Trump’s a Two-Pump Chump and Other Crap I Don’t Care About

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Hope she wasn’t charging by the minute. Photo by me.me.com

This past week hasn’t been a good one for my faith in American journalism or human nature in general. Thanks to Sex Secrets of the Saggy Shitbag masquerading as news again, I’ve come to two conclusions:

  1. Our ability to discern between tabloid journalism and bona fide news reporting has officially reached its nadir

While searching for some actual news on the internet, I’ve been barraged with the odious, unnecessary details of Trump’s two-pump chump prowess in the sack. Everywhere I looked, there was Stormy, patron saint of the neo-liberals, sounding more like a gold digging opportunist than a brave patriot. Maybe that’s because she is a gold-digging opportunist and not a brave patriot.

But the media awarded her a Pillow Talk Purple Heart and the mouth-breathing masses ate it up, which I will never understand.

This is information I don’t care about, don’t need, and quite frankly makes me dry-heave even hearing about second-hand. (And at the time, I thought Bill Clinton and the Blue Dress was a massive gross-out. We were so innocent in the 90s.)

I simply could not have, in any conceivable fashion, given less of a flying fuck about Trump’s Botoxic Bimbos than I did before knowing of Donnie’s inadequacies, so my level of disgust remained static.

However, I now suffer the added horror of picturing a rotting, bloated cantaloupe … oozing. I’ll leave it at that.

Oozing.

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At least until the next stupid thing he does. Photo by memegenerator.net

As amusing as it can be in MINIMAL doses, this backyard fence-style gossip does not affect my life in any way. It does not improve my life in any way. Following the sexcapades of a pathetic septuagenarian does not add value to my life in any way.

So please, tell me why this was the lead news story, for even five minutes? I’m pretty sure people still have crappy, or no healthcare, and I think we’re bombing about eight countries right now. And all we can talk about is the Marmalade Moron’s sad little wee-wee?

And I’m sorry, but if knowing Trump can barely make it out of starting gate improves the quality of your life, please check your pulse. I’m not sure you have a life.

As far as our national obsession with All Things Icky goes, I’d like to say we’re better than this. But let’s face it. We’re totally not.

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And probably can’t tomorrow either. Photo by esmemes.com

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is a political junkie and history buff randomly alternating between bouts of crankiness and amusement while bearing witness to the Apocalypse. Come along!

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