It's a whole new game, and when Americans say "Who da playuhs?" the people below shout "We da playuhs!"
Satan is God’s Obama.
Despite a few hiccups, like not really damaging anything with 59 Tomahawks in Syria or being able to keep track of where carrier groups are exactly located, there's little doubt that there's a new attitude in Washington, an attitude of "Don't f*ck with us, or we'll f*uck with you. If the Chinese and the Russians let us, of course."
It's a whole new game, and when Americans say "Who da playuhs?" the people below shout "We da playuhs!"
Mike Pence—The Consigliere. #2 is the man to send to the front lines. The cold stare that promises mayhem is a Pence trademark, and no doubt Jong un was coughing up his kimchee when he saw Pence glaring across the DMZ. Where does he get that threatening mien? “He’s thinking about women getting free birth control,” confided one of his aides.
“Rambling” Rex Tillerson –He goes here, he goes there, but the press isn’t allowed to follow him anywhere, so it’s tough to say exactly what he’s doing. But he’s perhaps the head architect of the Trump foreign policy, eloquently described by a neutral observer as “Not telling other nations what we want, and not telling them what we’re going to do if they don’t give it to us.”
Jared “Inside Man” Kushner—Don’t let this young international stud fool you by his propensity to take skiing vacations in the midst of crises. He just made former hardass Steve Bannon his pocket lint in the latest White House power struggle. Charged with solving the centuries-old conflict on the Middle East, and questioned on how he plans to succeed, Kushner replied, “Piece of beautiful cake. Once you’ve navigated quagmires such as I have, like being born to immense personal wealth, then settling on the one person whose ass you’d like to kiss for the rest of your life, then marrying his daughter, the Middle East doesn’t look like such a labyrinth.”
Ivanka “Purse Designer” Trump—Never underestimate this femme fatale. Some critics say all she's done for international diplomacy is compare cup sizes with Angela Merkel, but when the other members of the inside circle talk big about things like cutting the cajones off Mexico and making damn well certain an entertaining change of climate is coming our way, she’s always getting what she wants. Which are trademark deals with the Chinese.
The President--El Jefe. The solid eye of the hard-assity hurricane, few have ever demonstrated his vision, although many have seen him sharing classified information along with some shrimp cocktails at his Mar a Lago Fortress and Golf Resort. The stream of threatening Tweets that burble out of his unsecured cell phone form the orders to which the others march. He claims credit for everything good, while avoiding blame for all evil. Who else succeeds in doing that? Oh, yeah, God. God gets away with that because he blames all problems on Satan, which can only lead this column to believe one thing:
Satan is God’s Obama.
Sean Spicer’s latest blunder, asserting that even Hitler, the gold standard for evil demagogues, did not gas his own people but Syrian President Assad, his boss’s latest enemy, did, and then when the fact of Nazi death camps was pointed out to him, saying that they were different because the Nazis didn’t drop their gas on their victims from airplanes, may end up costing him his job.
It didn’t help when he referred to the concentration camps as “Holocaust Centers,” which put these arenas of murder in the same category as centers of outlet, Lawn and Garden, and Rockefeller.
His argument that diffusing poison gas from the skies was fundamentally different from telling your victims they were going to have a shower and then suffocating them with hydrogen cyanide did not prove convincing. It only shows Teutonic efficiency. Death camps don’t waste gas like sarin bombs do, by poisoning the landscape at large, possibly killing rats, goats, camels or the rare Syrian Desert Beaver* as well as their targets. Death camps just kill your own people.
The Spiceman made the further faux pas of advancing his theory on Passover, the most importantly religious holiday of the year for Jews, who comprised the majority of Hitler’s victims.
All of this was completely unnecessary, because there’s nothing in international law that says you have to be worse than Hitler before you deserve a nice trial for your war crimes.
So, the rumor is, that in the bitter breakfast served at the White House every morning, Spicer will soon be the toast. This is so unfair to him, because his only disqualification for the job is that he can’t lie smoothly enough on his feet. You watch the man lying. His eyes bulge and he lashes out like a drunk uncle at the assembled media. His brain cramps up under the pressure of prevarication, and then he blurts out something about Hitler.
There are many of us, the majority perhaps, that can’t lie any better than the Press Secretary. But his lack of natural mendaciousness make the Spicinator a bad mouthpiece for a President like Trump, who can’t stop lying unless he’s sleeping or chatting about vagina.
