IF THE TRUMP WROTE DR. SEUSS’ OH, THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!
Congratulations to me!
Today is my day.
You’re off to Warm Places!
Adios, José!
You have fake brains in your corrupt head.
You probably raped a chicken and stole its shoes.
I don’t feel bad for your crying fake family—give me a break, alright? They’re not your real family and it only looks like they’re crying because they’ve been eating jalapeño peppers all day (which they probably stole and stuffed with drugs)—‘cause they’re probably all Mexican drug mules.
Or something worse, like disloyal FBI guys, or reporters, or scientists, or co-founders of ISIS, which rhymes with crisis, which I’m really good at.
I’m also good at poetry, too, but it sucks. I hate it; it reminds me of when I was a little kid and I couldn’t boss anyone around except our household staff. So, I’m done writing this poem in poetry. From now on, it will be a non-poetic poem.
By the way, your so-called “family” doesn’t give a damn about you because you are such a nasty, nasty loser. As soon as Vanilla ICE hauls your loser ass away, your fake family will forget your name. They will only remember that it sounds Mexican. And fake. Sad. Very sad, which rhymes with bad, which rhymes with sad.
Mexicans actually like me. I almost dated a Mexican when I was in high school, except our high school didn’t allow any, and I hate Mexicans, anyway. The reason so many of you look like those fat Hawaiians is because President Andrew Jackson encouraged many of your ancestors to relocate their teepees and leg irons to Honoluau during the first Korean War, and they raped Hawaiians like they were drug-selling chickens going out of style. You heard that straight from the horse’s ass. Tell all your a-mi-bros. I could have taught history in high school when I was in high school because I was so, so smart in high school. Very, very smart. It was unbelievable how smart I was. Everybody is still talking about it. Wow. Unbelievable, right? My brain is smart now, too. Smart. Very, very smart. Probably the smartest brain I’ve ever met. It’s unpresidented.
Don’t even think of escaping because I’ve got an armada of immigration cop anti-sanctuary drones in the sky, which I have named for this mission Dasvidaniya. They’re great drones in a great sky. Great. Drones. Sky. Great drones sky. The best in the world. Best. Very, very best. They can spot your criminal ass from a yuge distance. Yuge. Very yuge. Yuger than Osama Obama’s three inaugural crowds combined and put together, but only half as yuge (and expensive) as my yuge put-together inaugural crowd combined—and I’m not even a real president.
And after Dasvidaniya my drone armada spots your criminal ass, they will nuke it good. Really, really good. I like nukes. In fact, I have my hair mini-nuked twice a week. That’s why my eyebrows look like swatches of shag carpets after electrical shock therapy—because of the fallout. I don’t know why the South didn’t fire a couple of nukes at the North during the Civil War, except maybe the liberal candy-asses wouldn’t have considered that very civil, and then someone would have to come up with a different name for the war, like the Obstruction Collusion. I like that. It’s contemporary. Good. Very good.
I’m hoping the really, really noisy noise and fiery, fiery fireworks from your criminal ass getting nuked will distract the fake news clowns from all the phony, phony stuff they lie about. Bad. Dishonest. Very dishonest. Unbelievable.
Maybe I’ll nuke them all except for the pretty young girl reporters, and maybe some of the older gals if they’re grabbable and can keep their lying, corrupt mouths shut. Believe me, there are plenty of Trumpettes who’d like to blow my horn. If I was a girl and I grabbed my pussy, I’d sue my ass so quick it’d make my orange head spin faster than something hairy and orange that spins really, really fast. And then I’d settle out of dishonest court because the dishonest liberal Hawaiian fake judge would be a Mexican Muslim that hates me so, so bad and would rule against me. Maybe I’d nuke him like he was the Constitution. We’ll see; I stand by nothing.
And maybe I’ll nuke the Eco Nazis, too. And the losers who can’t see the benefit of having no healthcare or pensions or jobs or free speech or reproductive rights. And the whiners who want
me to release my tax returns—like they don’t have something to hide, too. Hypocritical fakers. Hippo. Critical. Fake. Ers.
