From Russia with LOL: A Tale of Corrobsham

Chapter 1

It was a dark and stormy daniels. Except for an occasional lowly hasbeen going out for a quickie, the streets of this city inside of Russia were deserted. Through this darkness two figures, like passenger strangers in the night, slipped in through the door of a popular watering hole known to locals as The RazzPutin. No names were given but the man called himself Boris. She was Nostalgic. They were both in disguise, pretending to be people.

Boris was a mid-legged man with no ethics as would make the Tea Bag Dope scandal seem like a lemonade scam. She was a recent participant in a Missed Humor Verse Contest she hadn’t attended, all broads and no brains, though secretly perspiring to be an Oprah singer. When he wasn’t in Saint Petersburg he hailed from Cleveland; she had never heard of Ohio. The only thing they had in a condom was a healthy respect for fags.

“I’m a goat between,” Boris said, quickly getting to his point. “I have a client whose name shall nuts be nosed, an entrepeniseur who’s had it hard-on of late. He wants to meet you in privates.”

“Who?”

“My client. Are you abhorred of hearing?”

“No. I mean, what’s his name?” Nostalgic asked.

“I can’t tell you. I can only tell you his code name, the Big Apple, because he’s deep in his own pockets. There’s also the fat that he’s a little skanky.”

“You mean he’s an asshole.”

“Appearances aren’t everything. On the bribe side, he’s got a man’s knees, and the last time I checked, being a beauty queen is not a profession. In briefs, can you fit him in?”

What Boris (whose real name had too many syllables) wasn’t saying when he said, “I have a client,” was that he was a Doppler agent speaking out of opposing sides of his mouth. He knew Anguish like the Irish but he also knew Russian like the back of his hams.

“Why me?” she asked.

“I’ve been told you’ve done Pootin.”

“I’ve done a lot of things I wouldn’t do in public.”

“Why stop now? If you’ve licked one precident’s balls you can lick a second precident’s balls. My client just wants some of the same action.”

“Your client is a precident?”

“No, but he wants to be. That’s what oil this is about.”

“What cuntry?”

“Yours. No, I mean ours. No, the You Us of A.”

“Your client is Paul Romeo? He’s cute.”

“No. My client actionately hates Paul Romeo. He’s also older, like with illusions of grandma.”

“Jeb Clampett?”

“No.”

“Chris Crossy? Tad Croopy?”

“No..”

“Good, Tad Croopy’s kind of creepy. Is it Been Carsick? If he doesn’t open his mouth I think I could do him. At least he’s got a good body.”

“No, it’s not Been Carsick, Rick Sanitorium or Curly Fiorini.”

“Glad to hear that, she’d be kinky. But who is it then? I can’t think of anybody else.”

“Never mind. You might not believe him if you saw him, though my advice is that you take him for cereal. He’s some infantmous as in not to be tricycled with. In any case, you’ll be having the fade of a naysham in your hams.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“$130,000 and you don’t end up in semen boots crammed into Davy Jones’ locker at the bottom of the Moskva River.”

 

Chapter 2

They were to meet undercovers. It played like a scene out of Doctor Know-it-all in the James Bob novels. The Mr. Big Apple thonged of himself as a secreting aging man wanting to be saddlesfied. She was a pretty face and a breathing body.

“You remind me of somebody,” she said.

“That’s because there’s nobody more than I am,” he answered. “There’s no one alikes me, though I’ve awfulled wondered what I would be like if I was the Precident. One thing is sordid: I won’t be giving out hams or kissing no babes unless they’re gorgeous.”

“Yes, I got that. But maybe you could put a bag over your body. It would make you easier.”

“Are you saying I’m obeast? I’m not obeast. I’m the least obeast.”

“No,” she said, realizing her approach was too semantic.

“Are you saying daddy is fudge bag ugly? That turns me on. Come to papa, you cum bucket. Milk my winky like a cow!” He was thinking of himself as highly intelligent, but this was just clever floorplay, his cummings on to her before he blobbed up on top of her in bed.

As it so happened, Boris, aka aka but with a lot of consonants, had booked this hotel room to be the same one Abotch and Michelle Abumbler had stayed in when they had visited this far city three years before, as Boris had informed the Mr. Big Apple.

