Donald Trump is a dead twice-impeached ex-president. The useless fuck croaked on a golf course when he was swinging back to hit another slice and a massive bolt of lightning slammed into his clubhead. Dead before he hit the ground. Lee Trevino once said God can't hit a one-iron. Apparently He can hit whatever club Trump was using. The worst part is, some poor groundskeeper is going to have to fix that divot.
He's not pining for the fjords. He's passed on. He is no more. He has ceased to be. He's expired and gone to meet his maker. He's a stiff. Bereft of life, he rests in peace. If you hadn't nailed him to one of the many podiums he raged behind in his life he'd be pushing up the daisies. His metabolic processes are now history. He's off the twig. He's kicked the bucket, shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisible. THIS IS A DEAD MOTHER FUCKER!
In three days a strange and miraculous event will happen. No, he's not going to rise from the fuckin' grave and return to save us all. Rather, he's going to explode like a dead whale washed up on an Oregon beach. Be sure to be at least a thousand feet from the Palm Beach Morgue when that shit happens because who the fuck knows where the blubber and guts will land. The Palm Beach County Coroner is prepared for this eventuality - he's already ordered blast shields and new windows.
At this moment, Trump's most fervent fans - well, the ones who admit he just may be a dead mother fucker, and not undergoing plastic surgery so he looks more like Joe Biden, which people actually believe - may be in a state of deep shock. They have no idea what to do with themselves now that their messiah, who many of them believe to be the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, has left this earth.
Well, I'll tell you what to do.
Suck it the fuck up, asshole.
Folks, this guy was nothing but a goddamned catastrophe his whole fucking life. This useless worm ran a mail-order meat company into the ground. How the hell do you do that? He put a fucking FOOTBALL LEAGUE out of business. A football league. Not one team, which given Trump's success in business wouldn't strike one as odd. The whole thing. You know, a license to print money. People will watch football no matter how bad it is, and the football this league was playing was at least watchable. But no, Trump had to kill the whole thing. Because he's Trump, and that's what Trump does. My editor has asked me not to list everything Trump ran into the ground in his life because we only have 300 tons of paper in stock and he doesn't want to use it all on this edition. Suffice it to say that eight-year-old kids running lemonade stands on the street corner are better at business than Trump is.
One of his biggest post-loss catastrophes happened when the Department of Justice confiscated about 150 extremely classified documents from his Palm Beach pleasure palace. Let's skip over all the shit about Trump declassifying these - he didn't. How in the name of Cthulhu did he even HAVE a hundred fifty extremely classified documents in the first place? You're supposed to put that shit away when you're done using it. Apparently "in my dresser drawer, where my communist wife can flip through them any time she wants" was "away" enough for this asshole.
Okay, let's cut the shit. Trump's fucking funeral will be held in Trump's favorite place in the whole wide world, Courtroom A of US Bankruptcy Court in Manhattan. It will be in a week. All his creditors are welcome to attend so they can look in the casket and make sure he's in it. He will be buried in Love Canal because it's the only place in America where his fetid corpse's presence won't fuck up the ecosystem worse than it already is.
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