But a President can’t not have a Press Secretary, and when Spicey is demoted to making midnight corn liquor runs for Steve Bannon, someone will have to step forward, and the money here is on Kellyanne Conway, spin-mistress extraordinaire.
Sure, the K-girl has been quiet lately, nearly as quiet as all of the victims of the Bowling Green massacre. But I, for one, have never lost faith in her. The glistening fake smile, the perky nose, the lips that can let preposterous nonsense slip through them as easily as if it was coated with grape jelly, and the freezing stare that makes me think that the two last things I’d like to be on Earth is eaten by a wild animal or her husband. There’s a real liar. And that’s no alternative fact.
The only thing that might stop her ascension to Head Mouthpiece is Trump’s reputed distaste for anybody he thinks might be better than him at anything, and Kellyanne is certainly the superior liar to Trump, who is constantly under suspicion that what he says and Tweets are not lies to him at all, just brain flatus caused by excess consumption of Fox TV, a condition he has in common with many of his supporters.
But not Kellyanne. The divine power of deception radiates from every pore of her being, all the more so because it is dead certain that she knows that every time she opens her mouth, she is lying her Spanx off.
So give her the job. Spicer will be able to find other work. And so will Melissa McCarthy.
*Doesn’t actually exist. Would make a great screen name, though.
The Lord appeared to me again last weekend. The place was a mess, as usual. I was torn between sponging it up a bit or just cracking my first coldie of the afternoon when suddenly He was sitting on my La-Z-Boy.
“Oh Lord,” I said, hoping I hadn’t left a pizza crust on that chair, which is something that can happen on weekends at my place.
“That's Me,” the CEO of the universe replied. “Hope you’re not too busy to do My will, because I need you to ring up Pat Robertson and tell him to back off making commitments in My name.”
“You mean when Pat promised you would rescue Trumpcare?”
“Why don’t You just appear to Pat Robertson?”
“He’s 87 years old. He might think I was coming to take him to Heaven, and I don’t want to give him the impression that he’s going there.”
“I understand that, My Lord, but why did Robertson think you were going to get involved in the healthcare debate anyway?”
“Well, I actually might have let slip to Pat that I was thinking about threatening the Freedom Caucus with a plague of boils and locusts if they didn’t get in line.”
“So, you were in favor of kicking 24 million people off their insurance?”
“Look at it from My point of view. I’m the one who sends people diseases and accidents, causing them to suffer and die. That’s all part of My plan. Doesn’t have jack shit to do with insurance, so why should I care?”
“But you changed your mind? Why?”
“Jesus.” I thought the Supreme Being was just using Christ’s name as an imprecation, but then he went on. “My Son is fed up with the Trumps. He spent His time on earth with whores, thieves and lepers, he says, but that family is all three. He's not touching any one of them with a ten-foot crucifix. All those Facebook memes which show him wrapping his arms around the President? Everyone who made or posted one of them is going straight to Hell.”
“But You created Trump.”
“I guess. I don’t know what I was thinking at the time, except that maybe this guy will eventually give Alec Baldwin a good reason to sober up at least once a week. But Jesus is another story. When He heard that Trump was going to eliminate maternity care from the bill, He actually stormed into My throne room and tossed a couple of My thunderbolts around, he was so pissed. You know how He feels about His Mother.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard.”
“But you know how it goes. A one-night stand 2000 years ago shouldn’t lead to a relationship for eternal life, is what I thought at first, but all of the counselors we ever saw told us We have to think of our Kid. It was a rough couple centuries in the beginning, but now we mostly we stay out of each other’s way Up Here. But I digress. Get on the horn to Pat and tell him STFU for me.”
Then He vanished, off to spin a couple quasars, I guess. And he didn’t leave Pat Robertson's private line, and I think it’s a sin to call the 700 Club number and not pledge any money.
So this is the only warning you're going to get, Pat. You’re welcome.
Another week, another disastrous summit for President Trump, as the only thing he succeeded in accomplishing by meeting Angela Merkel is proving he doesn’t know how to behave around a woman he doesn’t want to have sex with.
Of course, there’s some doubt he knows how to behave around women he does want to have sex with, but that’s no help to the euro and to NATO.
