Praising Cain or Trumpet Blower

 

"Welcome everyone. It's time to play my new reality show 'Whose Nose is the Brownest?'"

“Welcome everyone. It’s time to play my new reality show ‘Whose Nose is the Brownest?'”

 

“You live with straights who tell you “you was king”   -John Lennon, How Do You Sleep?

 

In an attempt to thwart “Saturday Night Live” by behaving so absurdly that it’s immune to parody, the Fake President held a first full cabinet meeting that was the most embarrassing thing to happen to the White House since every single other thing the vile disgrace to humanity has done.

Because of the surreal ending to the meeting, the falsehood-filled beginning—perhaps its most ominous aspect—went largely overlooked.  With the confidence of the clinically insane, Trump lauded his administration’s first six months as essentially the most accomplished in history.  As pathological liars often do, Trump managed to contradict himself within his own sentence, claiming, “Never has there been a president….with few exceptions…who’s passed more legislation, who’s done more things than I have.”  The one exception cited was FDR of course, though in dismissive tones, as if having that silly little Depression to deal with afforded the lucky SOB more leeway.

Unmentioned by Fuckface of course is the fact that he hasn’t passed anything other than wind since oozing into office, and has spent twice as many days playing golf as Obama, Bush, and Clinton did over the same period of time—combined.  He’s also the first President with a foreign leader’s iron fist wedged up his ass.

Then after the White House’s daily dispensing of propaganda, some even more disturbing, low-rent dictator drama ensued, so phony in execution it was equal parts laughable, pitiful, and deplorable.  Not to mention nauseating.

In full view of the cameras, Trump went around the room campfire-style to each cabinet member, who in turn voiced their fawning, Stockholm syndrome-sounding worship of the Messiah.  The level of incessant flattery on display as each sycophant heaped increasingly lavish praise upon their Dear Leader was enough to make Kim Jong-un roll his eyes—not that anybody could tell.  Never before has Trump’s disturbing and irrational Liberace-like hunger for praise, among other shared appetites, been given such embarrassingly free reign.

Among those vying for pats on the head as Flunkie of the Week was the winner of the pretentious first name contest, Reince Preibus, who boldly took the opportunity to speak for the entire senior staff when he gushed that serving a human Cheeto was a “blessing.”  A man so religious he molests priests, Vice President Mike Pence, took such sickening groveling up another notch when he deemed serving Trump as the “greatest privilege of my life.”

Not to be outdone, Jared Kushner marched over to Trump and began fellating him at his desk.  As Kushner wiped his mouth Trump paid him a backhanded compliment, “Almost as good as Ivanka.”

The only adult in the romper room that maintained the slightest molecule of dignity was the most badass secretary in all the land, Secretary of Defense General James Mattis, who took his required presidential ass-puckering as an opportunity to babble about the troops instead.  Meanwhile Trump sat beside him, awkwardly alternating between facing the General and the cameras, and wearing an expression that suggested he was not so much listening to the words as scanning them to hear his name aloud.

Such utter lunacy begs the obvious question: is this fuckin clown prince serious?  Doesn’t he realize how transparently gross and pathetic this type of cultish, Waco-like devotion comes across to literally hundreds of millions of people worldwide?  Either he’s well-aware, which means his plans for a Jong-un style Family dynasty have already begun, or he doesn’t have a clue, which means even worse, that he’s completely and totally bat-shit fuckin crazy.  He belongs in the nut house, not the White House.

Taking his obvious mental illnesses and impairments into consideration, the only thing more irresponsible than a wackjob indulging in their obvious delusions are the caretakers allowing it to happen.  In this case, Trump’s filthy spawn, inundated cabinet, and shell-shocked staff advisers.  How the fuck do they sleep at night?  And I don’t mean from a guilty conscience, I mean from the very real fear that the toaster might tell Trump to drop nukes on Peru at three o’clock in the morning.

Interestingly, even if Trump has plunged so far down the rabbit hole that he can no longer distinguish reality—a frighteningly likely possibility—those with functioning brains around him can’t be under any such warped illusions.  You have to wonder how much longer some of them will be able to continue watching the president strut around the Oval Office naked as a jaybird, while spineless sycophants try to outdo each other’s profuse praise for his impeccable fashion sense.

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