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Ooh! Look at My Son, the Big Shot President!
Oh, hey everybody! If it isn't my son Donald, the big shot President!
Just look at him, sitting at his big, important desk in his big, snazzy Oval Office in his big, fancy White House.
President Trump! Who would've guessed! Flying all over the world in Air Force One with his beautiful European wife and his big faggy hairdo solving all the world's problems like a modern day Warren G. Harding! Boy, am I impressed!
Actually, in case you haven't noticed, I'm being sarcastic.
Real Presidents win the Electoral College and the popular vote. Also, a real president wouldn't throw 22 million poor people off their health-care insurance. He'd throw them all off!
Oh Donald, if you could only see how you're disappointing your mother. How she sobs over every refugee that's admitted into our country from some war-torn place.
You're embarrassing the family!
Seriously, though. My son, Donald J. Trump, Commander-in-Chief. The president who makes Howard Taft look like Charles Atlas. The president who drinks your milkshake. Literally!
Hey, who ate all the inauguration cake? I know! It was my lard ass of a son! Oink! Oink! Daddy's little porker! Oink! Oink!
Oh, shut up, Donald. Quit your sniveling. And stop picking at yourself. Christ, you're a disgrace. Just look at that tie. 71 years old and he still can't dress himself properly! Good grief. You really want to impress me, son? Do something about all those Puerto Ricans taking over my buildings in Bensonhurst. Like its Cinco de Mayo all year round. And how long are you going to keep taking shit from that Flip or Flop lezbo from HGTV? She's a real trash talker on-line, that broad.
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