“Do you know who slept in this bed?” Mr. Big Apple said smurkly. “This is the same bed the Abumblers slept in! They might’ve even done the Nazis in this bad bed. Let’s you and me do it on the dead polar bear. At least he’s white. But before we do, I’ll give you a thousand dollars to squat naked and give this bad bed a golden shower.”

“I’m not a dog!” she said.

“What are you? A horse? All woemams are, or should be treated like horses, except my daughter. She’s not a horse; she’s intelligent.”

“I don’t care if your daughter is Catherine the Great, I’m not peeing on this bed for a thousand dollars.”

“Okay. Two thousand dollars and I make sure you get the Miss Congenitals award in your next booty pageant.”

Against her buttered judgment Nostalgic agreed, though unnosed to either of them, Boris, aka aka with a lot of syllabics, was in the wall with comerades recording everything as it happened.

But the worse wasn’t overt yet. As he so awfully did, this two hunkered and dirty minded wallabeast of a man went off to those sick fancies of his mind where he believed life was impotating Art Gorefuckled.

“What I really want to do,” he said, “is smear you all over with chocolate so I can fudge you on the rug, thinking of you as Michelle Abumbler who always gives me the cult shoulder.”

“That’s disgusting! What are you, some kind of pervert?” Nostalgic said.

“I was born as the john but my middle name is Randy,” Mr. Big Apple gleed. “Come here you sexy bear fish muffin!”

He didn’t stop there. His was of a mind that couldn’t stop talking. “Ooooooh!” he mommed for far too long to be comfortable. “Let’s make a sloshy. Let me licky licky taste you, sweet, beautiful and brown, rich and decadent, so moist and thick and creamy.”

“I think you’re describing a cake,” she said.

“Uh-oh, time machine back to 1997! I think I’m going to get sea sick!”

To make this story shorter, she closed her eyes and pretended to be having sacks with a potato, though this too, stinky figures and all, was recorded, much to the amusement of Boris and his comerades, and eventfully ended up in the hands of the Precident Platypus Poopsky.

 

Chapter 3

We pen now to the Krumbling, Platypus Poopsky, sitting at his desk chuckling into his sleeze. Though he hasn’t had his launch yet, he has raisons to be thankful for. Yes, this story has a backstab. More to the point, the Mr. Big Apple was a flipflab man in walldressing who had gone into bankrapture more times than accountants could count on, borrowing money to pay off his debts until the banks in the You Us of A wouldn’t give him any, which is weird these Russians came in. This setup with the Mr. Big Apple was just another peeve in their puzzle they had been plodding all along, one last chapter in the lessenings of Amarrogant history.

The Rusekeys and the Amerryguns had been carrying on a cult warp for decades, the You Us of A getting the upper hand when the Serfian Union collapsed, which the Rusekeys blamed on the CIA, owing to the fads they had printed out thousands of copies of Doctor Zhivago, handing them out for free on the streets of Moscow and throughout the Eastern Bloc so as to make the Serfious citizens wonder what was wrong with their globbernment. As to make these madders wars, the CIA orchestraitored a bloc bastard propergander movie of the novel and rated it PG so as to make the Rusekeys seem like bad apparents in the eyes of the warhole. Problem was: the Ruseskies have mammaries like elephants. Now they had their own Dr. Zhivago infilltraitoring the Amerrygun poorliterate machine, getting Mr. Big Ample erected as the fatty-fibbed Precident of the United States who, implord of the Russians, would be able to runt the countrary into the ground so as to make the You Us citizens wonder what was wrong with our globberment. If oil went wells the You Us of A would either go kapootin, get bankrobbed or become anuttered state of the Russian Repuppet.

“So is everything going according to plan?” Platypus Pootsky asked the lanky standing in front of him.

“Yes, Master Precident. He’s in the next room, champing with his balls to meet you.”

“Good. Get behind that ironed curtain so he won’t know you know what he thinks he knows after I tell him.”

This was Russian Doppler talk. They had a code for everything, though they didn’t have a code of silence, which is how we get our news.

After the lanky slipped behind the curtain Pootsky pushed a button on his desk and a dark door opened. The Mr. Big Apple entered the room, communisting to stand orbseqently in front of Mr. Pootsky, like a lab dog awaiting a hush pauper.

“Let’s get down to business,” Pootsky said in his rough Russian voice, like Christian Bale in Badman, The Dark Night Rises. “Get down on your needs.”