From now on, everybody has to call Washington, DC Hooterville. I used to want it to be called Titty Town or Pussygrabatonia, but I’m not as fucking crass as I used to be, okay? Classy. Real classy. Hey, here’s a classy poem I just made up just now—see, I’m smart. Okay, here it is: Orange POTUS is real classy. Now get the hell over here, pretty young lassie … so I can grab your pussy. Unbelievable, right? It’s good to be king. Yuge. Classy.
Anyway, I gotta go take a dump—or as I like to call it, a Leaking Comey—and a nap … or as I like to call it, a Personal Executive Order to Not Be Awake for Six Hours. Try to block that order, liberal Mexican Hawaiian Muslim judges. I hope you choke on your pineapple Spam tacos and trip on your corrupt Muslim judge dresses. Sad-o. Very sad-o. Understand-o?
And, oh, the places you’ll go? First, you’ll go back to Mexico and then to Hell (same difference?). Where the hell did you think you’ll go? Mirror Largo? Loser. Sad, sad loser.
Someone punch this loser in the throat, willya?
~~That’s Enough~~
HE AND SHE
He was universally despised. If He were one of two entrants in a contest, the judges would not vote him into the top five. She was so dumb, She needed a GPS to locate her GPA.
Six years after graduating from separate high schools, and when they have almost given up on finding true love or the next best thing, they will meet in Traffic Court, date for a few weeks and then marry, each believing the other is the perfect match. She will believe that because She is dumb and will believe almost anything. He will believe that because He will recognize She is too dumb to realize that He is a major asshole … and because She has large, natural breasts that are atypically non-saggy.
They will have three children: Jacques, Pamela and Phoebe. Phoebe will eventually insist on being called Terry. Pamela will then call herself Phoebe, since that coveted name will be available. This will screw-up her Social Security benefits and credit rating for the rest of her life. Phoebe/Terry won’t care.
Jacques will have a sex-change operation, change his name to Jacquie and become a militant lesbian. Jacques/Jacquie will have a 6-1/2-year affair with a bisexual, married dental hygienist named, ironically, Pamela Terry, who will incessantly baby-talk to her pet Shih Tzu (a gift from a shiatsu class admirer) named, also ironically, Phoebe. Jacquie’s favorite movie will continue to be “Six Degrees of Separation.”
Jacques/Jacquie, Pamela/Phoebe and Phoebe/Terry will graduate from the University of Delaware and move as far away from their parents and each other as a modest inheritance from their maternal grandmother will allow.
He will lose interest in She when her breasts begin to sag. He will then lose himself in yodel record collecting. She will initially be heartbroken and confused, being too dumb to understand the subtle nuances of yodeling and the inner peace that can be spawned by yodel record collecting.
Searching for her own hobby, She will rummage through dozens of sealed boxes, the forgotten orphans of several house moves. In a box marked # 12–Living Room, She will find a smaller box containing a pill vial with a homemade and handwritten label, which will claim, “SMART PILLS. Take 2 at bedtime and 3 before exams.” She will recall that it was a cruel practical joke perpetrated by delinquents unknown. The vial mysteriously appeared in her high school gym locker after She failed a rules of dodge ball test.
“Maybe these really are smart pills,” She will say aloud, alone. She will examine a pill as if it were a Rubik’s Cube. “I just now realize that these pills must have belonged to a rich person … someone with so much money that they could afford to have their own personalized, engraved pills. Ohmygod,” She will exclaim with discovery. “These pills belonged to someone in the Bayer family. These must really be smart pills, since the Bayer family is rich, and rich people are smart, and now I know their dirty little secret of smartness: smart pills.
“I can’t believe that I could have taken these a long time ago. I could have been smart a long time ago. I am so dumb,” She will cry before chugging the contents of the vial.
Several minutes afterwards, She will change into a push-up bra and visit He in the room above the garage, where the Holy Yodel Rounders’ Yodeler On the Roof will be blasting on the stereo. “Oh, I get it now—yodeling is supposed to sound silly on purpose,” She will epiphanize. “And here I used to think these were deviant, underground recordings of homosexual orgies,” She will say, mispronouncing “orgies” so that it rhymes with “Porgy's,” as in Porgy And Bess. “I guess the smart pills are starting to work already.”
He will zone-in on She’s uplifted breasts, which, paired with her newborn interest in yodeling, will rekindle He’s interest in She. Their marriage will be refreshed and they will live happily ever after for two more weeks, when they will be killed by a tsunami while second honeymooning in Belize.
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