THE BOOK OF UNCLEAN THINGS

So it turns out one of the foul creatures in the backroom wants to see the cage brawl on the South Lawn Sunday Evening. We have some sick bastards back there. Naturally I shall not be staying, as I have better things to do. The only way I would watch is if they dropped the orange pus-bag himself into the ring.

That's something his own people won't do, of course, because if he's beaten to death they would loose their free lunch and ride to the prom. His demise, however it happens, will eventually send all of them to jail.


Barring soccer matches, which I traditionally never watch because sports bores the crap out of me, what I can approve of them viewing would be Hello Kitty In The Ball Park. a good wholesome spectacle with thousands of giddy fans of all genders, races, and ages.

But we're going to have the presidential white trash show.
With 'Uncle Rotten Pumpkin' squealing.


The culmination of two and half centuries of U.S. civilization.

There are unclean horned bugs in the undergrowth there, slimy things that come from Texas and the Midwest. They sting, they wriggle, they deposit their eggs in your flesh, to hatch and burrow through the soft tissues, feeding while they grow. When they reach maturity they erupt forth, scaring your kin and scarring you, leaving oozing craters in your dermis.


I've heard that there are arm-wrestling matches in basement conference rooms underneath the building. Winner gets to change the diaper, a signal honour! Losers have to squire the blonde widow to Christian revival meetings and unload Maga merchandise.

Eventually interns wake up shaking violently and scromiting.
There is no cure, and no amount of valium helps.
Mar-A-lago faces haunt their dreams.
Corpses sunk in silicone.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================