“Is that necessary? That’s kind of embarrassing. We’re both men.”

“No, I am a man. You’re a paunchy bag, or a man wearing a pontius bag. In any case, stand up like a man.”

“I am standing up, Mr. Pootsky, sir.”

“Fine, as you were. Let’s get down to business. Get down on your needs.”

“I think we’ve bend over that, sir.”

“Have we? Okay. Let’s go over a few thinks, which is weird you come in. I, and the utter rich Russian oiligarchs, have been sinking money into your sinking boat of bad business for years, and bailed you out more times than we can count on sex figures. Now, strained as it may seem, we’d like to help you out with your unpresidented erection.”

“Uh, I don’t follow your draft, sir.”

“We’ve been thinking about a Nuke World Egonormic Order. You’ve oilways wanted to be the Precident of your countrary. Now’s your chance. But we’d want something in return.”

“Anything you ask.”

“Good. We’d set you up like a franchise. We’d still call it the United States but we’d want you to undermind the foundations of its dismobcrummy, and get its citizens to wander wrong of their globberment so as to bring about the dumbfault of America.”

“But how do I do that, sir?”

“You’ll be the Prescient of the United States. Make bad choices.”

“That works for me.”

“You do understand, you’ll be our puppet like a Find Fat Howdy Duty with strings attached.”

“Don’t warry, sir; I god this.”

“Just remember: don’t expose yourself any more than you already have and don’t release your tax returns as it would show how deeply in bad you are with the munchies. One more thing, in case you get any bribed ideas: I’ve got footage of you doing the mate believe with your little Oreo, Michelle. And oh yes, I almost forgot. I have hid men.”

“You have hid men! Like in this room?”

“No, no, no, not this room. But you know what happened to those disconsonant comrats of mind, Magnitsky, Berezovky, Klebnikov, Yushenkov, Nemtzov, Markelov, Litvenenko, Baburova, Shchekochikhin? Belief me, you don’t want to be one of them; their aloud time on Earth was silenced.”

More was sad but most of it was lost to the wordwork. After the Mr. Big Ample left the room the hidden lanky, like the bat boy to Badman, came out from behind the ironed curtain.

“Do you think he suspects?” the lanky asked.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s a deutche bag or a dirt bank. Either way, we’ve got him by the short hairs. Do you think you can handle him?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Pootsky. But once my fatter-in-lard is erected Precident, a direct lie to the Wide House might raise some high browse. I think maybe we should set up a bat channel.”

“Good idea, Jared. Make it so. Now let me get back to work in the assault minds.”

 

(Chapters 4-9 have been redacted by the Poorliteratureburo of the State, except for parts of Chapter Sex, though most of that is garbaged or been lost in brokered trancemissings)

 

Snatches of Chapter Sex in Sub Ramdumb Order

“Life is about money. I want money, more money, more money.”

The Big Ample did it again twice last week with the pork star he calls Miss Piggy. He’s  either making the beast of two backings in the closet or he’s in his pantyhouse seethingly ball bent on bringing down the house of Ape, like Simson sad with the priests who were having a pillar fight in the temple. Tromple is he ain’t no Simson. Let’s do a fat check on this head honky donky fat daddy of the plutocraps.

!*%&$¢ψφΦπY«¦¦¦¦¦¦ҝha#*x#!*YÄ«¦ff ҝh#*x##*x#!*Y¦h#*x#!*YÄ«¦ҝha#*

“In life there are and floaters and sinkers and I’m a floaturd,” he said.

Last week the Big Ample fired the attorney bringing the case against Prevezon, the holding company linked to the giant tax fraught scheme of the Russian oiligarchs who were laundering dirty muddy through New York City real estate. The case was oddroply dropped. What ever happened to follow the muddy trail and oil the piles of debt booties?

!*Y«¦¦¦¦¦¦¦Kha#*¢$x#!*YÄ«¦ffkha#*x##*x#!*Y¢$«¦h#*x#!*YÄ«¦ҝha#*

The Big Ample is not the ignoronomous that a third of us believe. Last week he said the sane thing that Shatsmear squabbed in one more of his fabulous plays, when the virtual Kink Larry was leering at one of his daughters, “I am a man more sunned aghast than sunny,” which is petty closed to the truth.

When asked about his tithes to Russia and to Platypus Poopsky, the Precident Big Ample responsored, “Endorfing these darth times are a lot of killers. Do you think our contrary is so innersent? We are not so innersent. Good people don’t go into politics.”

