens. They mock religion, and would test God, flopping around, rolling on the floor and spitting on each other – eyes rolled back in their heads – in orgasmic ecstasy. Thousands come to watch a man who would have them die to prove that science is worthless. Die, from suffocation, to glorify him. He would have thousands die to perpetuate and glorify insanity. And to “prove” that science is valueless. Somewhat less than human – and the epitome of idiocy, this man would murder, to prove that there is no law. And this “pastor” is only a Trump clone, infatuated by evil. He can only kill thousands, but his evil master is set to kill millions, out of pure Contrarian imbecilic mindlessness. What a sorry excuse for human beings. And the more they kill, the more they will glorify themselves. And if they kill, they will imagine that they have done a good thing, destroying reason along their way. But, they are just ordinary killers, and they will have their full reward.
Trump is ranting about birds or disloyal trees. He’s playing with his pecker again; twidling it and showing everyone how big it is – I hope that they don’t get eye strain. And he’s claiming to be a genius, or the world’s greatest physician, or God. Or greater than God, it’s hard to tell, he talks like a ‘shroom bad tripper.
Guests are visiting today at the Oval Office. Sycophants and rump polishers. They have people at home who deserve to die, and they want to learn from Trump how to get the job done. Between them, I think that they will kill us all. If they can, they will. Every single one of us. They are that good and perfect. Trump is screaming at the top of his lungs, as a greeting. The guests look scared half to death. I’ve still got a few poppers, filched from the president’s desk drawers, a baggy full of hope (Durban Poison), and about a pint of ether. The screaming, and wild laughter fade out slowly, and now Trump’s hitting on an interpreter, a third his age; who looks like she would rather commit suicide. Trump is berating the pterodactyls fluttering around in his worm-ridden brain, for the deafening screams, completely unaware that the screams are coming from his own mouth. A typical day in Trumpland.
Hey, what’s the line? I think that the over/under should be about twenty million. Dead by the hand of an incompetent, ignorant imposter. Meanwhile, Drumpf is watching himself in the mirror, “Such purrfection.” Obviously the greatest man who ever lived.
I’m going with the “over.”
The kids are coming over for dinner, and Trump wants to make sure that there is something alive and wriggling for them to kill and eat – all bloody. And I think that the First Lady just flitted past the window, clutching something struggling in her claws. So dinner’s on. The only thing that could make this scene more perfect would be about forty or fifty doses of organic mesc. It makes the screams of Trump’s victims sound like music. And the worms migrate in and out of his brain.
But, wait! The screams, the awful, horrible screams – I could swear they were coming from me!