All’s Fair

With the (p)-resident’s ratings
hovering near the red zone, the
sycophants must be feeling a

bit sick knowing the ratings are
not quite low enough for mutiny.
They cower, they grovel, they

stick ever so close, crawling
near the throne of the Abuser-
in-Chief hoping to kiss a royal

foot before running to the near-
est toilet to vomit. They seek
not service to the country;

really they don’t even seek
service to the (p)-resident
of the casa negra ahora; they

seek only service to the donor
class and re-election with all
the perks so they hope that

the ratings will make it into
their end zone at which time
they will take the head of the

(p)-resident (now severed from
his fast-food filled body) hold-
ing it by the ever coiffed straw

and spiking it like an NFL foot-
ball following the playing of
the national anthem during

which knees thunderously hit
the turf and neo-Nazi, white
supremacists take to the

streets while “Sloppy Steve”
slips onto the throne asking
where is the big, red button,

and they all gather around
the (p)-resident and
cannibalize his remains.

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