Over the weekend the American public bought two things like
sardines in mating season: Powerball tickets and copies of “Fire and Fury.” Why the lottery tickets? To have a chance at heaven without predators. “Fire and Fury,” to take a stab from the bait
ball at a predator.
It turns out all presidents (including this one) don’t like to
be refashioned by nebulous balls of spectators spewing poop from the cheap
seats.
The American people know the points of this book have bullshit
as their metal, but Donald wielded bullshit weapons for eight years as a
spectator knowing Obama wasn’t Kenyan born, communist, Muslim or a gun hater. But as you said Donnie, “People are saying it,
so there must be something to it.”
How does it feel to move from a spectator tossing word manure
into the arena to one of the gladiators sliding around in it? Turns out those word weapons are sticky, even
if they are wielded by crackpot no-talents.
Do we really think you eat Big Macs in bed, are mentally
unbalanced, suffer from Alzheimer’s and like to watch hookers pee on Barrack’s bedsheets?
Nah! But stuck with you repeating the same
four or five sentences for another three years, we poke you with shit points to
see if you’ll make a new and interesting squeak. There is something to that.
No comments:
Post a Comment