Donnie Two Weeks

We’ve seen this movie before.

Two weeks. That’s about how long it takes to grow out a bad bang trim you got during a full-blown identity crisis, it’s about how long it takes to survive a juice cleanse that turns your intestines into a fucking slip ’n slide, about how long it takes to return a haunted Himalayan salt lamp that made your cat speak Latin, or realize the “hot guy” from Bumble who says he’s “emotionally available,” also owns a sword, refers to his ex as “the government,” and thinks the moon landing was filmed on an iPhone.

It’s just enough time to fake your own death and get mildly famous on TikTok as a feral crochet influencer all while still managing to show back up to your group chat pretending you didn’t just get banned “for life” from Trader Joe’s for starting a fistfight over mango chutney.

It is not however—under any circumstance—a reasonable “answer” to the question of when one might start dropping bombs on Iran, especially when it’s coming from a malevolent moron who treats global warfare like he’s picking out the day’s shitty, too long, Chinese-made tie.

And yet, here we are. Donald J. Trump—America’s orange colostomy bag in an ill-fitting suit—has declared that he might start a new war in the Middle East in, you guessed it, two weeks. Because nothing says “responsible statesmanship” like dangling nuclear escalation over the planet like a crusty Arby’s coupon he found under his left manboob.

He’s teasing World War III like it’s a season finale cliffhanger, hoisting the fate of global stability over his head like a melted Big Mac and smiling like a toddler who just shit in a bounce house and wants a goddamn f’ng medal. This is a man who thinks “foreign policy” means offering a Slovakian waitress a cabinet position if she pretends to like his golf swing and laughs at his joke about NATO being “a little bitch.”

Yes. Donald J. Trump—our walking cholesterol alert, Adderall-seeping rage puppet, and the only man who could start a war because he misread a golf scorecard—has once again threatened to bomb Iran. Or not. Or maybe. Or maybe not. Depends on how his midnight McNuggets are hitting and whether Laura fucking Loomer told him it was a good idea in an online meltdown she screen-grabbed for her Telegram subscribers.

Because in Trumpworld, every geopolitical crisis is just another trailer drop. Every decision is “coming soon”—right after his next rage-dump and Truth Social tantrum about sharks, ceiling fans, or whatever unlucky noun clawed its way out of his brainstem and into the feed that morning.

This week’s foreign policy stunt came via Trump’s official spokes-blonde, Karoline Leavitt, who took to the podium with the glazed-over enthusiasm of a pageant contestant reading War and Peace phonetically. “Based on the fact that there’s a substantial chance of negotiations that may or may not take place with Iran in the near future,” she offered, with all the gravitas of an Instagram Reel, “I will make my decision whether or not to go within the next two weeks.”

Translation: Daddy needs a nap, a cheeseburger IV, and a fresh pair of Depends before deciding whether to kickstart the next world war. So circle back in 14 days—or however long it takes him to forget which country he’s threatening and why.

And the press? They just sat there. Nodding. Scribbling. Blinking like stunned iguanas while Karoline—who delivers statements like she’s auditioning for Fox News: The Musical—told the world the president might start a war, as if she were announcing a candle line at Anthropologie. No follow-up. No challenge. No one daring to interrupt the stage play and scream, “You can’t just fucking SAY that.” Not a peep while she calmly unveiled a maybe-war like it was a Black Friday sale on drone strikes.

But here’s the kicker: he doesn’t even have the goddamn power to do this on his own. He’s not Dr. Evil with a touchscreen of death—he’s a sun-fried Florida retiree with Wi-Fi, rage issues, and access to the football. He can’t just snap his greasy fingers and launch a war like he’s reordering fries. That’s Congress’s job—you know, the branch with actual constitutional war powers—but Republican lawmakers are too busy publicly dry-humping Trump’s golf pants to remember they have a spine, or a vote. They’ve handed him their authority like a pack of beta mall cops surrendering their tasers to a guy licking batteries in the food court. At this point, the GOP would let him declare war by carving it into a cheeseburger with a Sharpie if it meant a Newsmax hit and a commemorative coin.

They’re so desperate for his approval they’re practically auditioning for America’s Next Top Eunuch. By the time Trump demands they toss their grandmothers’ dentures into the Mar-a-Lago hot tub as a blood oath, they’ll already be standing in MAGA Snuggies chanting “Make Him Great Again” and clutching The Art of the Deal like it’s the Dead Sea Scrolls. These are the same wet sponges who wailed about executive overreach for years, only to now beg Trump to step on their faces and legislate with his shoe.

