Moron McBlueSuit

MAGA’s melted circus peanut messiah does the Pope’s funeral.

This was the Super Bowl of funerals—the Pope’s own goddamn sendoff—where every world leader showed up dressed like they were competing for Sadness Olympics gold, draped in black so sharp and somber you’d think Death himself got a fucking wardrobe upgrade.

Macron looked like he was about to sign a peace treaty with God’s ghost. Even “Sleepy” Joe Biden, the guy Trump once roasted for dozing off, was wide-eyed and upright, channeling the ghost of presidential composure like someone had mainlined espresso into his veins. The scene oozed reverence, history, and enough class to make a Cartier diamond blush and crawl back into the motherfucking safe.

And then, like a whoopee cushion hidden under a velvet pew, in blundered Donald Trump—swaggering down the aisle in a suit so blue it looked like he’d mugged a Smurf on the way in. His tie was flapping like a flag in a hurricane, hair arranged in its usual “tornado meets cotton candy” formation, and his face set to that signature expression somewhere between “I just smelled something weird” and “I’m about to sell you a timeshare.”

While everyone else looked like extras in The Godfather’s most somber scene, Trump strolled in like he was late for a casino grand opening, radiating the kind of reverence you’d expect from a guy live-streaming his lunch order. If funerals had a dress code for “Please, God, Not That,” he’d already be banned from the afterlife.

He looked like he’d lost a bet with a colorblind loan shark. That suit wasn’t just blue; it was the kind of blue you see in a gas station Slurpee that stains your tongue for a week. He wasn’t just underdressed, he was anti-dressed: a walking, tweeting, self-tanning disaster, looking less like a world leader and more like the night manager at a strip mall pawn shop who just got catfished by a Russian bot.

But the fucking fashion trainwreck was just the appetizer. Trump didn’t just look like a lost Bible salesman, he acted like one too—the kind of greasy bastard who’d show up at your door with a suitcase full of gold-embossed King James knockoffs and, if you asked him to quote a verse, he’d mumble some horseshit about “Two Corinthians” before pivoting to a story about how Jesus would’ve loved his golf swing. He’s the spiritual ambassador from Our Lady of the Immaculate Backnine, where the only thing holier than the water hazard is his goddamn handicap. It’s the kind of church where the prayers are short, the sermons are self-congratulatory as fuck, and the only communion is a vodka tonic at the fucking 19th hole. You could practically hear the golf tees rattling in his pocket as he doomscrolled Twitter, probably planning to bless the congregation with a limited-edition Trump Bible—now with 20% more typos and zero actual fucking scripture.

While the world’s dignitaries stood in respectful silence, Trump was hunched over his phone, thumbs flying, shitposting like a Reddit troll on a four-day Adderall bender. He wasn’t paying tribute; he was farming engagement. No eulogy, just a digital trail of all-caps gibberish and conspiracy memes, probably tagging the Pope’s ghost and whining about “FAKE FUNERAL, SO SAD!” The man was so addicted to his phone he probably tried to Venmo the Vatican for “thoughts and prayers.”

He drooled into his lap, head bobbing like a dashboard hula girl, napping so hard the choir’s “Ave Maria” sounded like white noise. This is a guy who once cackled at Zelensky for not wearing a suit at the White House, now looking like he’d just rolled out of a casino at 4 a.m. after losing big on a Trump-branded slot machine. If hypocrisy were an Olympic sport, he’d be Michael Phelps in a Speedo made out of double standards and old tax returns.

He looked like a Cutco knives hustler who’d spent his last commission on Axe body spray and a Craigslist “massage.”

He wasn’t just embarrassing; he was radioactive. The Swiss Guard probably considered frisking him for dignity at the door, but realized he’d left it in 2015. He was the only man alive who could make the Pope’s funeral about himself, probably brainstorming how to slap a gold TRUMP logo on the Papal crypt. If there had been a dignity detector at the entrance, it would’ve been howling like a tornado siren.

He laughed at Zelensky’s wardrobe a few weeks ago, then showed up to the Vatican looking like he was about to offer you a “great deal” on a 2003 Chevy Malibu with only three previous owners and “just a little flood damage.” The only thing missing was a “Make Heaven Great Again” hat and a selfie stick.

Let’s not kid ourselves: if the seven deadly sins needed a fucking spokes-creep, it’d be Trump, oozing smug in that clown-ass blue suit, slouched in the pews like a bored toddler at church, radiating embarrassment on a global scale. Pride? This asshole would brag about his funeral crowd size before the incense even cleared. Greed? He’d scalp VIP altar seats and hawk “Trump’s Holy Water” out of the goddamn confessional. Lust? Don’t even let him near the nuns—he’d slide into their DMs before communion. Envy? Every dignitary in the room was just another target for his whiny, gold-plated insecurities. Gluttony? His bottomless appetite for attention made the Vatican’s buffet table consider early retirement. Wrath? Give someone else a bigger round of applause and he’d probably try to suplex a cardinal. Sloth? The guy’s snoring through “Ave Maria” like it’s NyQuil and warm milk.

The Vatican’s seen sinners, but never the entire unholy buffet barfed up in one orange, self-obsessed, spray-tanned dumpster goblin.

He turned the world’s holiest farewell into a sideshow starring himself, a one-man circus of tackiness, hypocrisy, and pure, weaponized embarrassment. While dignitaries paid their respects, Trump made the whole thing about himself—a spray-tanned spectacle that left everyone wishing the Vatican had a bouncer.

So here’s to Moron McBlueSuit: the only walking dumpster fire who could turn the Pope’s funeral into a punchline, a meme, and a cautionary tale all at once. Next time, he should stay home and tweet from the golf cart—leave the grown-up table to those who still remember what respect fucking looks like.

In lieu of a song today, I shall leave you with this:

amberrosepr

A post shared by @amberrosepr

I love you guys. Stay safe, stay sane-ish, stay the fuck away from Moron McBlueSuit.

And feel better, Debby!! We love you!!

💙 Jo