Last night was sexy. Those of us who despise the Clinton crime family experienced virtually orgasmic delight watching her go down for what is surely the last time. Seeing Obama’s legacy circle the drain was a second shuddering release. It was sublime to the point of being joyous and, afterwards, we fell into a deep sleep and drifted dreamlessly in a way that only that kind of physical release allows.
Now the sun is rising. The buzz has worn off. We roll over and see with whom we are in bed. Gosh; not nearly as hot as we remember. What is that on the night stand? Is that a fully officiated and notarized marriage certificate? It sure is. We are married to Donald J. Trump and the orgasmic delights of last night are but a rapidly fading memory.
Did he say he was going to debauch the economy with corporate welfare in the form of self-imposed trade sanctions? How drunk were we? I seem to recall him sweet talking us about roving deportation brigades. He didn’t really mean that, did he? Did we just giggle and demure when he said he would order the military to commit war crimes? How many shots did we have?
Well, there is nothing we can do now. Let’s hope we can build a happy marriage from what was essentially a desire for passion and, you know, orgasmic release.
God, I hope we aren’t pregnant.