The President also suffered by comparison by summiting with the boyishly handsome Prime Minister of Canada last month, an articulate man whom a neutral observer can’t help but noticing has way more natural skin and hair colors than Trump.
It’s not Trump’s fault that many of the nations of the world have thoughtful, responsible, occasionally photogenic leaders. These are people with whom Trump has nothing in common. What he needs to do is get out of the humdrum Presidential rut of meeting with democratically elected politicians. There’s a whole world of world leaders out there that Trump looks good in comparison with, murderous kleptocrats who rule over vast swaths of Asia and Africa, but one name stands out above all others.
Kim Jong Un.
A Trump-Un summit is a natural. These fellow national leaders have much in common. Both were given a hefty head start in life by their fathers, Trump to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars, while Un was bequeathed an entire dirt-poor nation.
Both men are tastefully overweight, although Trump rules over a nation of fat people and Un is the only fat guy North Korea can afford to feed.
Both have shitty hairstyles.
Both can launch missiles at Japan.
Trump once bragged he could shoot somebody in the middle of the street in broad daylight and not lose a single supporter. Un actually does shoot people whose support he suspects he has lost, in broad daylight, in the middle of a field, with anti-aircraft guns. Does he enjoy that? “Beats playing golf,” he is rumored to have said to close associates he hasn’t executed yet.
The eerie similarities don’t end there. Un encourages his people to starve. Trump has canceled Meals on Wheels and school lunches. Both are anti-immigration, although Trump wants to kill people coming into our country and Un kills people who are trying to escape his. Both have uneasy relationships with China, although Un entirely depends on the Chinese for his nation’s continued existence, while Trump only depends on Peking to manufacture almost everything his family sells.
A more cordial relationship with North Korea can be pioneered by Trump. After all, North Korea does not pose any threat to the United States apart from an unhinged desire to precipitate a world nuclear conflagration. There’s no chance of the People’s Republic starting a trade war with the US, since we already have plenty of its chief export, which is dust. And the Large Hadron Collider will be converted into a bowling alley before ISIS opens a branch office in Pyongyang.
Most importantly, Un will not make Trump look bad during any photo ops or joint press conferences. He will probably just emphasize his nation’s unique foreign policy, which could be put on a cardboard sign and held at an intersection, “WILL STOP ENRICHING URANIUM FOR FOOD.”
Trump can praise him as ‘the best,’ ‘fantastic,’ and ‘does a great job of murdering any relatives who might pose a threat to his power.”
It’s a win-win. Trump needs to meet a world leader who doesn’t make him look like a crabby know-nothing.
And North Korea could use a new hotel.
Most people are too concerned with the air of incompetent evil that the Trump White House exudes to notice this, but Trump is the ugliest man to occupy the Oval Office since Nixon.
Since color televisions came to be owned by a majority of the country’s households, the better-looking man has generally prevailed in Presidential elections. Carter bested Ford because he was handsomer, in a shitty haircut kind of way, but he couldn’t match Reagan’s movie-star looks. Bush I beat Dukakis because Dukakis looked like Snoopy in pictures, but the cares of office had worn him down enough by ’92 that he was no match for a curly-haired, horny young stud from Arkansas named Bill Clinton.
You couldn’t say Bush II was really better-looking than Al Gore, but then, you couldn’t say he really won, either.
You get the picture. The leader of the Free World is a good-looking dude, up until now. Now we have a fat guy that if he hadn’t been born into cheese, would be sitting on his porch in a bathrobe, yelling at the neighborhood kids to stay off his lawn. He’d always wear a baseball cap, because he couldn’t afford that hair weave, and he’d be the least favorite customer at the local massage parlor, when he’d save up enough money from his Social Security check every month to get himself fondled by an immigrant hooker.
And the guy has surrounded himself with other ugly guys. Jeff Sessions begged to be Attorney General because he was tired of the other Senators calling him “Dumbo” or “Wingnut” on account of his ear style. Rex Tillerson looks like a highly alert amphibian, capable of snatching flies out of mid-air with a tongue flick. Mike Pence’s hair resembles the pelt of a white rabbit, glued to his scalp. Credit where credit is due, though—it nicely complements his concentration camp guard personality.
