‘I’m Fat and I’m Going to Hell.’

- DONALD J. TRUMP

“Ask not what your country can do for you.”

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

‘I’m fat and I’m going to hell.’

That’s where we are now. The great American canon. From Lincoln’s poetry to a cheeseburger confession.

It’s late when I’m writing this. I’m up because my mind won’t shut off. My body wants sleep, but my brain’s doing backflips in steel-toed boots. Everyone’s talking about those Republican “youth leaders” who got caught “joking” about gas chambers and Hitler, and yeah, they’re vile. They’re not kids. They’re not naïve. They’re antisemitic, bigoted, misogynistic fascist cosplayers. They deserve scorn, condemnation, and unemployment. At best, their next job should be scrubbing truck-stop urinals with a toothbrush while humming God Bless America through a respirator that smells like diesel and shame.

But the one keeping me up tonight is the grand Poobah of douchebaggery himself. The orange emperor. The radioactive tangerine who keeps telling the world he’s not getting into heaven.

He’s a bad guy. An unrepentant bad guy. He knows it. His toadies know it. His family knows it. Anyone who’s ever worked for him, been near him, been grabbed by him, or been mocked by him knows it. Jeffrey Epstein, wherever the fuck he is, knows it. And as his body lurches toward its expiration date, all he can talk about is God and heaven.

And it’s fucking bizarre.

Because this is the guy who built the permission structure for every ounce of this rot. He is the permission slip for cruelty. The incubator of bigotry. The man who turned hate into a hobby and moral bankruptcy into a brand. Maybe he wasn’t the first hateful asshole to slither into politics, but his version stuck. He made darkness aspirational. He taught the spineless how to smile while dehumanizing, how to blame the powerless while worshipping the corrupt.

He is the reason they march with tiki torches and call it patriotism. The reason those youth leaders “joke” about gas chambers and call it humor. The reason millions now think empathy is weakness and ignorance is strength. He didn’t plant the tree of hate, but he fed it fertilizer made of ego and fear until it blotted out the sun.

And maybe that’s what makes this all so much fucking weirder. Because I used to think about heaven too, but not like this. When I was a kid, I thought Jesus drove the crescent moon around at night, following my dad’s car. I’d stare out the window watching Him park outside my bedroom like He was clocking in for the night shift. I wondered if heaven was run by some little old guy cracking jokes and smoking cigars, like George Burns in Oh, God.

I was a kid. I had questions about the shit I didn’t understand.

But that’s not what this is.

Trump’s obsession with heaven isn’t innocent. It’s a man staring at the finish line and trying to bribe the referee. He keeps saying he’s not getting in, then grins like he’s proud of it. He’s not praying for grace. He’s negotiating for zoning permits.

He’s trying to strong-arm his way into paradise. He says it so often you can tell he thinks if he repeats it enough, God will eventually roll His eyes and say, “Fine, fine, just don’t slap tariffs on Me.”

But here’s the truth: he’s terrified. He’s terrified of hell. He thinks if he jokes about it, if he says it out loud enough times, it’ll take away the sting. That maybe if he names the devil first, the devil can’t name him back. It’s the oldest Trump trick in the book — say the ugly thing before anyone else can and you win the room by default. But you can’t win this one.

This is the bullshit of Donald Trump. The man has never lived in reality. He’s spent his life building a funhouse of mirrors and calling it the world. Everything’s been negotiable for him: the truth, the law, even decency. But the final judgment isn’t a deposition. There’s no settlement check big enough. No billionaire buddy on the pearly gate committee.

And I think it’s hitting him. You can see it in his eyes, in the slur of his words, in the way his face droops like wet wallpaper. For the first time, the tools in his tainted toolbox — the lies, the money, the lawsuits, the shamelessness — are useless. They can’t get him out of this one. They can’t buy him eternity. They can’t spin divine consequence. His body is failing him and he’s running out of time.

He’s finally staring down something he can’t con.

Every time he says all of this shit, it morphs into what he actually means: I’m fat and I’m going to hell.

