The Official Issuance of a Challenge That Could Be Accepted Sometime Never, Maybe

Ambiguous, thick, largely inaccessible {to the average intellect} section about me:

Should I have known that Thierry’s father not only grew up a lucky orphan in a charming haven near the Scottish border, but also that he made himself a hard-working, easily amused Englishman who lived by the seat of his pants into adulthood? Early in life, Papa D learned about the nutritional benefits specific to bivalves (namely mussels and scallops [nothing against clams {at least not fundamentally}]). To protect his anonymity, [&] henceforth, I’ll call him (some derivative of) Daniel. His childhood isn’t sad—he enjoyed good health in daily life well into his sixties. [REDACTED] Before the arbitrary legal assignment of “adulthood,” the old chap whose crooning yarn spins upon our fortunate wheel of procedurally generated time, her future father happily let himself get swept away to Ireland alongside his more experienced {and more than apt to teach} bonnie lass [4 years his senior]. Never forget that my genetic coding dictates a colorful divergence from ordinarily wild perspectivity. I can’t think like you think; therefore, I will phrase things differently (even when we’re expressing the same thought/emotion). Evidently, their “X-rated” [you know, chromosomally] sexual primes overlapped in twisting trains of magnetic heat and fruitful passion. Madeleine [TNT] was the third of their five girls. Her “Daddy” [you remember Danny Boy, don’t you?] aligned his loyalty seasonally with a new underdog every year (in the Premier League). How could I possibly know this? A ladylike house of noble manner on the street, but a starving clan of poetic freaks between the sheeted lines of inaccessible exorbitance [REDACTED] through the linen pockets of cloudlike dreams upon the timed laps of luxurious oblivion[/oblivious luxury].

ARK

Now I have a story to tell about another. It goes like this.

So. A rather simple boy—and for some reason, I‘d be skeptical of any tales suggesting that he came into the world “very quickly and very easily” [oops, is this a spoiler?]—born into a life of obscene wealth, and who grew cocky in his confidence of living consequence-free amidst a celebrated facade of savoring indignity through indignant behavior, whether by design or otherwise, has redefined the American presidency. Cool.

Oh, dang, this is real life? So cool.

Also, in case you missed a major point of underlying implication, yeah, I’m saying that he’s still a boy. Indeed, emotionally, #45 is a little. Period. Noun.

Also, in case you were wondering, yup, I would say all this to his face; the only “challenge” would be trying not to laugh (too much). I’m just kidding—I’ve learned not to suppress laughter; it’s involuntary and feels good, after all! I’m not joking. Plus I’m not that insensitive when it comes to children with special needs. I’m just/not kidding.

In fact, give me a stage with a podium and—in a debate that would haunt The Donald for the rest of his life—I’ll make allllllllll the fluids evacuate his tired, shitty body.

Wait, am I (still not) kidding?

Even when I kid, I’m serious.

“Just another day in paradox.”

Somewhere in here, a moral about quick and easy fixes beseeches our acknowledgment, but I can’t do all the work, okay? Use your own brain, dammit. Plus I feel weirdly drunk despite having not recently imbibed any yeasty byproducts. Blame the anomalous connectivity of my neural pathways if you must.

Ahem, to be crystal fucking clear, I am saying with profound certainty that yes, absolutely, 100%, I would make a better POTUS than Donald John Trump.

Then again, I’m also quite sure that so, too, would you.

And that’s the point.

A bumbling blind person stumbles and fumbles repeatedly in leading a loyal procession across an unforgiving desert—metaphorically speaking, obviously; don’t worry about it; gosh—while slinging sand across the many faces of the people who pledged to follow him over an undulating sea of endless dunes under a scorching sun?

Hard pass.

Put another way, hell naw.

And one day, he’ll know, too.

Postscript:

Yeah but for real gimme the opportunity to man an opposing podium and I’ll pummel his plump rump into an undignified, messy submission, and this is coming from the female voice of an illegal alien.

Mmhmm. Ouch.

“Come at me, bro.”

In case you were (not) wondering, no, Donald’s appearance in Wrestlemania 23 didn’t intimidate me.

Kissy face.

Addendum:

Words just come out of me, okay? Can’t help it. I thought I was about to take a breather, but while listening to the American President’s commencement address at West Point, my head got split wide open by a freshly brewed freight train of stormy brain-puke. May I never run out of steam. Here are the contents found inside only a handful of the boxcars.

• Half-serious question: has he ever a taken speech class, and if so, what grade was he given, was it above the letter G, and am I dead?

• Unbiased observation: he can no longer say “China” without inflecting underlying hostility.

• Hyperbolic take: he announced his administration’s plan to pump 2 trillion dollars into augmenting this country’s already obscenely loaded military. He even repeated the word “trillion” before blurting, “With a T.” First, what about the “r”? Second, from which magical money tree will those funds fruit? Please provide exact GPS coordinates because I might wanna punch my ticket to Mars. Because third, are we gearing up to murder the whole fucking PLANET??

• Recurring feeling: 🤢

• Conservative opinion: increasingly, and through the synergistic combination of both his limited vernacular and inflexible demeanor, he personifies, shall we say, a one-dimensional would-be tyrant. What you see? Yeah, that’s what we’re getting.

• Liberal assessment: he falls somewhere between a black-and-white caricature of himself and a little brown bag of feces that was dropped on our porch and set ablaze.

• Remotely polite, pointlessly direct address: Mr. Trump, you should immediately abandon the mindset that the pandemic is a war and by extension that the virus is our enemy. It confuses you. COVID-19 couldn’t care less how many fancy missiles you’re stockpiling, POTUS-45, because it is physically incapable of caring at all due to being a virus and thus it technically contains NOT ONE SINGLE CELL.

• Outburst of exasperation: GOD.

• Connected exclamation: Damn!

• A word as telling as it is stupid: ‘Merica!