But the big-top attraction in the lack of personal grooming department is, of course, Steve Bannon. Ever since he was a tender young Nazi, Bannon has dreamed of being where he is now, implementing his theory that governmental chaos benefits white people. You’d think he’d have taken better care of himself, knowing that the American people want a shadowy puppet master pulling the strings on the President that they can be proud of.
But, no. Instead we have a guy that you just want to make a “Homeless Veteran” sign for and hang it around his neck. I don’t know how many Hot Pockets you have to eat because no woman will cook for you before you get a gut too big to suck in, but it’s more than a freezer full, I’m certain. The embryonic whiskey nose and the bed hair belong on an incipient child molester, not a Presidential chief of staff.
And the scruff, Steve. A couple day’s stubble looks good on Bruce Willis. And, if I may say so, immodestly, on me. On you it looks like your hand isn’t steady enough to risk shaving. We’d appreciate it if you’d never wore shorts again, either.
But Steve and the rest of the White House posse no doubt think they look just fine the way they are. It’s a near-universal male delusion. Just like most of us have always thought that we could run the country better than those who are actually doing it.
And up to now, we were probably wrong.
Most observers think that the batshit incompetence exhibited by our national government since Trump was sworn in is the head Cheez-it’s fault. Trump runs the country the same way he runs his businesses, they say, with a minimum of attention to detail and a maximum amount of golf.
This is no doubt true, but it doesn’t account for the down-low spitefulness with which Trump pursues his aims. I mean, hating Mexicans and Muslims is popular all over the land, and taking health coverage away from the indigent is no big deal, because they were going to die of something anyway, but to dump on the Coast Guard? Nobody hates the Coast Guard.
Except a man who’s not getting any sex from his wife. I suspect the Head of State is being denied by his spouse. First of all, would you be having Twitter tirades at 4 AM if you had just been satisfied by the sex star of Slovenia? I know I wouldn’t. I’d be drifting off to dreamland in a contented glow, thinking generous thoughts like “Who needs a wall and healthcare reform? Why shouldn’t people be able to keep their Obamacare and their landscaping crew? And remind me, honey, to get that puppy I promised Sean Spicer.”
If Melania and I were making our love nest in Trump Tower, I’d also murmur, “And goodnight to you too, Barack,” just in case.
But we’re not getting that from our President. He is exhibiting all the behaviors of a man cut off from his nookie. He’s lashing out at everybody, from the cast of SNL to Preet Bharara to Meryl Streep. He’s sublimated his sex drive into spasms of executive orders.
Possibly he’s fantasizing about Betsy DeVos naked.
Now, before you recoil in horror from this image, remember, the man is more to be pitied than blamed. No one really knows what goes on between two people, and Trump bought Melania fair and square from her father, in the time-honored tradition of European arranged marriages. Of course, he thought that she came with a guaranteed lifetime supply of sex, and he’s understandably bitter that she’s having a permanent headache in Manhattan while he roams the White House in his bathrobe, alone, listening to Steve Bannon snore off another whiskey and Adderal binge.
Let’s have some empathy for Melania, too. She didn’t sign up for this, either, and by that I don’t mean being First Lady. I mean being guarded by the Secret Service all the time so she can’t have sex with the pool boy or her personal trainer, which I’m sure she regarded as a necessary relief from her marital duties. “They're going to be installing a new Ice Age in Hell before he grinds that pasty golf gut up against my creamy, unblemished skin again,” is what she’s probably thinking.
And she can think that in six different languages.
But we’re begging you, Melania (I know, I know—so is he). Do your duty. Lie on your back and think of America next weekend in Mar el Lago.
Oh, right, I forgot. You’re not from here.
President Trump over the weekend identified the two biggest threats to our country, and, surprisingly, they are not terrorism and Mexicans. They are Obama and Schwarzenegger.
Tweeting in the predawn darkness, after another no-good, pretty bad, terrible week as POTUS, Trump accused Obama of ordering surveillance on Trump in Trump Tower during the last election.
Why the former President would want to listen to his successor any more than he had to was left unexplained by Trump. Obama just collected a flat 65 million for a book deal, so maybe, anticipating the literary riches that await any former President, he was doing research for a chapter he was going to title Trump Tower Trailer Trash. Maybe he was hoping to pick up some golfing pointers known only to overweight billionaires. Maybe he just liked to listen to the rustling of Melania slipping in and out of lingerie, or marveling at her ability to talk like a whore in six different languages.
