Hey pals. How’s your morning been? Did your Breakfast Behemoth turn out okay? Here’s what the President of the United States has been up to:
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I think I’m never quite unaware that the president of the United States is insanely awful. Like probably most other people, I wear it around at all times, like a sodden and rotting wool sweater, scratchy at my neck and damp in my armpits and always, always, inescapably reeking. But still. Sometimes that awfulness crystallizes itself; sometimes it is like that crystallization has been chopped to a fine powder and blasted up my nose. Holy shit, man. The worst person alive—the pettiest, smallest, emptiest, most dishonest, most malignant shit-for-brains you could ever imagine, just an absolute worthless interpretively man-shaped lint clump from the absolute bottom of the human genetic drain—is the president.
It’s not like presidents have never before rhetorically erased the preventable mass deaths of innocent people, and their own complicity therein. They certainly have! But there’s a horror particular to the blithe way this senile penny-ante crook rolls out of bed, whips out his goddamn phone, and just straight-up belches it out. How easily he’d feed to the memory hole any number of real whole actual people—their whole lives, their nightmarish early deaths, the monstrous failure of the society he oversees to look after them and help keep them safe—to ease what’s, for him, unburdened as he is by conscience or accountability or decency, no more than an itch on the side of his nose. Not empty thoughts and prayers, not even It wasn’t my fault, but They never existed. They don’t even get to have existed, if what happened to them, how they died, doesn’t gratify Donald Trump.