This
is a distinctly un-Christian thought, but every morning I wake-up
hoping our president has been found dead on the floor of a White
House bathroom, a half-finished tweet sitting forlornly on his
phone.
He is a repugnant man, the product of unending privilege and good fortune. He is the nation's very own Little Lord Fauntleroy, the unhappy and bored scion of wealth who desperately seeks happiness in ever-increasing amounts of that which no longer satisfies him: money, status and power.
Failing that, he has turned to torturing ants on the sidewalk with a magnifying glass.
As a member of the ninety-nine percent, it is desperately hard not to feel like a Jew watching the Nazis come to power.
Fuck you Donald Trump.
May you rot in the worst hell of your imagination.
He is a repugnant man, the product of unending privilege and good fortune. He is the nation's very own Little Lord Fauntleroy, the unhappy and bored scion of wealth who desperately seeks happiness in ever-increasing amounts of that which no longer satisfies him: money, status and power.
Failing that, he has turned to torturing ants on the sidewalk with a magnifying glass.
As a member of the ninety-nine percent, it is desperately hard not to feel like a Jew watching the Nazis come to power.
Fuck you Donald Trump.
May you rot in the worst hell of your imagination.
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