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It's early Christmas morning. Three, maybe three-thirty in the morning. It's raining, not snowing. A cold, soaking, constant, ugly penetrating rain.
Dear Leader is sitting by himself, slouched at the kitchen table at Camp You-Know-What.
He has:
A 1/2 pack of Marlboro's Three quarters of a bottle of Jim Beam Maybe a few lines A loaded .38 A recent sampling of the polls A list of his crimes
He's crying. His body wracked with deep, uncontrollable, sobbing.
Will he do it? Will he be man enough to spare us, and the world, another three years of pain, suffering and humiliation? Will he save the lives of thousands of innocents in Iran, and Syria, and other places he wants to bomb and destroy? Does he have deep in his heart, a last shred of decency? Will he end it all, and will he let us move on to once again become the great country we were just a few short years ago?
FUCK NO. He's crying because he can't find a lighter to have a smoke. While he was prying open the bottle of Bourbon, he knocked the lines off the table to the floor. The dogs promptly licked it up and ran away. He's too stupid to read the list of his crimes, and he could give a flying shit about what the American people think. And he's too much of a coward to pick up the .38
There's no way he would be man enough to do it.
Because he may be a white bread, rich, uncaring, secretive, sadistic, racist, lying, thieving, paranoid, murdering, cheating, AWOL, alcoholic, drug ingesting, psychotically twisted asshole...
But, he is definitely NOT a man.
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