Things are not looking good for our Large Adult Son in Chief. Rarely have the thicc been so sic. A family friend who spent decades doing professional editing sees a pronounced stylistic change in Trump’s tweets since his admission to Walter Reed and is convinced that he’s no longer writing them. His last proof (sic) of life (sic) was a photo op in which he was shown signing his name in the middle of a blank sheet of paper with nothing else on the desk. A hospital-wide shelter-in-place order was texted to Walter Reed staff in the 21:00 hour Saturday night. It remained in place for over half an hour, without explanation. Observers believe it was for an emergency test, probaly a CT scan of his lungs.
Trump’s medical and political entourage, if I may repeat myself, are blowing sunshine up the national ass. Everything they announce about his medical condition is hours old and heavily sanitized. Information leaked on background within the same hour is consistently much more dire.
Gerontocracy is a whole-ass Mood.
Honestly, I’m not opposed to or in support of Trump’s death. To paraphrase His Thiccness himself, it will be what it will be. I’m entertained by the effusive schadenfreude, but I’m entertained from a distance.
It’s Greekly tragic that he may already have William Henry Harrisoned his fat white ass. Was I, Fat Cracka, in any position to save him from himself? Of course not. Am I so fat, slovenly, and chronically stuffed with McDonald’s? Nope. Fat Cracka gets fed better than that. I do yard and farm work. I’m able to negotiate stairs and ramps.
Even odds he leaves alive, and that’s to be generous. A city of over 200,000 departed surely has room for one comorbid more.