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One of the recurring comedic bits I most enjoyed during the subjectively perceived 6,700 years of Trump’s presidency was the chant in which Bill Maher would lead his audience on HBO’s Real Time, after cracking wise about whatever it was that the overgrown toddler was complaining about this time: whiny little bitch!! Of all the derisive labels you could have pinned to Fat Donny’s enormous backside, none could have been more apt. Jesus, that fuckin’ guy, it was always the same, complain, complain, complain, waah, waah, waah, I mean he was so persecuted, so hard done by, and his treatment by Congress, the media, Mueller, the FBI, whoever, was always very very unfair. I used to have this fantasy that if only we could throw the diapered dumbass out of office, we’d get a respite, but nooooooooo, no such luck. He keeps holding his frigging rallies, and the media – God damn them – keep covering them. Not to the extent they did during the 2016 campaign, when they were doing their witless best to get him elected, and kept the cameras running for every vile and incoherent thing he said, hours on end – even once broadcasting his vacant frigging podium when he was late for one of his scheduled Nuremberg-style rantapaloozas – but still, they cover them.

So we still get Donald’s toxic sludge oozing out of our Twitter feeds and goggle boxes – here’s the giant asshat in Sarasota last Saturday night, yipping about his own troubles in the same State where the rescue workers are still extracting corpses from under the rubble of a collapsed condo tower, a few hours down the road in Surfside, Miami-Dade:

Too bad, so sad for them I guess, and fine, let’s observe the obligatory moment of silence, but then we gotta move on to the really important stuff, you know, fake news, stop the steal, and they’re out to get me again, they’re always after me for doing nothing wrong, and it’s not fairrrrrrrrrrrr.

Asshat.

And no, butthead, your friends are not the only poor persecuted bastards to ever get indicted for tax fraud, and yes, dickwad, somebody does know whether you’re supposed to report the company car and complimentary apartment to the IRS. Accountants, for example – they all know. Chief Financial Officers too. Your pal Weisselberg, he was a CFO, so he knew, and you know what, so did you, Donny, you lying sack of hammers, because just about everybody knows, even morons of your astonishing caliber. That’s why you kept two sets of books – oh, what a giveaway – and that’s why this isn’t just a witch hunt over a few picayune fringe benefits, but rather a multimillion dollar fraud investigation into serious crimes, to which, by the way, you just confessed in front of the whole country, ya frickin’ idiot, while you boo-hooed to the assembled MAGA slack-jaws about what big meanies the poopy-bums are being in the Manhattan DA’s office.

Which, of course, won’t make any difference. When did Donald not confess to his crimes on stage to an audience of millions? What harm has it ever done him?

None. That’s how much. Not before, and I’m pretty sure not now.

There are those who let on like they think otherwise. A fair bit of the punditry over the past few days has emphasized that the indictments against the Trump Organization and its CFO could well be just the beginning. The odds are fairly high, they say, that Weisselberg will flip, aren’t they? After all, the DA’s putting the screws to him, but good. He’ll move to save himself, because that’s what sane people do. So might the kids, actually, who likewise are in it up to their necks, right? Take all those “consulting fees” paid year after year to darling Ivanka. Oh, she’s guilty as sin. She’s ripe for it. Think she’ll decide to take one for the team? C’mon, she’ll flip too, like a flapjack, faster than you can say “so long, Pops”, and then the Donald goes down hard. It won’t just be his corporate alter ego that’s indicted, no sir, he’ll be on the hook personally, and with the evidence they’ll be able to produce to the scandalized court, it’ll be up the river you go, Donny-boy, and don’t drop the soap in the shower.

Do you think?

‘Cause I don’t.

I’ve been down this primrose path before. They’re just trying to get my hopes up so they can break my heart again. It’s cruel! Shame on them, frankly, dangling the prospect of Trump in an orange jumpsuit like that; they’re not content just to hurt me, they’re coming after my will to live. Oh yeah? Well, I’m not falling for it. Unhuh. I’m not your sucker any more. My goat is tethered no longer. Peddle your false hope somewhere else. Go dupe some other wide-eyed rube.

Unless…could it be?…do you think, maybe this time?…

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