A petty man enters the public spotlight and gets a half-ass laugh. But they aren’t laughing very much anymore. America's biggest loser makes it a somber occasion for the death of comedy. Don’t ever talk to the president that way. You’re a nasty person. You’re a bad woman. Fake press. It’s a witch hunt. They are failed, and their business is failing. That’s not funny.
Everything Trump says is a projection of himself at the expense of others. His bad taste in the theater of politics is schlock elevator music falling on deaf ears to his loyal followers. The feckless faithful who laugh along with him as the rest of the world boos and hisses, and laughs at his stupidity. They say he smells rank. An offensive odor. You get what you deserve. Smell that smell?
He’s under the microscope of public opinion, scrutinized as the most unfunny fellow in history. He thinks he’s hilarious, even charming. Dashing and debonair. He believes he has rugged good looks. Comparing himself to Elvis, Jesus Christ, Rambo, John Wayne, and Rodney Dangerfield because he can’t get any respect, nor deserves any. He thinks that he’s the king of the world. Not an attractive look. He wants his porcine mug chiseled into Mount Rushmore. He demands a military parade in his honor on his birthday under the guise of a salute to our armed forces. He wants to re-open Alcatraz. He wants everything. Gulf of America? Canada and Mexico should annex us.
The only person in the universe that everyone loves to hate. Like the classic villain of his WWF pro wrestling persona in a baggy blue suit and freakishly long red tie to complement his red baseball cap in stark contrast to his blazing white-collar shirt. He thinks he’s a funny guy. He likes to hug and kiss the flag. His sense of humor is lacking, along with any common sense.
He believes he has a huge brain and a genius intellect. It’s laughable to think he could possibly care about anybody but himself. This is a running sick joke that was never meant to be funny. In God, we trust. Everybody else pays through the nose. The hypocrisy of a serial liar. The cheesy gold sneakers, the gold toilets, the phony gold coins made of plastic. The Trump edition of the Bible is made in China.
The 78-year-old crybaby, throwing temper tantrums and ketchup bottles when he doesn’t get his way. Spends his entire life trying to push people around. Yet somehow he has millions of devoted fans. Figure that one out. It’s a self-love fest. Right up there with Jim Jones. His sheep-like loyal cult are his only diehard fans at the comedy club open mic. He was made for TV. There’s no shortage of supporters who’d take a bullet for this mock Messiah. Unloved by his spiteful, greedy parents. A spoiled, rotten man child with a persecution complex. He should be hanging from a cross.
They’re gladly kissing his ass. Too naïve to see who he is. Gladly throwing away their personal freedoms for a grifter career criminal who’ll happily turn on you in a skinny second if it benefits him and his cronies. The idle rich were busy stealing your money with the false promise of a bigger, better country. He’ll do his happy dance. The one that looks like he's jerking two guys off while the Village People sing “YMCA.”
The secret to defeating him and his lackey thugs is to laugh at him. Laugh at them all. Point in his general direction and laugh until you cry. Every time he opens his blabber mouth, just laugh long and hard and point at him. He’ll melt. Keep on laughing at him every chance you get. Then, laugh some more.