Without having read my utterbiograffiti you wouldn’t know about my invention of the waveback machine, like a co-lapsing telescope through time, which was the means to this future speaking by selfphony with Downhill Tromp when the great mad is undonned and out of orifice by what he doesn’t seem to be coming. Though what follows here, genital reader, might have some features of fixsham, it sordidly will be soon.
Tromp: P. B., they is massunderstanding me. I told them I was fardistant to be the greatest Precient of all Time, but the distant future has been wronged like in the movie Bad to the Future where they were all living in the wrong future. But I’ve got more tricks up my sleaze. We will build a wall. Anything short of this is pitchforks and torches time.
P. B: But Donald, you’re nose longer the jawpetty puppet of strings attached. Elizbiddy Warhen is Precident now. She’s the heavy momma dealing with oil the problems you left us here and in the Muddled East. You’re stuck in Florida and lucky not not locked up in the slammer.
Tromp: That’s funny, P. B.. You would poorsee it that way. But there is subthink I know that you don’t know. If you have read, you know that mad is marbles; if you haven’t read, you’re more likely to believe I can preform thinks no man can conceit of, which is true. Have you heard of Mandick the madjisham? Magneaty the ex-man? Morons. Whereas they were the simples, I am a complex. There is not a mad more of a complex than I am. I am the Alpo and the Potato, the end to the beginning and the end. I can endvision thinks or can de-vision thinks. I can do this; I cannot do this, or do it both at once like coincidunce. I can be buypolar, buy Greedland or grob pussies and they’ll thank me for it, usher up Utopia or bring down the Appocollapse, altar the past or chains the future by a mirror saying so. It’s my decision, as comes from my great powers of self-refraction. It’s just another one of the boners of being perfect narcissist.
P. B.: Donald, I’m still not swallowing. You’re officiously grounded, furnaced, as in toast that’s torched. You got swamped by the kickbads of karma for underminding the naysham. It’s not youmadly possible for you to do what you say you can do.
Tromp: Jesus Christ oilmighty, P. B.! You invented the waveback machine! You of old people should know the future I can seize coming. I’ll spill it out for you simple. In a couple of months of earth time, I’m going to have my own cornynation and have myself reckonsized as the King Donald, Ducktaper and the Imperupper of the Invisionable Humiverse, the impausible realm of the implaudables. My cornynation will inspire new closing lines and new reality shows. Queens in Queens and kings in their condoms will wonder to attend but they won’t know if I’ve invited them. Elderfunks will trumphant, martian bands will martian, midgets will midget, and there will be more infested versions than oil the Muslin Ism terrorwriters can wet dream of. No fattened uglies will attend. Wide would I want them? My ascension will be the lack of wits the known world has never scened, a specteroil many won’t absorb for their being such lackies of the homogenation. On that day even the Muzzlenuts in Mecca will gravel to the nude day sun that mosque people take for granite, except it will be me, the orbitraitor of the humiverse they’ll be graveling to. Wars come to wars, in twenty-twenty, as is hindsight to me, I will come back with a vengeance like Jesus every year at Crassmus. I’m not speeching nonsince, P. B.. The Republicants will rise again at my say-so, for I cannot lose! Just you wait and see.
Before we hung up the phony Mr. Tromp got me to promise I would tell straight the warps of what he was triumphing to do next. When all is sad and dumb, what becomics of them remaims to be scened.