And let’s not forget: this is the same guy who ran on ending forever wars. “No more endless wars!” he screeched, surrounded by men who think diplomacy is gay and strength is spelled N-R-A. He promised to bring the troops home (not deploy them on OUR streets). He sold himself as the anti-war candidate. And now?

He’s out there flailing a saber at Iran like a renaissance fair extra who wandered off his meds, acting like he’s never met a contradiction he wouldn’t tongue kiss in front of a CPAC photo op next to a golden Trump statue.

And when someone dares point out that threatening to start a war contradicts literally everything he campaigned on? That’s when we get the Trump classic: “in two weeks.”

He’s been running that scam since the Cretaceous period. Asked eight weeks ago if he could trust Putin, Trump replied, “I’ll let you know in about two weeks.” He said we’d get his tax returns in two weeks. Seven years and three court orders later, we found out he paid less in taxes than a babysitting teenager. He said Obama wiretapped him and we’d see proof in two weeks. We got a blurry YouTube link and a Sean Hannity tantrum. He promised an infrastructure plan—in two weeks. Twice. All we got was a press conference, some empty folders, and him honking the horn on a semi like a drunk toddler. He said he’d make a decision on the Paris Climate Accord in two weeks. It took over a month, and he still thinks “climate” is a liberal hoax invented by ice. He promised a major update on ISIS in two weeks—then wandered offstage to rant about windmills causing cancer. He’s promised a healthcare plan in two weeks since 2015. It’s now old enough to get a learner’s permit.

This is what he does. He bluffs. He stalls. He blue-balls the nation with performative nonsense and calls it leadership. He governs like a sweaty improv comic on Ambien—no script, no sense, just vibes and screaming. Every policy is a trailer. Every disaster is an opportunity to roll out merch. He treats war declarations like cliffhangers: Will we bomb Tehran? Will we not? Tune in next week on “Who Wants to Start World War III?”—brought to you by MyPillow and reverse mortgages for dogs.

Everything with him is pretend. Pretending he’s strong. Pretending he’s smart. Pretending he knows where Iran is. He’s not a wartime president. He’s not even a peace-time president. He’s a fart-time president—a brainless, bloviating con artist broadcasting straight from a golden toilet with a dream of being taken seriously by people who can actually spell.

And yet the cult still claps. Every time he says “two weeks,” they treat it like gospel. He could say, “I’m personally ending inflation by launching Steve Bannon into space,” and they’d offer up their kids’ college funds and a thank-you card. They’re not following a leader. They’re livestreaming a glitchy old man unraveling in real-time and cheering like it’s the halftime show at a monster truck rally sponsored by brainworms.

We don’t know if he’s bombing Iran. Because he doesn’t know. He might never know. Not in two weeks, two months, or two lifetimes. The man has no idea what he’s doing. He couldn’t locate Tehran on a labeled globe if it screamed. His understanding of war strategy begins and ends with yelling “tremendous” and calling someone a loser.

At the end of the day, calling him “president” is like calling a possum in a cheap suit a Nobel laureate. He’s not just a conman slinging snake oil—he’s a fucking Taco Bell combo meal of idiocy: all filler, no protein, and guaranteed to leave your country bloated, angry, and deeply confused about what just happened. He’s not playing chess. He’s not even playing checkers. He’s eating the pieces and calling it lunch.

He is so fucking dumb, he thinks “filibuster” is a porno about a really chatty plumber.

He’s so brainless, he thinks the Geneva Convention is a hotel rewards program.

He’s so colossally dense, he thinks a ceasefire is something you yell during paintball.

He’s so galactically stupid, he tried to nominate the Hamburglar to the Supreme Court because “he’s tough on crime.”

He’s so far gone, he thinks the Joint Chiefs are a weed dispensary and “NATO” is just how rich people say “neato.”

This man’s brain is a haunted Waffle House bathroom stall—scribbled with half-finished threats, conspiracy theories, and something sticky you do not ever want to touch. If ignorance were a power source, Trump could light up the eastern seaboard with the static electricity coming off his scalp alone.

So if you’re still waiting for a decision? A plan? A policy?

Give it two weeks.

Or never.

Who the fuck knows—because he sure as shit doesn’t.

And with that, today’s song:

I love you guys!!

Stay sane(ish), stay strong, and stay fng loud in the face of this shit!!

💙 Jo