Clown Ulcers

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This failed enema of a president dwelling in his spider web treehouse with his bloated brood of raccoons, donning haunted gangrenous smirks as the national consciousness metastasizes into over-wrought hysteria.

This orange burlap sack full of simpering bats, wiggling his half-soft turd arms to entertain his legions of bewildered bootlickers as they lap up the poisonous watery cum-snot, piddled on the groundswell by his shriveled chlamydic plantain dick.

This rasping elegy for tranquility, an incessant wart on the deflating phallus of capitalism, waddling past a dead batman with his parasol and cigar.

This braying cialis, spewing dog shit and miseries in 140 characters or less, ploughing past ecclesiastical canons and legislative standards alike in the name of self supremacy.

This counterfeit crockpot of spoiled milk and clown ulcers squawking their bigoted bombast at whomever’s identity they couldn’t comprehend.

This burning yacht full of dancing tyrants in khaki pants, Claytons and Peytons and Dereks and Lonnies scanning the shore for their replacements with fury and fear in the whites of their petty privileged pupils.

This barbarous fuck-knuckle of nazi nerds, spittling stupidity down their pale dogmatic chins.

These creepy little people with their creepy little thoughts they inflict upon the rest of us.