Trump Wars
Episode III:
Rainbow, Inc.
Well, here we are, another fine Spring day in our 2020 penitentiary of Corona. No, it’s not just any ol’ time of day after a bitchin’ beach party at Jimmy Buffett’s house. Nay, we be waking up in a medieval iron maiden of fake viral panics and Communist groupthink.
The Donald Trump Presidency (or more accurately, the shrieking kamikaze revolt against such a thing) has laid bare - like Marilyn Monroe at the Oval Office casual Friday gang bang - the mafia anarchy inside that squishy slice of American life that chronically contributes Democrat votes. This rabid posse of blacklisting fury has declared the Republican party - plus any foul breed that dares traffic in such nonsense - utopian public enemy numero uno. (That’s español, by the way, for all of you Ivy Leaguers and “community activists”.)
President Trump is their anti-Christ; the great blasphemous Satan befouling the poor innocent tribes of Earth. In a scene from the Ayatollah’s wettest dreams, the acolytes of this great Woke Inquisition - per UN and local county regulations - have been required to shed the pretense of pretending to care about you. In order to maintain their precious budgets and Dunkin cards, they have outwardly morphed into a championship-caliber snuff cult. (The time-traveling Imperial Japanese Occult Science Division called, people: it’s official, y’all crazy.)
Principal on the work wheel is to carelessly - or psychotically, depending on the song - grind down un-pagan norms like a berserk college goth barista who is furious at Robert Smith for some reason (and twice as mad at your latte). Got a problem? Your life indoctrination guides have failed you, and you need more sex and drugs on the government dime, stat!
After all, if you’re old enough to crawl, you’re in the right position. So, mums and dads: get moving early and often with that home experiential educational series on “bodily awareness” and the lifelong joys of polysexual promiscuity. Fun for the whole family, right? Plus, kiddies, if you’re feeling a little weird about your BDSM training wheels, Big Pharma has all the magic potions to exorcise you of those naughty resistance demons preventing your wellness pediatric orgasm.
Besides, playing toddler balls (yup) with your little ones is an act of unbelievably precious mercy for these bouncing bundles of tyrant symbolism. These greedy little goons – let’s be politically correct and call them social and financial burdens - represent the most unholy of unholies of unforgivable sins: the failure to answer the grand opportunity knock on-the-door of the chance for celebrating nature’s blessed infanticidal bounty of a good, hearty abortion.
I mean really, what’s a fruitful young life of character-building child rape for our newborn Fetal Burger escapees compared to the prospect of the vilest agony heard round the world. An agony bespeaking Armageddon, louder than the cowbells of St Grete bungling around her neck on her manic vision quest to brood with tech tycoons while belching out ominous incantations of high crimes and consequences to anyone in earshot of the utter, crushing atrocity of not getting a “fucking motherfucking proper fucking vegan fucking meal in fucking fucking fucking first fucking stupid class! Get me a better airplane!”
Oh my. Yes, fans, we bespeak of an eternal, cursed agonizing wail not heard since that fateful time the ancient pre-Egyptian Trans-kingdoms of the Bards of Babylon’s favorite club DJ, Rokk Flintstoned - on his tour rider it says, “DON’T. EVEN. Say Yabba you know what to him if you value your safety” - hastily grabbed the wrong bag of herbs from his pharmacy side hustle to bring to the party and everyone just went flaccid and felt like… talking. For like, five whole minutes. RIGHT?!?
Yes, THAT brand of atomic destruction misery. In today’s groovy lingo, it is known as the supernaturally-anointed sonic wave of the crushing, visceral screams of a treacherously bored and overcaffeinated abortion “doctor” having to (UGH!) sit around and sext alone in the office as punishment for an unforgivingly victim-less and cold, cold, cold, 83-degree Thursday afternoon in Miami. Imagine, the horror of the searing heat of the girls’ (including Trevor) ninja-like shaming skills at someone showing up for evening drinks at the Tiki bar and having zero juicy, meaty, Grade A prime cuts of cultic, barbaric infant dismemberment gossip (Was that Dwayne Wayne’s kid? Already? You DID frappe it in the blender for a mud mask, right? So silky…)
This suicidal death cultism is professionally pimped on the world’s stage by none other than that exquisite paradigm of international satanic slavery, slaughter, and corruption: The United Nations. This international silly salad, along with its endless sad caravan of assorted circus freak agencies, has strangely become the craven altar of modern techno-totalitarianism and good old fashioned sly Soviet graft. Its bloated organizational carcass, packed with dictator’s daughters and career bootlickers of said daughters, remains vigilant in the sacred time-honored mission - the exact text of which disappeared around the time a certain intrepid Jones fellow showed up - to shine the benevolent light on us deplorable plague roaches. Their mission: to constantly, tersely remind us all that the naughty Smurfs of Trump-land are just the worst. Worse than the scum of the earth; the baddest of the baddest, badliest bad dogs; absolute wastes of sentience and climate impact. These demon agents deserve nothing more than to barely survive on the aptly named “Peoples” burgers made of sawdust, shit, bugs, discarded vacuum cleaners, whatever else is lying around, and of course, most importantly, aborted or otherwise cleverly murdered children. Well, pretty much anyone who dies, really. Waste not, want not, right? Climate change and stuff, you know?
Can’t fucking wait. These soul-sucking, robot-fucking ghouls with an overriding eugenics fetish operate under the assumption that they must be the righteous ballast and normative transformative against the allegedly enduring rusty shackles of the “Wild White West” dominion. As mentioned, this barnyard conspiracy theorizing is principally focused on the Great Satan known as the US of fucking A. (Well, at least when a Republican is in charge.) Their bane? The supposed wanton landmine and bear trap paradigm of toxic anti-Commie constitutionalism. Fo realz. I mean, like, yo homie: what patronizing racist dolt thinks the “law” is anything other than what the Dear Leader motherfucking says it is, you dig?
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