You know what really grinds my gears: When a dumbfuck president plays pretend with nuclear weapons, screams treason at critics, and spends your hard-earned cash on golden toilets while lying about Lincoln’s bathroom habits.

Listen up, because we need to talk about something that should make every single goddamn hair on your ass stand at attention. Donny TurdChomper posted some weapons-grade horseshit about America’s nuclear arsenal, and it’s the kind of shit-brained cockwaffle that makes you want to scream into a pillow made of razorblades. This fuckstick actually sat down, probably while scarfing down his fourth Big Mac of the morning, grease dripping down his jowls like some sort of fetid oil spill, and decided to tell the American people that he single-handedly updated our entire nuclear weapons program during his first term.

The sheer fucking audacity. The balls on this shitweasel to just straight-up lie about something so catastrophically important would be impressive if it weren’t so goddamn terrifying. As Bertrand Russell once noted, “The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wiser people so full of doubts.” Well, here we have a grade-A certified douchebag who’s certain as fuck about his bullshit, and the actual experts are pulling their hair out trying to fact-check this dumpster fire in real-time.

Let me paint you a picture that’ll stick to your brain like cum on a windshield. Imagine walking into a massive warehouse—and I mean massive, like the kind of space that makes your balls shrivel just thinking about how much concrete and steel went into building it. The air tastes stale, recycled a thousand times through filters that barely work anymore, and there’s this low hum that vibrates through your chest cavity like a dying refrigerator. That’s where America’s nuclear weapons live, folks. Not in some pristine, futuristic facility with touchscreens and AI monitoring systems. No, these weapons—the ones that could turn the entire fucking planet into a radioactive parking lot—are sitting in facilities that look like they were last updated when your grandparents were still figuring out how to fuck without getting pregnant.

The Dumping Donald claims he “accomplished” a complete renovation. Horse. Shit. Nuclear. Grade. Horseshit. The kind of lie that’s so pants-shittingly stupid that it makes you wonder if this asshole has ever read a single fucking book that didn’t have his name embossed in fake gold on the cover. According to actual experts—you know, people who’ve spent decades studying this shit instead of golfing and rawdogging pornstars—our nuclear arsenal is about as up-to-date as a Blockbuster Video membership card.

Here’s what’s really happening in those warehouses, you dickwads who still believe this orange shitstain: Scientists and technicians are constantly scrambling, like roaches when you flip on the kitchen light at 3 AM, to keep these weapons from literally falling apart. The triggering mechanisms need constant adjustment. The casings develop microscopic cracks. Nuclear material leaks. It’s a never-ending game of whack-a-mole with weapons that could end civilization, and this fuckwit wants you to believe he fixed everything with his tiny, stubby fingers and his tremendous brain.

Michael Greer writes in his work on the intersection of power and delusion: “Those who seek absolute power inevitably become divorced from absolute reality.”[1] And sweet Jesus on a shitstick, is that relevant here. The Donald of Dumpster is so far removed from reality that he’s basically floating in space, propelled by his own rectal emissions, convinced that his farts smell like roses while the rest of us are choking on the stench of his incompetence.

But wait—there’s more fuckery afoot! This weapons-grade dumbass then goes on to claim he needs to start testing nuclear weapons because Russia and China are doing it. No proof. No intelligence briefings cited. No evidence whatsoever. Just his gut feeling, which is probably mostly comprised of partially digested KFC and Diet Coke anyway. As Jean-Paul Sartre observed, “Hell is other people,” but I’d like to amend that: Hell is other people when one of those people has access to nuclear codes and the intellectual capacity of a used condom.

We have treaties, you absolute nozzles. International agreements that prevent this exact type of dickwaddery. But Trumpington De ShittyGobhole wants to just tear them up like they’re prenuptial agreements with his latest wife. The book referenced in the source material—a thoroughly researched, ten-hour audiobook that this shitgoblin clearly never touched—explains in excruciating detail why nuclear testing is both unnecessary and catastrophically stupid in 2025. But reading is hard when you’ve got the attention span of a coked-up squirrel and the reading comprehension of a cum-stained sock.

Here’s the part that should make you want to punch through drywall: The fuckface in charge of potentially executing these nuclear tests? Pete Hegseth. You know, the drunk. The guy who’s turned the Department of War into his personal frat house. As Simone de Beauvoir wrote, “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman”—well, one is not born a catastrophic security risk, but rather becomes one through sustained alcoholism and proximity to Trump’s shitshow administration.

