“The Very Stable Genius.”
Once upon a time, in a gold-plated tower built on bankruptcy
filings and borrowed money, lived a man who believed he was a king. Not just
any king, but the strongest, smartest, most beloved ruler in all the land, just ask him. He’d tell you himself, over and
over, and then again in all caps on social media, until his fingers got tired
(which didn’t take long, because his hands were... modest).
This was no ordinary man. No, this was Donald the Deluded,
Lord of Lies, Duke of Diet Coke, Keeper of KFC, and Baron of Bad Hair. His
royal crest bore a cheeseburger, a golf club, and a spray-tan bottle, all
crossed beneath a giant red cap that read “MAKE ME FEEL BIG AGAIN.”
His hair, spun from golden hay and industrial adhesives,
perched precariously atop his head like a frightened muskrat trying to escape.
His face, forever set to "angry creamsicle," was a miracle of modern
tanning technology, the only man whose natural skin tone could glow under
moonlight.
Now Donald believed himself to be a genius, “very stable,”
he insisted, though he'd never read a book without pictures and once tried to
spell “IQ” with a “K.” When handed a briefing, he used it as a coaster for his
McNuggets. Maps confused him unless they were colored in crayons. And despite
having access to the nation’s top scientists, he believed windmills cause
cancer, bleach kills viruses, and exercise is a conspiracy invented by liberals
to weaken the strong.
As for strength, well, he claimed to be the strongest man
ever to walk the earth. “I could’ve been a general!” he’d shout, waddling
toward a golf cart. And yet, a gentle incline left him winded, stairs defeated
him regularly, and umbrellas were his sworn enemies. His battle with a gust of
wind exposed more than his scalp; it revealed the fragile ego beneath.
He fancied himself a ladies’ man, the Casanova of corruption, despite moving on
women “like a [bleeped]” and being built like a half-melted candle. If
testosterone were measured by bluster alone, he’d be the father of the nation.
Alas, his libido, like his policies, was mostly fantasy and projection.
Morality? Never heard of her.
This was a man who could cheat at golf and democracy
without blushing. He praised dictators, mocked the disabled, slandered war
heroes, and once stared at a solar eclipse without glasses, and then told
others it was safe. If ethics were oxygen, Donald would’ve suffocated years
ago.
But perhaps his greatest strength was cowardice, a
trait he masked with a comical strut and hands that tried to form fists but
mostly resembled puffy shrimp. Here was a man so insecure that he needed
military parades to feel tall, gold toilets to feel rich, and a TV tuned to Fox
News to feel loved. He declared himself a victim at every turn of witch hunts,
wind turbines, and women with opinions.
And then came his dream: to be a dictator. “Only for a day!”
he said with a wink that lasted four years. Like a Cheeto-dusted Mussolini, he
surrounded himself with toadies and crooks, dismantled democracy one Big Mac at
a time, and built a fan club of the proudly misinformed.
He called the press “the enemy of the people,” but his real
enemy was the dictionary. He feared facts more than stairs, and his deepest
terror was that someone, somewhere, might not be talking about him.
But in the end, spoiler alert, all the fake Time Magazine
covers in the world couldn’t save him from the truth. He wasn’t a king, a
genius, or strong.
He was a scared little man, spray-painted orange, yelling
into a mirror, trying to convince it that size doesn’t matter.
And somewhere in a dark corner of Mar-a-Lago, he still roams,
clutching his phone, furiously typing with thumbs like overfed Vienna sausages:
“I’M A GENIUS!!!”
Twitter is dead. The fairytale is over. But the punchline,
America, is still ours to write.
William James Spriggs
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