Donald Trump a.k.a Donkey Rump

I have secret fantasies concerning The Donald.  No, sick people.  Not THOSE kind of fantasies.  I fantasize about dressing in camo and breaking into his gold-plated compound.  I then make my way through the air ventilation shaft until I reach his boudior.  Then…I descend out of the vent…all cat-like and such, my hands hovering over my holster. But not before donning these spectacles.  (This is not me.)

Then, lickety split, I whip out a comb and brush…and commence to jacking his hair UP, yo!  Then I take his picture, snickering like that crooked cartoon guy, Snidely Whiplash, before shooting back up into the ventilation shaft.

I mean, c’mon.  Haven’t you ever wondered what that hair is up to?  Personally, I think he’s totally bald, except for some bangs that he’s been growing out for the past 20 years and wrapping around his head like a turban.

All hair-funnies aside, the fool is starting to scare me with all the “Presidential Candidate” nonsense.  Now I hear he’s sending some of his goons over to Hawaii to prove once and for all that Barack Obama was born in Thailand to an underage wet-nurse.  In a rice paddy.  Aren’t there more pressing concerns right now?

I know I shouldn’t fear The Donald.  I know this is probably nothing but another marketing stunt.  But then there’s that nagging thought….what if.  What if?!

I’ll tell you what started this whole mess.  At birth, his mother gave him hope and told him he mattered.


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