Sometimes, when they’re so dishonest and so very stupid, satire is the only way. From the Substack:
Dearest Ophelia, I write to you from the gangrenous environs of “war-ravaged” Portland. I thought I had seen it all during my early days of service—Bosnia, Rwanda, Eric Trump’s gum line. But this, my dear, is truly odious.
Yes, this may be no Bowling Green Massacre. Or an escalator that has ceased ferrying one’s margarine exterior up 18 whole steps. But, I am a trifle discomfited by the many challenges we face on this Wednesday, 29th of September, anno Domini nosti Jesus Christi, 2025.
—–
Sure, some call our President a prize hog at the country fair, one who rolls around in the very primordial ooze from which he hast been made. An irascible, implacable, mushroom-d*k-impotent, invasive airborne virus only good at attracting horse flies and untethered syphilis. But, have faith, my dear. I don’t believe any of this, of course.
