A Day of Rest

It was fun for a while Donald, your bumbling, your guffaws, your shenanigans. We enjoyed opening the paper or turning on the TV to see what mischief you were up to each day. Would you tweet the end of the world? Grab sweet liberty by the pussy? Use the same self-referential words—tremendous greatest smartest—over and over and over afraid that if you stopped, you and your words would vanish. We watched as you got deeper and deeper into the shit with nothing showing but two tiny hands grasping for higher ratings. It’s been fun, but suddenly we’re tired, we’re tuckered out, we need a break, a day of rest, a reprieve. Time to catch our breath, a shower to rinse off the stench. We’ve been going 24/7 for months; we can’t take it anymore. All the breaking news is breaking us. We’re not as strong as your minions encased in their coconut shells. Please Donald, click your polished oxfords and return to the Trump Tower or wrap your gorgeous silk tie around the 54th street bridge and jump. Leave us with a whimper, not a bang. It would be great it would be tremendous it would be smart. And we could all take our summer vacations without the Donald on our minds. A real Ferris Bueller’s day off.

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