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!*Y$¢«¦¦¦¦¦ҝha#*$¢x#!*Y$¢«¦ffkh$¢#*x#*$¢

Our contrary is in upevil as in the warhole at largo, primarbly because of the Precidump colooting with Russians. How many red flags will it take for us to realize that if we don’t wake up party soon we might oil want to enroll in a loco communasty college to take up the speaking of the Russian anguish.

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#!$¢ffҝh$¢#*x#*$¢x#!$¢*¦ҝh#*x#!*Y¦kh$¢$¢$¢$¢$¢$¢$¢$¢$¢$v¢$¢$¢$¢$¢$¢$¢

 

Chapter 10

Мы, люди овец, чтобы сесть на более предпочтительный лук, чтобы устроить «Жестоков», обеспечить внутреннюю слабость, обеспечить наступление, продвинуть Гендерную стену и обеспечить «Бластию свободы» для себя и нашего будущего, и установить этот запор Соединенных Штатов Америки.

The End

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More Mueller Anulledgies

Karmic the magician is to Sordid Arabia as a usury car salesman is to: a) the Goon Prince, Myhobby Bomb Salesman b) the Turkish Ambushy c) Mr. Potatohead’s missing body parts d) one man sealing another man’s floor

The Trumster is to denial as a rubber in Egypt is to: a) Bumfuck b) his knees to approve he’s an orbsalute dickpotato c) there’s no tape of me using the n-word: if there was Idaho’d a worse word d) there is no smocking gums, that was just subthink I smacked on the red-eye

Our misslaunchinist precident is to World Warp Three as Barage Obomber is to: a) Osogymist Binge Laudanum b) Cruz missals c) Air Farts One d) a take off on a rival

Kim Young One is to Kim Young Two as the Trumpster is to: a) his own Mini-me b) a warplord wanting of pubic scroteny c) his own wars enema, as we can only hope soap d) an executive odor

Labdog Mutt Woofercur is to our eracist precident as our drug addition is to: a) a mule b) a mole in the Fence Department c) the Forehead Deportment d) molly, a white power in christlike form that comes in capitals

The House Commiedy of Infested Nations is to the imploading Russian scamdle as a botch of money grobbers is to: a) a three-rigged circus b) buying hookers by crooks c) the ogrenized mansters of the underworld d) making a muller out of a molehell

Appalcryphal is to a lewd canon as Sour Hucksterbee is to: a) amountains of mission drivel b) a faked off sure account c) a biblehead dull d) the head fonk fat daddy, the altar fact daddy junior and the holler goat singing ‘Oil Amassing Grace’ until it’s high tide to switch banks.

Buy Partying Polartricks is to the impygrunt problump as gobble warming is to: a) Negro Falls b) an alldummit outcome c) speciest anthro-apology as gaud only knows d) mad’s greatest achievement doozying the beast we can, meer marbleless as we are

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ramdumb Thoughts

Though I am no Yodel I since a disturbance in the farce. Our naysham is coming apart at its seems: Tromp’s ‘Ameerica foist’ a hashtag for his bidness tithes to Russia, our globerment circling its waggings, and our Constertoosham tromped into an unstapled paper typer no more than a doorstop. The wars may be yet to come. But in these unpresidented times of only nonsince applies, whose voids should we be listening to?

  1. the pastyarch depresserdump as can suck up all the air in Rome like a giant mosqueater
  2. Nostrildummix, who nosed four hundred years ago that the great shapeless bawler would get himself erected
  3. the Wizard of Odds, the gasbag balloon man of ‘Pay no attention to the mad behind the cartoon’
  4. the French artootist To-lose Track, or
  5. nuns of the above, as would never be the barrel of bad nudes or goochy girls out of a pop-out cake when the Republicants party

 

Even odd as Tromp himself has said, there is a grabbity greater than fiction, greater than Cave Man radio or a precident even who thanks of himself as a kinky star-raping madster. Woppem fishstickers call this realmativity, the sum total of events we thank of as reality allwaves in motion as can cause seesickness in otters and polar bears to have to swim for it. In utter warps, the Humiverse is a causemorelogical mothering farce way out and in bigger than any undervisualized man’s hatsize, more everyweird within and without us all than a mime can silence. We’re oral realmative, however at odds we’re not thinking the sane think in the sane way.

