Let me apologize in advance for the mental picture.
Imagine this orange clown, all bloated and spastic, laying on his gold bed at 3:44 am, his flabby gut protruding from his tidy-white(supremacy) underwear, and there he is, still stewing over the woman who mopped the floor with him by bringing up another woman he treated like shit.
He is getting more and more agitated as the minutes go by, his very loud sniffling has almost turned into panting and growling by now, a pool of foamy saliva on the corners of his mouth contrasting in sheen and color with the rest of his carotenoid complexion, his tiny fists clenched in frustration and then…an explosion. “Enough!” The pumpkin-spice buffoon exclaims.
He rocks himself onto a seated position and reaches for his solid gold phone. He feels powerful with that thing in his minuscule hands (he special-ordered a tiny phone) as he has ‘destroyed’ many people with it in the past.
He takes to twitter, the only battlefield he’s ever known (He vaguely remembers getting a Purple Heart there) and sets out to pulverize someone he pulverized once before –when she was 19 years old.
Dripping poison from his ‘wherever’, he sets off a nasty barrage of character assassination attacks. He mentions a ‘sex tape’ and a ‘criminal background’. “This woman has a past!” He cries in anger.
How dare this little woman with a Hispanic accent question how he conducts himself with the people he owns –I mean, who work for him?
By the looks of it, this woman must have a very low self-esteem, right? It’s almost as if someone had trampled her self-image in a vicious and permanent way before she became the ‘unreliable floozy’ that she is now.
This is when Orangina Jabba started to reminisce about how funny it was to call her “Miss Piggy” because she put on weight and “Miss housekeeping” because –hilariously- she is from one of those Mexico-like countries. He pulled an awesome prank on her by inviting the entire press corps to witness her workout when she had no idea she would be exercising in front of the world. Classic. All of this when she was a sweet and inexperienced 19-year-old girl. Oh, the hilarity!
Once his greasy, tiny Vienna sausage fingers were done doing their deed, the auburn blob felt at ease and was able to retreat to his solid gold animated suspension chamber and catch some z’s. He can do that because he knows that come morning, an army of brainless minions will struggle, scramble and lie to make it all a-ok again.
It’s morning in America…
”What Mr. Trump meant was…”