In any case, he must have taken them with him when he left the White House, because Trump can’t actually find them. Perhaps Obama and Richard Branson are cracking up over Barron’s struggles with his homework when they go kite-surfing together. Barron, like many of his fellow fifth-graders, probably has difficulties with the spelling of three-letter words. At least he does if he takes after his dad.
Turning from a casual comparison of Obama to Richard Nixon, which neither the supporters nor the enemies of either man had actually made before, Trump went after one of his fave frenemies, the ex-Governator, Arnold Schwarzenegger, who announced he was leaving Trump’s employ as the host of Celebrity Apprentice.
Only Ivanka’s shoe line was rated lower than Celebrity Apprentice this year, which Schwarzenegger blamed on the fact that a goodly portion of the American public hates Trump and everything he stands for, and would sooner have a hemorrhoidectomy without anesthesia than watch something he produces. Trump, however, stayed true to form by not accepting the blame for anything, and put the show’s rating struggles at the feet of Arnold, whom he feels cannot match him for good looks, charisma and acting chops. He's also critical of Schwarzenegger for fathering an illegitimate child by his housemaid, saying scornfully "Anytime I've ever knocked up a servant, I've made sure she gets an abortion."
Defenders of Schwarzenegger point out that many of his best movie lines have been re-produced on t-shirts, while Trump’s utterances so far have been confined to baseball caps.
And as far as Obama possessing secret recordings of Trump’s private life, observers of the Donald have a simple explanation for the President’s confusion.
He’s just got Obama mixed up with Putin.
The reason for banning several news organizations from a press “gaggle” last Friday at the White House quickly became apparent when the gaggle started, as Press Secretary Sean Spicer made an opening statement that Trump’s secret plan to defeat ISIS in thirty days, a plan the President claimed to have while campaigning for his office, had been successful and ISIS had been defeated.
Even the news organizations permitted to be the recipient of this news, Breitbart and FOX, were skeptical. “Isn’t ISIS currently duking it out with the Kurds in Mosul?” asked one member of the FOX team.
Spicer replied, ”No. There may be something going on in Mosul that involves an exchange of gunfire and bombs, causing death and suffering and more refugees that we don't want here, but it is not fighting by ISIS because ISIS has been defeated, as promised, by President Trump, secretly.”
“Did ISIS formally surrender?” shouted a reporter in the back.
“They secretly surrendered,” Spicer replied. “They’re a terrorist organization. No way we were getting them to show up on the deck of the Missouri. But they’re defeated, all right, thanks to the plan put in place by our President, who has also lowered his golf handicap by one stroke since he took office. The battle against ISIS was won on the putting greens of Mar el Lago.”
“We want to worship your boss, as usual, but what I'm hearing here is that ISIS actually may not know they were beaten?” said a youngish white supremacist from Breitbart.
“Secretly beaten,” Spicer corrected him. “Of course, they may not know it, since we had to keep it secret. But they are done, finished, kaput. Total losers, like NATO and Chuck Schumer.”
“How was victory achieved?” shouted a young woman in a tight skirt sitting with her legs crossed, indicating she was also from FOX.
“That’s a secret,” Spicer replied. A chorus of skeptical groans rose from the assembly, but Spicer hushed them by waving the Ceremonial Sword of the Press Secretary, which he claimed he found in a closet in the briefing room after he took the job, and has lately taken to wearing, at the assembled reporters. “Look, we can’t divulge the details of our successful secret plan because we might want to use it again on some other enemies of mankind, like Boko Haram or Nordstrom's.”
“What about individual acts of terrorism inspired by ISIS?” asked the Breitbart guy.
“Obviously, since ISIS no longer exists, it can’t inspire deranged loners anymore,” Spicer replied. “So that threat has been eliminated as well.”
“Since ISIS doesn’t know they were defeated, and are still trying to murder their way into Heaven as far as we know, aren’t you merely saying you had a secret plan and it worked, when really there was no plan and you’re just claiming victory over terrorism?" asked the perky sex object from FOX.
At that point, Spicer lost his temper and told the assembled reporters that they were all banned from the gaggle. “Go sit in the hall with CNN and the Washington Post, you other fake news peddlers!” he yelled. Then he added, “Except Hannity,” as the room cleared.