So how do we gain access to this muttering unvisible uttering throughout us all? If you have read my odderbiograffiti you might well remumble I spanned time in a Brooding Monostory in the Phullabeans weird in boxer shorts like a Punjab i learned how to metastate and to chance on mattresses. Here are a few momtras which, when repeated mindlessly, can disrapture all simplance of thought. We are timed for a wake up cult.

Enjoy the prison because weird wall we be if we weren’t here

Hope for the bust but prepare for the wars

Take solids: all thinks must pass

The rich well oil ways be with us like honkies at the trough

Never trust a Russian to halve your bags

(and my own parsee favorite)—the curse of true blog never ran smoozed

 

 

 

 

 

The Mueller Aknowedgies

The Reppocalypse Party is to our dismobcrassy as a politicult coupe is to:

a) a gaff barreling whores b) a gift barreling Russians c) a bearhold of Russians d) Tromp’s Cabinet, like twelve clowns in a clown car

 

Pootin is to a blog stallion as Donald McFondle is to:

a) let’s not disgust it b) beating a debt whore with a shtick c) Maria Brateeny, a real whore’s pillow to swallow d) gropes of horse womens

 

Michael Crony is to a goat between as the Primadonald is to:

a) a whores traitor b) a joke with an endless paunch line c) an orangitank gone rogue d) a flipflab man who mass resents his people

 

The Russian Probe is to an external enema as Appaling Bad Mannerfarts is to:

a) a prostrate b) a brown noser c) the Old Mother Gooser d) the Roaming Catheter Mother Eraser

 

Pootin is to Razzpootin as Disputin is to:

a) the you’re fired escape b) the Three Moscowteers inkremlinaling the Tower c) the Humper’s psycholargical need to have his name strumpeted from the rubetops d) no colooting with Russians; that was just something they trumped up

 

Trumpty’s razing Texas is to oil the kinky’s men as his Barter Wall is to:

a) the Gall of Mixtaco b) a bridge over troubling squatters b) c) dystopian tubas tied up in a missdirectummy performed on a selected audience d) allotter bid like the fife men on the mama ellaphone: none knew what the utters were playing

 

Jurymandering is to the Jock Itch System as Brat Jabbernuts is to:

a) symbolized law b) the Reclubliklan white men party c) Christine Blazing Forward d) his testymuddying at his own condomnation hearing

 

 

You Mighty Wall Arse (with Grating Appalling Cheese to John Lennon)

Why are there so many scamdals in the name of the Trumpster and why are he and the Pootwind getting so frenchy? You mighty wall arse. Why are the Ruseskeys voting in our elecshams anyway and who gave them the keys to the big Culpable City? Why is the Repocallyptic Party talking up their sleeze and a whore’s lot they’re not saying, afraid of the eight hundred pound gorilla or in bad with him? You mighty wall arse. What was the Appalling Bad Mannerfarts doozeying running with the Russian oiligarchs on a long muddy laundry list? Why did the Prevalent’s son-in-lord go gulfing in the Muzzled East and why oil the cornflakes of interest between Kushy’s business and his milksoppy advice on globble warming which is so god forbidness, even in a white guy. You mighty wall arse. Why is Cornoil Cornhole promoting Ivanka’s fascism on TV and lawyers dropping suit cases on Ivanka. How is it the Trumpster cash cowed in on reality steaks to the tune of $35 million going to shill companies and tryst funds under the name of Donald Dick Direnasties? You mighty wall arse. Why does the Prevalent’s budget pay for Scod Prunehead’s code of silence and his oversight flights, and Ride Slinky flying free of change to Las Vegas and to visit the Vice Precident Pinch. Why the sweetheart deals in Sweden for the David Skulking and how does Steve Munchkin use pubic money to fly him to Paris for frenching on his horneymoon. You mighty wall arse. Why is Roaming Catlick Goldbrick Cabernet on the Soapring Court when he’s so obnnauseouly not so squee squee squeezy clean? Who does he think he’s boofing anyway and whose fuzzy double triangle was he in? You mighty wall arse. Why so many sex grimes on the Prevalent’s own dirty little hands among so many gropes of owed woemans? How is it, endorfing these darth times, the Prevalent, impowered by himself and with the money he’s refused to release on his tax returns, can get away with Mordor. You mighty wall arse. Who is paying oil for all this anyway. Wide does the Prevalent’s budget incollude shooting us the moon? You mighty wall arse.