The mental image I want you to hold: A sweaty, drunk-ass Mike “Tiny” Johnson stumbling through a secure facility, his tiny Johnson struggling to remember the launch codes while Donaldo Fartfisted tweets about how beautiful and tremendous the mushroom clouds are going to be. That’s the America we’re living in, folks. A nation where the nuclear football is being punted around by dipshits who couldn’t find their own assholes with both hands, a map, and a team of cartographers.

Moving right along this highway of fuckery, let’s discuss how Cheatloaf apparently thinks criticism equals treason. This cocksucker actually woke up one morning—probably after three hours of fitful sleep interrupted by dreams of Ivanka and piles of cash—and decided that Chuck Schumer calling his Asia trip a “total dud” was “almost treasonous.”

Let me break this down for you cumstains who might have missed Civics class while you were huffing glue behind the bleachers: In America, we have this little thing called the First Amendment. You might have heard of it. It’s the reason I can sit here and call Trump a “buttfucking waste of oxygen” without getting disappeared to a black site. It’s also the reason Chuck Schumer can call out the president’s dipshit foreign policy without being charged with betraying the nation.

But apparently, in the twisted, cum-drunk brain of Donald MunchShitChute, criticism equals treason. The sheer authoritarian dickbaggery of this statement should make every freedom-loving American’s sphincter clench tight enough to create diamonds. As John Stuart Mill argued, “If all mankind minus one were of one opinion, mankind would be no more justified in silencing that one person than he, if he had the power, would be justified in silencing mankind.”[2] But Mill never had to deal with a president whose ego is so fragile it makes tissue paper look like fucking kevlar.

Picture this scene, because it’s important you understand the full scope of this asshattery: Trump’s in some generic hotel room in Asia, probably one of those places that smells like old carpet and broken dreams, and he’s scrolling through his phone at dawn. His face is the color of a traffic cone that’s been left out in the sun too long, makeup not yet applied, hair looking like a dead ferret that crawled onto his skull to die. He sees Schumer’s comment, and his tiny little raisin brain immediately short-circuits. The synapses that still function—probably no more than three or four at this point—start firing in the pattern they always do: Someone criticized me. Criticism bad. Must attack. Must use big scary word. Treason! That’s the ticket!

The scumfuck actually types it out. “Almost treasonous.” Not just wrong. Not just partisan. Not just political disagreement in a democracy. Almost. Treasonous. As if criticizing a president’s shitty diplomatic performance is somehow akin to betraying the entire nation. The same shitstain who himself spent eight years questioning Obama’s birthplace, calling him the “founder of ISIS,” and generally being a dickwaffle of the highest order, now clutches his pearls when someone points out his trip was about as successful as a dick-flavored lollipop.

You know what they do in countries like Russia when you criticize the president? They throw you out of windows. They poison your tea. They make you disappear in ways that would make your bowels evacuate if you thought too hard about it. And here’s this absolute fuckstick, this douchebag extraordinaire, using that same rhetorical playbook. As Albert Camus observed, “The welfare of the people has always been the alibi of tyrants,” and Trump’s “I worked very hard” defense is just another coat of shit-brown paint on that same tyrannical impulse.

Mike BibleFucker probably applauded when Trump said it, his tiny johnson twitching with excitement at the thought of criminalizing dissent. The whole administration is full of these shitheads who think democracy is just dictatorship with better marketing. They want the power without the accountability, the authority without the criticism, the worship without the work.

And now, we arrive at the pièce de résistance of this turd sandwich: Trump’s obsession with his fucking bathroom. Not just any bathroom—oh no, that would be too simple for this gold-plated asshole. We’re talking about the “Lincoln Bathroom,” which Trumpy AssChatterChasm decided needed a complete makeover because apparently the Art Deco tiles from the 1940s weren’t gaudy enough for his terrible taste.

This shitgibbon posted about his marble and gold bathroom SEVEN TIMES in twenty-two minutes. Seven. Times. Let that sink in like diarrhea into cheap upholstery. The President of the United States, the supposed leader of the free world, the man with access to nuclear codes and intelligence briefings, spent twenty-two minutes of his day posting about his shitter. Seven times. The kind of obsessive behavior that would make even the most dedicated OnlyFans simp say, “Dude, maybe you need to chill the fuck out.”

