The Orange Fuckwit Still Breathes

Listen, you slack-jawed information-age chickens glued to your screens: from the outside in, the rest of the world – the entire fucking world – can see it with eyes that still work. Trump has lost the plot. Not misplaced it. Not temporarily set it down while he jerked off to his own reflection. Lost it. The man’s brain is a derelict carnival ride spinning in vacuum, lights flickering, calliope wheezing out half-remembered lies about crowd sizes and perfect phone calls. Detached from reality? That’s too polite, too clinical. He’s not detached – he’s fucking ejected, launched himself into a private orbit where gravity is optional, facts are treason, and the only constant is the echo of his own voice bouncing off the walls of his gilded skull.

I sit here in this reeking apartment, lungs full of yesterday’s smoke and tomorrow’s bile, watching feeds from every corner of this dying rock. London, Berlin, Tokyo, fucking Brasília – they all see the same thing: a gibbering orange tumour squatting in the most powerful chair on the planet, muttering about enemies that only exist in his dementia-addled fanfiction. He twitches at shadows, declares victory over physics, threatens to turn allies into vassals or glow-in-the-dark parking lots. And the planet holds its breath, wondering when the twitch becomes a button-push.

How has this ambulatory shitshow not been removed? How is he still there, one year into the sequel nobody asked for, still shitting executive orders like a constipated warlord? The 25th Amendment? A joke. A parchment condom on a gangbang of cowards. Congress? A zoo of bought hyenas and trembling interns who’d rather rim the Beast than risk their pensions. The courts? Busy fellating precedent while the Constitution bleeds out on the marble. And you – the people? Half of you are still cheering because he promises to fuck over the other half first. The rest are too tired, too medicated, too scared of the knock at 3 a.m. to do anything but refresh the feed and pray it ends before the radiation does.

He’s a clear and present danger. Not just to your cheeseburger empire of AR-15s and insulin rationing. To the whole stinking globe. One senile whim and we’re all eating fallout for breakfast. One more lie tweeted at 4 a.m. and the missiles fly because he felt small that day. The world looks at this slow-motion car crash and asks the same question I ask every time I see his smug grin: why hasn’t someone yanked the wheel?

Because the system is built on collaborators. Because lies are currency now, and truth is a boutique luxury for masochists. Because journalism got neutered into clickbait while the real journalists are either dead, exiled, or screaming into the void with a keyboard that’s seen more blood than ink.

I remember when The Beast got elected the first time. I wrote “FUCK” eight thousand times and then published it. They wouldn’t dare publish this. They’d call it unhinged, inflammatory, a threat to democracy. Good. Let them. Democracy’s already on life support, tubes up its nose, and this drooling fuckwit is holding the pillow.

Wake up. The Truth is still out there, buried under eight layers of bullshit and a spray-tan. Dig for it. Or don’t. But when the sky lights up orange – not his skin, the real orange – don’t say no one warned you.

Don’t trust the fuckhead.

Spider Out.