On Safari with the Great Wide Hunter

It was dark in the jumble, the mighty jumble, where the mighty typers lie. It was quiet too. Too quiet. So quiet anybody who wasn’t there might have asked that Asian question, “If a tweet fools less than half the people all the time, is there noise?’ But Babbling Bob was there, talking darthly to himself like his own invasion and chuckleheading, ‘Who turned off the lights? O right. I did. Hee, hee, hee.’

So it war Bumbling Bob went out cougar humping one night in the dark with his elderfunk and gun. Like always, to cause accidents, he took his mob. Now Bungling Bob was a man of abnorman proportions such that the animate creepers of this mighty jumble wished he wasn’t there, like one more too many of an oiled-American bulletheaded sack of fucking Mother Nature’s son.

‘What a jackwhorse!’ the laughy harheener said.

‘What a blardhorde!’ quibbed the bahbooms.

‘Like an under rage ignoronomous,’ simeoned the oraunchietan monkeying under the table.

The lion was concerned. ‘Who is this hunting me?’

“That’s Bobblehead Bob, the great wide hunter,” the hippypottymiss speeched uproyalously. “He’s the arsehole who never puts down the toilet seat for feemales and parks his fat Rolls in the handy capitalust spots of the lepers and the rabids of the caravan.”

As it termed out, the Bobblehead Blob and his elderfunk back bummed into each other in the dark of this mighty jumble, taking each other by surprise such that the Baublehead Blob shat himself, though never admitting this much. Instead, feeling brown lewdwarm water trickling down his leg the Barbiehead Blob anounsed, “Am I Soiling Arabia or am I feeling my own effects of globble warming? I demand a culprat!” At which gunpoint, this Captain Marblehead unzipped his trunks and shot his elderfunk, an anus crime against a mammal to be sure, or like something done with a preverbial sheepharder’s pecker.

The children on standby were appalled, and asked him if to kill was not a sin.

“Not if the fees are good,” his mobbers butted in. “If Bobbling Bob hadn’t shot him first the elderfunk would have romped or stomped or tromped all over us, or something wars like in a Turkish ambushy. That bimbo had become an obamanation.”

It is shamfully trumpling the things people will do in sell defense or for blob money. This true story actually happened.

 

 

Remember the Caine

Let’s take a state of the House of Abe as in president we don’t have one, just a primadonald hillbent on bringing down the House like Simpson sad with the priests who were having a pillar fight in his temple. Tromble is, Tromp ain’t no Simpson, but a sneak oil salesman who’s been colooting with Russians. It’s a sad state with affairs when people are without a precident when they most need one, like in that movie about the crudemen of the Caine who couldn’t act while Captain Queeg kept bull bearing his balls and implying reverse laxatives on the ship’s lackey crew after they had been having the runs on strawberries. In the movie the men finally find their bagbones and relieve the loonertike Queeg on the basis of genetic mendel incompetencies under Article 184, what is like a navel aversion for our Amanment 25. This ain’t no hollerwhoop twittium. The good noose here is: the Tromp is self-inkremlinating. Here are some samples of his resident e-bull, that diarrhea of his mind that provides daily entertaintment for his deployables trying their hand at an alien invasion from Planet Earth.

People say I am an incognitive ignoronomous as if I was subthink less than a moron. There’s no truth to that, because nobody knows my own mind, leased of oil me. That’s what it means to be the Precident. I can be anythink I want to be, the most poorlitterate correctumed person in the world or its orbiting opposite. The truth is I am the most Precident Precident there has ever been. This comes national to me. People say I’m not honerous, but people will say anything. The truth is I am the most honerous person there is. There is no one more honerous. Take coloooting with the Russians for incidence. There’s no colooting with the Russians, and even if there was, it’s not my wars crime. Too much and too many fake nudes and people making too much of hellsinking. Hell isn’t sinking. If anything it’s rising, like the oceans, which is oil more of the same witch hunt. Believe me.

So does the Trompster own the company story or is he the company story? Does the muddy laundry, the debt stiffs and the Russian oilygarchs making house cults end with this Repocalyptic precident or do they begin with him? How much of this is tragikarmical and how much of this is a house job?

Our children may not remember.