What the actual fuck is this? I’m sitting here, chain-smoking my way through a pack of cancer sticks, trying to wrap my skull around this steaming pile of absurdity, and it still doesn’t compute. Who does this orange-tinted bastard think he is, swaggering around like some spray-tanned god-emperor with a comb-over that looks like a roadkill ferret? He’s the president of America, not France, last I checked—though I wouldn’t trust that bloated narcissist to run a lemonade stand, let alone a country. So why the fuck is he sticking his greasy mitts across the Atlantic, demanding they spring a convicted crook like it’s his personal sandbox?
Did this stupid bastard watch Team America: World Police and think it was a goddamn documentary? Is that it? Did he see puppet cops blowing shit up and think, “Yeah, that’s me, baby—world’s hall monitor with a nuclear hard-on”? For fuck’s sake, America, get a leash on this clown before he screws the planet harder than a two-bit hooker on a Friday night bender. I’m begging you, and I don’t beg for anything that doesn’t come in a bottle or a syringe.
Let’s back up, because context is everything, and this story’s got more stink than a sewer rat’s armpit. The other day, I told you about Marine Le Pen, that dodgy French politico with a smile like a guillotine blade. She got caught with her grubby paws wrist-deep in the cookie jar—embezzled a few million Euros, the kind of cash that could buy you a small island or a big yacht to cry on when the law comes knocking. Her punishment? Four years in the clink, two suspended, and a five-year ban from politics. Soft, if you ask me. I say lock her up for life—someone that slimy shouldn’t be trusted to run a corner shop, let alone a nation. She’d probably sell the shelves for scrap and pocket the nails.
And now? Today, this orange shit-stain from across the pond decides he’s got opinions. He’s demanding France let her loose, like she’s some misunderstood saint and not a grifter who’d rob her own grandmother’s dentures. “Release her!” he barks, probably from a gold-plated toilet while tweeting something incoherent about “winning.” What the hell is going on in that man’s head? If anything’s even rattling around in there, it’s probably just loose change and half-remembered lines from The Apprentice.
This isn’t leadership—it’s a tantrum with a body count. This is a guy who thinks the world’s a reality show and he’s the star, stomping over borders and laws like they’re just pesky stage directions. France doesn’t need his spray-tanned ass meddling in their justice system, and neither do we. Somebody, anybody, drag this bastard off the stage before he turns the whole planet into his personal dumpster fire. I’m out of cigarettes, and I’m out of patience. Wake the fuck up.
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