I don’t wanna talk about this fucking guy falling asleep every day.
I really don’t.
There are four thousand other things I’d rather be talking about.
The origin of the word pumice.
Whether squirrels have regional accents.
Whose job it is to name paint colors and what, specifically, is wrong with them.
Why barbecue grills have wheels and where exactly they think they’re going.
Literally anything else.
Unfortunately, we have to talk about this.
Because if the President of the United States can’t stay awake in the middle of the fucking afternoon while people are talking directly to him, that’s disqualifying on its fucking face.
And before the ass-polishing, reality-laundering, self-respect-auctioning little bullshit brokers and professional eyelid interpreters start hyperventilating, yes, I know exactly what they’re going to say.
He wasn’t sleeping.
He was “blinking.”
Blinking.
That’s the “defense.”
That’s the “argument.”
Folks, if that’s a blink, you could park a fucking 747 in it.
Not a Cessna.
Not a crop duster.
A 747.
You could taxi it in there, unload the passengers, refuel it, rotate the tires, and still have room left over for a Hudson News and a Sbarro.
That’s not a blink.
That’s a blink with a pension.
That’s a blink that winters in Boca.
That’s a blink you could get pregnant at the beginning of and cry at its college graduation at the end.
For years it was Sleepy Joe.
Sleepy Joe this.
Sleepy Joe that.
Donald Trump still says it.
Every yawn was breaking news.
Every stumble was a constitutional crisis.
Every awkward pause launched a thousand panic-peddling think pieces from an army of pearl-clutching bullshit merchants, concern-trolling chucklefucks, ratings-horny panic pimps, and microphone-humping crisis carnies.
These people treated Joe Biden’s gait like it was the Zapruder film.
Now suddenly they’ve become philosophers.
Now every blink broker, nap negotiator, excuse engineer, bullshit sommelier, reputation recycler, and credentialed curator of convenient reality in Washington has been called into action.
The fucking Avengers of Ocular Studies.
Now we need three neurologists, two ophthalmologists, a Vatican tribunal, and a hostage negotiator before anybody is allowed to say what they just saw.
“What is sleeping really? Does anyone know?”
Give me a fucking break.
In case anyone on the planet somehow missed it, the other day Don Snoreleone appeared to fall asleep during an event fellating him for his latest executive orders.
A sort of Make Black Lung Great Again summit.
An executive-order pageant dedicated to resurrecting industries that were already getting their asses kicked by economics, physics, and the relentless forward march of fucking time.
He had assembled a menagerie of soot-snorting oligarchs, pollution peddlers, carbon barons, welfare billionaires, and atmosphere-auctioning assholes celebrating the industrial equivalent of eating drywall for the calcium.
And somewhere in the middle of this industrial nostalgia convention, Teddy Dozevelt appeared to surrender to the Sandman.
And there he sat looking like his consciousness had packed a tiny suitcase, muttered “fuck this,” and exited through a trapdoor behind his eyes.
This gold-plated entropy machine is permanently stuck somewhere between REM sleep and a rage stroke.
A full-body surrender.
The posture of a man floating down a lazy river of NyQuil on an inflatable raft made entirely of spite, saturated fat, and unresolved childhood trauma.
Trying to locate his last functioning neuron like a man searching for a dropped contact lens in a swimming pool.
You could practically hear his nervous system rebooting.
Loading…
Cognitive function…
Failed.
Initiating standby mode.
And it didn’t stop there.
Because last night he held what they called a rally.
A rally.
Personally, I’ve seen more vigorous activity from a rotisserie chicken. Hell, I’ve witnessed more energetic public performances from a guy waiting for his colonoscopy.
Because that melon-hued motherfucker sat there the entire time.
Just parked in place, serving up the same bitter little buffet of boasts, lies, self-congratulation, vendettas, and verbal bumper stickers he’s been hauling around since flip phones still had antennas.
Only, seated.
The entire time.
At a certain point it stops being a rally and starts being story time at assisted living.
But they’re calling it a “round table.”
Because of fucking course they are.
Welcome to the next phase of Trump reality distortion.
We already have Trump math.
That’s the branch of “arithmetic” where drug prices fall by seven hundred percent.
A seven-hundred-percent reduction means CVS owes you money and throws in a free kayak.
That’s Trump math.
Numbers mean whatever they need to mean.
Now we have Trump consciousness.
In Trump consciousness, sleeping is blinking.
Confusion is focus.
A vacant stare becomes leadership.
A presidential fugue state becomes peak executive performance.
They want us to gaslight ourselves.
This shit isn’t even Orwell anymore.
Orwell was at least aiming for something grand and terrifying.
This is Nineteen Eighty-Four performed by the Pocono Playhouse summer stock company after three margaritas and a workplace concussion.
A Potemkin version of executive function propped up by a grotesquerie of excuses, ego maintenance, and industrial-strength shellack.
And that’s really the game, isn’t it?
Not just with this.
With everything.
Every single fucking time they push the line a little farther and then demand that we get used to the corruption, the lies, the grift, the fascism, the absurdity, the farce.
To accept it.
To normalize it.
They want us to look at the President of the United States sitting there in the middle of the afternoon, clutching that weird-ass black hand, slouched over like a cooked fucking shrimp, completely checked out while people are talking to him, and convince ourselves we didn’t just see what we saw.
Bullshit.
This guy should be in a Sleep Number bed, not the Oval Office.
And honestly?
Part of me wishes we could just let him fucking sleep.
Seriously.
Swaddle his saggy husk in a blanket stitched from the sacred fibers of the original Betsy Ross flag because you know that’s what he’d demand.
Ease his rage-marinated bobblehead onto one of Mike Lindell’s finest Mein Pillows.
Hang a little mobile of gold-plated golf carts, Sharpies, and framed Time magazine covers over the bed.
And then gather the Cabinet around him like nervous medieval courtiers attending to a sickly king and have them whisper softly:
You’re the strongest, sir.
You’re the tallest, sir.
You’re the smartest, sir.
You’re the youngest, sir.
You’re the thinnest, sir.
You’re the most historic president this country, or any country anywhere, has ever known.
You’re a stable genius, sir.
Nobody knows the word “dumb” has a B at the end like you do, sir.
Nobody has ever presidented harder than you.
Nobody has ever consciousnessed more magnificently than you.
Nobody has ever blinked more beautifully than you.
Believe me.
Then change his diaper and tuck him in.
Pull the covers up.
Dim the lights.
Read him Goodnight Moon.
And then as his swollen eyelids begin their long descent, the assembled ass kissers can sing softly:
🎶Hush, Lil’ Donnie, don’t you cry.
The bootlickers are standing by.
We’ll name everything after you.
And tell you all your lies are true.
Now close your eyes and count some sheep.
The grift can wait until next week.🎶
Let him sleep.
Because every minute Donald Trump spends asleep is one less minute the rest of us have to spend cleaning up whatever the fuck he does when he’s “awake.”
And with that, today’s song:
I love you guys!
Stay safe out there, stay strong and let’s GO KNICKS!!!! 🏀💙🧡
💙 Jo