The justification? Oh, this is rich. This is like finding a hundred-dollar bill in your old jeans, except instead of money it’s just compacted stupidity. Trump claims he renovated it to match what Lincoln “probably had.” As if honest fucking Abe was sitting on a golden throne taking dumps while gazing at polished statuary marble. As if the man who lived during the Civil War, when indoor plumbing was still a newfangled luxury that most people couldn’t afford, was living like some sort of 19th-century Saudi prince.

Let me educate you republican dicksplashes on some actual history, since Trump clearly can’t be bothered to crack open a book that isn’t full of pictures of himself. The first permanent bathroom with hot and cold fixtures wasn’t installed in the White House until 1853. That’s less than a decade before Lincoln moved in. You know what they had before that? Painted tin tubs. Fucking tin tubs. Not marble. Not gold fixtures. Tin tubs that probably gave you tetanus just from looking at them wrong.

And toilets? Modern plumbing as we know it? That shit—pun absolutely intended—wasn’t really a thing during Lincoln’s presidency. The man was busy trying to hold the nation together while half of it wanted to fuck off and keep owning people, and Trump thinks Abe was concerned about the aesthetics of his bathroom marble?

As Immanuel Kant wrote, “Morality is not the doctrine of how we may make ourselves happy, but how we may make ourselves worthy of happiness.” But Trump wouldn’t know moral worthiness if it bit him on his shriveled, fake-tanned ass. This is a man who sees your tax dollars—money that could go to schools, infrastructure, healthcare, literally anything useful—and thinks, “You know what would be a great use of these funds? Gold fixtures in my shitter.”

The audacity of this cockmuppet to not only spend taxpayer money on his personal luxury renovations but then to brag about it repeatedly, as if we should be grateful that he’s living like a Russian oligarch on our dime. Doreen Valiente once said, “Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill: An it harm none, do what ye will.” Well, this fuckwit is harming plenty with his gold-plated narcissism and delusional historical revisionism.

Think about the sensory assault of being in Trump’s presence during these bathroom tours he probably gives to every poor bastard who visits. The smell of his cologne—probably something called “Eau de Bankruptcy”—mixing with the scent of fresh marble and metal polish. The sound of his wheezy breathing as he waddles around, pointing at fixtures with his stubby fingers, bragging about thread counts and marble grades like anyone gives a shit. The sight of those gold fixtures gleaming under lights that probably cost more than your car, reflecting his bloated face back at him in endless narcissistic recursion. The feel of cold marble under your feet as you try desperately to find an exit. The taste of bile rising in your throat as he explains for the seventh time why this is “exactly what Lincoln would have wanted.”

Peter Singer argues in his work on practical ethics that we have a moral obligation to prevent suffering when we can do so without sacrificing something of comparable moral importance. Well, I’d argue that preventing this shitweasel from wasting our money on gold-plated fuckery should be a top fucking priority.

So here we are, America. Three catastrophic fuckups rolled into one beautiful turd burrito of incompetence. We’ve got a president who lies about nuclear weapons capabilities while threatening to violate international treaties. We’ve got an authoritarian dickbag who thinks criticism equals treason. And we’ve got a narcissistic shitgoblin who spends taxpayer money on marble bathrooms while lying about history.

As Martha Nussbaum observes, “The emotions are not always pathological, but can be a form of intelligence.” Well, if you’re not feeling intense fucking rage about all of this, your emotional intelligence might be broken. This isn’t normal. This isn’t acceptable. This is what happens when you give nuclear codes to a man whose greatest achievement is managing not to choke on his own tongue.

The compound fuckery here is almost artistic in its scope. It’s like watching a dipshit conductor lead an orchestra of shitheads through a symphony of stupidity. Each movement builds on the last, creating a crescendo of cumfuckery that would be impressive if it weren’t so goddamn terrifying.

Wake the fuck up, America. This isn’t a drill. This is your reality. A president who’s equal parts liar, authoritarian, and delusional narcissist. And unless we start treating this shit with the seriousness it deserves—unless we stop being cumstains who just scroll past this fuckery without engaging—we’re going to end up in a nuclear wasteland with marble shitters as our only remaining monuments to democracy.

Choose wisely