Who the Hell’s running America?



I wonder if it’s getting to him? The latest edicts emanating from the festering sump of iniquity on Pennsylvania Avenue bear all the hallmarks of a man trying to overcompensate. Are the media abuzz with rumours of your phobia of stairs and gentle slopes?


Don’t cry…just ban Muslims! Only not the ones from countries you do business with, obviously. That’ll show ’em! Yeah! That’ll stop people like me calling you a wimp and a mama’s boy and sending you pictures of Benito Mussolini’s corpse on Twitter! That’ll show them you can stand up to these Bad Dudes! Yeah !

‘Bad Dudes’? Who the fuck do you think you are mate, Dragon Ninja?


‘Bad dudes.’ How humiliating to be the citizen of a polity whose Maximum Leader apparently has the vocabulary of a twelve-year old from the nineties. How the Hell does this manchild write his executive orders?

Well that’s the thing, isn’t it. Because he doesn’t, does he? This guy does:


Steve Bannon, almost remembering what an erection feels like as he visualises children being sodomised with knives

Ah yes, Steve Bannon. Yet another of the Frogfuckers in the Wimp-in-Chief’s entourage. And increasingly, it seems clear, the greasy eminence behind most of Trump’s policy decisions. The dimestore Richelieu who penned that godawful inauguration speech, and who is clearly drafting most if not all of the stream-of-consciousness pronouncements issuing from the mama’s boy’s desk. And drafting them badlyone might add. It turns out that editing a shitty online rageporn mag for failed Pick-Up Artists and the Fedora Wearers’ Guild does not make great preparation for taking up the offices of state.

But why does Trump defer to Bannon so often? Is it because he and Bannon speak the same language? Are they soulmates? Do they stay up late into the night, talking with each other about ponies on the White House phone? Or is it because he’s scared of the cunt?


Not exactly Kissinger and fucking Nixon, are they?

I think it’s the latter. Cast your mind back, if you will, to the tale of the White House Whistleblower. And, in particular, their revelation that Trump, the Penchman, and Republican Party Chairman and weird-name-haver Reince Preibus all wanted to find some way of ‘repealing Obamacare’ without gutting the Affordable Care Act – but Bannon wanted it gutted, and Trump deferred to Bannon because he’s frightened he might break his tiny hands.

Of course, the trouble with giving into bullies is that once you’ve done it the first time, they start demanding more and more. And so it seems with Trump and Bannon. Not satisfied with being allowed to ghost-write the Wimp-in-Chief’s speeches, now not even satisfied with Trump’s deference in mere policy, Bannon has thrown yet another hissy fit and bullied Mary McLeod Trump’s Special Little Man into giving him the power to have people killed. 

Imagine being that much of a coward. Imagine being so terrified of a guy who permanently looks as if he’s sleeping in his car that you make him more powerful than your Generals. It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for the mama’s boy. Imagine it: while you and I get to sleep soundly (or as soundly as one can during the ongoing downfall of Western ‘civilisation’), Trump skulks around the White House in the middle of the night, terrified that around any corner Big Bully Bannon might be waiting to shake him down for something else. All that power, all that money – nineteen percent of Rosneft, just like Daddy Vladdy promised – and for all of that, the poor bastard is trapped in an abusive relationship with an evil old white man who looks like ambulatory dandruff.

And then I think, well, fuck it – good. At least now he knows how Melania feels.



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