What transpired after that no one knows.
Now that we’ve survived the first month of the Administration of Agent Orange*, some of us are preparing for four years of resistance, including MILF pop princess Madonna, who celebrated the Inauguration by channeling her inner Ted Nugent in DC.
Some of us though, resigned that there is going to be nothing that makes us politically satisfied for at least four years, are vowing to turn away from political strife and immerse ourselves in other, life-enhancing practices. For those people, there are two newly-offered obsessions—beer yoga and smell porn.
Beer yoga is not what I first thought it was, which would be drinking beer and watching women who are far too young to sensibly consider me as a sexual partner do yoga.
No, beer yoga actually consists of incorporating a bottle of beer into classic yoga moves, as you can see by the pic. The half-boat posture becomes the half-loaded posture, the Cobra position now incorporates a 40-ouncer of the classic malt liquor King Cobra. You get the picture.
Ordinarily, I don’t think of myself as stretchy, flexible and coordinated enough to do yoga. The danger for me, if I took up this new fad, is that I might consider myself to possess those qualities if I drank enough beer. I could end up a twisted, helpless, intoxicated heap on my mat. If that happens, stay calm and please administer more beer.
Smell porn I am not likely to indulge in either, because it requires the purchase of equipment and supplies and I, like every natural cheap American, currently spend zero money on porn. You need to buy something resembling a gas mask and odor packets to load it up with, then hook up online with a “cam girl,” like smell porn advocate Victoria Ryan, also pictured above. Victoria, in addition to twisting herself into every position and performing any act you desire to watch her attempt, will release the odors she calculates will arouse you the most. These odors, according to my source article, include “licorice and donuts.”
Yep, Krispy Kremes and chewy candy make you horny. It’s safe to admit that, now.
Odors of urine and feces will not be available in smell porn, at least for the rollout. Just when everyone was eager to take a golden shower, too.
Other porn pioneers scorn the new technology. They are advocates for artificially intelligent sex dolls,** or at least robot hands that will tirelessly stroke you for years at a time. Maybe even four years at a time.
Oh, boy. Now we’re back to politics.
*The GRU's favorite nickname for Trump
**This link goes to Breitbart, which shows you what kind of people are looking for sex dolls.
A “prayer shield,” an impenetrable theological umbrella erected by hordes of “prayer warriors,” over the person and actions of Donald Trump has been in place since before his inauguration, to no observable effect. The constant clamoring of sincere believers in the ears of God has not kept his administration from coming off as an astonishing clusterfuck. There are several possibilities for this, the first being that God is just laughing off any prayers, no matter how heartfelt, on behalf of any preening ignoramuses who live to cheat their friends, lie about their enemies and brag on fingering unwilling vagina.
Don't dismiss this possibility. When confronted by supplications regarding Trump, God just might splutter and say, “Oh, for My sake!” or “Jesus Christ, can you believe this?”
And after Jesus replies “Oh Me, fuck no,” they both go back to adjusting the galaxies, leaving Trump on his own to search Craigslist for people willing to be his National Security Advisor.
Another possibility is that prayer has no effect on any course of events at all. Many people disagree with this. I found that out the hard way, by posting this on Facebook:
This is a rotten thing to say, although fairly typical for an apathetic agnostic with a mild hangover. While my position had its supporters, many people argued for the efficacy of prayer in the comments, and still more thought that it was extremely tasteless of me to crack wise about cancer. I reject this latter argument, because if God did not think cancer was funny, why did He invent it in the first place?
The third possibility is that a prayer needs to be constructed to specifically address the problems of the President. Instead of throwing up a prayer shield consisting of random Hail Mary’s or Glory Be’s, the rampart of supplications to Heaven needs to detail out a to-do list for the Almighty concerning Trump. Here’s a possible example:
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be the name of Trump. May Trump’s kingdom come, in America as well as Russia, Scotland, Dubai, Uruguay or any other place where Donald owns a hotel or golf course. May his will be done, in the Senate, the House of Representatives, the Supreme Court and Mar el Largo. Give him this day a secret loan from the Kremlin and a sweetheart licensing deal in China and forgive those who fact-check him, for they are fake news. For Trump’s is the kingdom, the power and the pussy, forever and ever, Amen.
There, that ought to do it. Can I get a thousand likes?
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