The Unstable Goonyass is stupid. He doesn’t read. It’s not clear whether he can read. Unless it’s a picture book, like See JD Run, in which Vance is portrayed as a dog who’s being chased and then eaten by brown Democratic donkeys.
Meanwhile, Elon Musk is smart. He might actually be a genius, but with that extra madness gene that geniuses sometimes have. He certainly looks pretty goonygoofy—I might say stupid—jumping up and down on the stage next to His Orange Moronity, showing his bare expanding belly and smiling like Homer Simpson.
But he’s smart enough to play his stupid candidate. We’ll see whether Musk’s investment in his poorly run ground operation, to which His Goonyass has outsourced that important aspect of his campaign, actually pays off. The payoff: some weird new cabinet position in the MAGAdministration. His Orange Idiocy is so stupid that he doesn’t know that he’s being played, and not just by Musk, but by Vladimir, and Kim Jong, and all his other fascist bro-mates.
Minister of Disinformation is the only thing Musk is really qualified for. Or maybe Secretary of Commerce, I suppose.—in the MAGApocalypse 2025, it would be an oligarchic Department of Crony Capitalism, whoever gets the job.
Meanwhile the swaying Orange Weaver spends forty minutes grooving to his own internal music, and we’re hoping it’s not Psycho Killer (Qu’est-ce que c’est?), rather than answer any substantive questions, because he doesn’t know what to say if it isn’t about Hannibal Lecter. He is so stable that he didn’t fall down while doing that weird dance with his shadow self.
Meanwhile, everyone around him is wondering what’s going on and when is it going to end, and wincing about how their friends are going to laugh at him, and at them, when they meet in the bar later.
His Cretinhood is so stupid that, even after being the president for four years, and even after weeks of pundits laughing at him along with every economist in the land, and weeks of his own staff trying to get him off that broken record, he keeps thinking that other countries will pay his tariffs, just like Mexico paid for the wall he didn’t build. He has no clue what a tariff is. He thinks tariffs are tariffic. And trade wars are great because they’re wars, and he thinks he understands wars. He wins wars. They’re like the hundreds of suits he’s filed in his lifetime; you just have to challenge everything and wait until the poor bastards run out of money or patience and either quit or settle. Then write the cost off as a business expense.
They say that his aids walk around just off camera with a lip cup hoping to be fast enough to catch his drool before it drops on his phone and corrodes the glass—again. I know his corrosive words have to come from some septic region in his hindbrain, but they have a distinctive sticky sliminess to them that they pick up, I think, on their way off the tongue and through that mouth.
They say that his arse-hole is jealous of the crap that comes out of that mouth.