“We pledge to you that we will root out the communists, Marxists, fascists and the radical left thugs that live like vermin within the confines of our country that lie and steal and cheat on elections.” Donald Trump.
This latest burst of blistering hyperbole exploded from Trump’s lips in New Hampshire last weekend, leaving little doubt about what he wants the unwashed Republican zombies of that state to think of people who can’t stand the Tangerine Drama Queen.
In which number I count myself. One of my main motivations for fighting my way through a recent serious health problem was my desire to outlive Trump, so that I could carry out my final fantasy of urinating on his corpse, even if I had to roll through the Rotunda in my wheelchair and fling the contents of my catheter bag on his remains.
But what kind of vermin am I? I’m not a Communist or a Marxist. I am not even sure of the differences between Communists and Marxists. Only Communists and Marxists themselves are really certain of those differences, and have been known to stab and poison each other over them in the past, but I couldn’t tell you. And, in as sure a wager as the Dallas Cowboys flubbing another chance to make the Super Bowl, I bet Trump couldn’t tell you, either.
I’m not a fascist. If anything, I’m an anti-fascist. Trump and his followers also hate anti-fascists. Neat trick, there. I mean, talk about covering your bases. MAGA cap off to that.
Radical left thug? For sure, although it sounds like something you would say to a woman you were trying to pick up in a bar. Whispering “I’m a radical left thug,” in her ear is one way of distinguishing yourself from all the venture capitalists, salesman and techies that are competing against you for her favor in the singles’ joint, but I’m reluctant to abandon my current favorite pickup line, which is “I own a food truck.”
I can lie and cheat, but stealing elections is beyond my talents. I know the people who do, though. They’re older, retired Democratic ladies, the ones that come around and remind me to vote every November. The rest of the year these old girls spend getting stents put in and hips replaced so they have the strength to stuff ballots all night when the Democrats need them to.
Vermin. We’re here. On Medicare. And Social Security, too. Get used to it.
This latest burst of blistering hyperbole exploded from Trump’s lips in New Hampshire last weekend, leaving little doubt about what he wants the unwashed Republican zombies of that state to think of people who can’t stand the Tangerine Drama Queen.
In which number I count myself. One of my main motivations for fighting my way through a recent serious health problem was my desire to outlive Trump, so that I could carry out my final fantasy of urinating on his corpse, even if I had to roll through the Rotunda in my wheelchair and fling the contents of my catheter bag on his remains.
But what kind of vermin am I? I’m not a Communist or a Marxist. I am not even sure of the differences between Communists and Marxists. Only Communists and Marxists themselves are really certain of those differences, and have been known to stab and poison each other over them in the past, but I couldn’t tell you. And, in as sure a wager as the Dallas Cowboys flubbing another chance to make the Super Bowl, I bet Trump couldn’t tell you, either.
I’m not a fascist. If anything, I’m an anti-fascist. Trump and his followers also hate anti-fascists. Neat trick, there. I mean, talk about covering your bases. MAGA cap off to that.
Radical left thug? For sure, although it sounds like something you would say to a woman you were trying to pick up in a bar. Whispering “I’m a radical left thug,” in her ear is one way of distinguishing yourself from all the venture capitalists, salesman and techies that are competing against you for her favor in the singles’ joint, but I’m reluctant to abandon my current favorite pickup line, which is “I own a food truck.”
I can lie and cheat, but stealing elections is beyond my talents. I know the people who do, though. They’re older, retired Democratic ladies, the ones that come around and remind me to vote every November. The rest of the year these old girls spend getting stents put in and hips replaced so they have the strength to stuff ballots all night when the Democrats need them to.
Vermin. We’re here. On Medicare. And Social Security, too. Get used to it.
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