Dr. Giggles

Behold the President of the United States.

Behold the President of the United States.


“He’s the Cheeto-in-chief”   -D.L. Hughley


Well the highly anticipated results of the annual presidential medical exam are in, and here are the irrefutable, meticulously gathered, and clearly accurate numbers:

The Fake President is 6’3”, 239 pounds, and scored a perfect 30 out of 30 on the cognitive exam.

Yeah.  Right.  Go fuck yourself.  I haven’t seen numbers this fishy since the electoral college.  This test smells worse than Melania’s icy commie cunt.

Douchebag defenders of the diagnosis immediately point out that this asshole doctor—no, he’s not a proctologist, just an asshole—was Obama’s and Bush’s presidential doctor as well, but they’re forgetting one tiny detail: Obama and Bush were normal human beings, not hideously deranged and evil mutants.  Trump is the Black Plague personified.  Everyone in his orbit gets slowly poisoned into becoming completely sycophantic liars to avoid the ol’ heave-ho, so why would this hapless doctor be any different?  Really, the guy who made that Spice Girl of a press secretary of his march out with a straight face and chastise the press for not properly acknowledging the “all-time” crowd size at the inauguration on day fuckin one, that guy wouldn’t tell a doctor to go out and tell everybody what Adonis-like shape he’s in?  The same guy who made the appropriately girly-named Lindsay Graham tell the world after their golfing double date that he shot like a fuckin 70 or some shit.  Now I don’t know jack shit about golf scores, but I’ve heard from an unfortunate few who do that such a miraculous score would qualify Fuckface as one of the top senior golfers on the tour.  That story rings so eerily similar to Kim Jong-il’s reported eleven holes in one on his first ever golf outing that it’s scary.  Just wait.  Something tells me these phony presidential “scores” are going to keep getting better and better as time goes on…

But the love note the White House sent out to the public was signed by a doctor “Ronnie Jackson”, instead of how the fuckin guy actually spells his own name, “Ronny Jackson.”  Guess he must have forgot.  Then Ronnie/y’s pandering podium performance was just as nauseatingly sycophantic as we’ve come to expect in this laughless joke of an administration.  Eight separate times the Fake President’s health was referred to as “excellent”, and statements like, “If he ate better he could live til two hundred” were somehow uttered without breaking into uncontrollable guffaws.  Then just to prove he really memorized the drippingly servile script, the good doctor actually had the verbal deepthroating skills to point out Trump’s four hour a night sleeping habit—which he suspiciously claims is totally healthy by the way, contrary to every single credible medical professional licensed—is “probably why he’s so successful.”  Are you fuckin kidding me?  Since when in the history of presidential medical reports did a doctor stop and slip in some slathering praise?  I heard he said Obama was so successful because of his high thighs.

Holy fuckballs.  Dr. Van Nostrand has more credibility than this fuckin guy.  And the doctor’s comedy routine is not the worst of it.  Contrary to all available visual evidence, the doc claimed Fuckface is 6’3” and 239 pounds.  Incidentally 6’2”—the height listed on Trump’s New York driver’s license—and 239 pounds qualifies you as obese.  So we can’t have that.  Next thing you know they’re fudging an inch like he’s an NBA prospect.  And how the fuck do you grow an inch at 71 fuckin years old?  The man himself listed himself as 6’2” his entire adult life, if anything he would have shrunk an inch or two by now.

But the height stretch ain’t got shit on the weight problem.  239 pounds?  Oh word?  With one leg off the scale?  That fuckin guy is 270 is he’s an ounce.  No fuckin way he’s under 250, let alone 240.  I want to see his big fat orange ass waddle up on a scale at the next White House press conference.  Fuck his tax returns, I want to see his snacks returns.  Then again, he’ll probably just use a Russian scale and rig the whole thing.

And for the coup de grace, since little baby boy has to prove any criticism of him is wrong no matter how obviously true it is, the cognitive test “that he requested” came back a fuckin 30 for 30.  Gee, you mean to tell me King Narcissist got a perfect score?  How odd.  Can you imagine?  This pompous cunt couldn’t even say 29.  Nope, it had to be perfect.  Just as perfect as that chiseled 6’3” 239-pound frame of his.



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