Correct on both counts, asshole.

As it turns out, when you brag about sexually assaulting women, when you mock a disabled reporter, when you cage children and call it policy, when you send Blackhawks to zip-tie babies, when you’re a serial predator, a professional liar, a violence cheerleader, a corrupt business cheat, and a traitor who blows up fishing boats for sport, you don’t get into heaven.

You get a reality show in hell. Tuesdays at nine. Sponsored by trans fats, saccharine and shame.

He knows it too, which is also why that malevolent melted circus peanut is out here talking about pissing shiny shit all over the place. Arcs, towers, ballrooms, anything tall enough to block out the truth. He’s literally talking about an arc in his own name. A fucking arc. The only arches that should ever bear his name are the golden ones that hang over drive-thrus. They should plant them right over his gravesite, so the world knows where the combo meal of ego, cholesterol, and blasphemy was finally buried.

He wants erections everywhere. A man infamously small in the pants trying to immortalize himself with towering erections of marble and fake gold.

He’s desperate to convince history that he was big at something.

And when people say we shouldn’t compare him to Hitler because there was only one Hitler, sure, that’s true. But a whole lotta shit still lines up uncomfortably well. The cult. The paranoia. The myth-making. The need for monuments. The difference is aesthetic. Hitler wanted architecture. Trump wants gaudy erections.

He knows he didn’t build a country, only a fan club. He knows his legacy is a grease stain. So, he keeps slapping his name on anything that will hold paint. Golf courses. Steaks. Buildings. Bible covers. He thinks he can fool God with branding. If he covers enough of the landscape in imitation gold, maybe the truth will stay buried under the shine.

And so, he keeps circling back to these weird little confessions, not honesty, just theater. He says he’s not getting into heaven, then acts proud of it. He says no one wants to see him on a beach, then smirks like he’s daring someone to disagree. It isn’t humility. It’s bargaining. It’s the same con he’s always run, just with higher stakes.

He’s spent decades bending the world around his ego, and now he’s trying to bend eternity. He’s not making amends. He’s making an offer. And it’s pathetic.

He looks like a man who gave up halfway through being embalmed — pink, rubbery, overdone, a human shrimp left under the heat lamp of history. His skin has that glossy, radioactive sheen, the shade you’d get if you basted guilt in iodine and regret. The top of his right hand is still bruised and black, like it spent the weekend auditioning for the afterlife. His cankles have achieved the structural density of pudding. Every step he takes looks like a war crime against geometry. He moves through space like a haunted beanbag chair, listing sideways, one ankle begging for retirement while the other files a grievance with gravity. The White House swears he’s “vigorous.” Sure. Vigorous the way a toaster fire is “passionate.”

The whole thing’s turned into Cirque du Cardiac, a nightly sideshow of denial and decay starring one man and his failing organs. He can’t walk in a straight line, can’t hear a question, can’t remember which lie he’s currently telling, but still finds time to roast his own body like a county fair roast pig that learned self-awareness.

“No one wants to see my sorry ass on a beach,” he says.

He’s right, we don’t, but not just for the reason he thinks. It isn’t modesty. It’s physics. The ocean would recoil on instinct, like creation itself trying to correct a mistake.

So, for now, we’re all just here, watching the world’s weirdest exit interview, wondering what the hell is wrong with him, knowing we’ll find out soon enough.

And when it finally happens, it won’t be quiet. The earth will throw a block party. Volcanoes will high-five. The oceans will breathe again. Somewhere, a choir of exhausted therapists will pop champagne and start a GoFundMe for collective relief.

Hell will hang a “Welcome Home” banner. Heaven will lock its gates. The history books will sigh, flip the page, and add a footnote that says, We tried.

And we’ll be on the beach he swore no one wanted to see him on, beer in hand, sun on our faces, watching the tide roll back in and whisper to each other, finally, the shrimp is cooked.

And with that, today’s song:

I love you guys!

Stay safe, stay sane(ish), and SEE YOU AT THE MARCHES ON SATURDAY!!

💙 Jo