Has there ever been, in the history of mankind, or whatever genus of jackbooted Jell-O he technically belongs to, a bigger fucking crybaby than Donald J. “for Genius” Trump?
My God, that puling, peevish, petulant pantload, that sniveling, snot-sucking sultan of self-pity, that heaping pile of clammy deli trimmings that looks like somebody tried to sous-vide a Stretch Armstrong in the cloudy runoff from a can of hot-car Vienna sausages, is so absolutely, mind-bogglingly, embarrassingly pathetic.
Does Fat Satan hold the unofficial world record for competitive pissbabying? Get Guinness on the phone, but don’t tell this diapered dauphin of disappointment there’s a certificate, or we’ll never get the gelatinous little glory whore off the line.
He’s been whining nonstop about the “Noble” Peace Prize while we’re in the middle of a war he started and this preening, pud-pulling prima donna is picking out tile for his bulletproof ballroom, because heaven forbid he have to do his double-fisted jerk-and-twist to “YMCA” on a floor that doesn’t flatter his cankles.
He’s also trying to sue me again for posting a picture of him with a pedophile, as if I’m the one who should’ve been more careful about who he was standing next to. But I digress.
This pick-me, panhandling pork rind has spent years dry-humping the committee’s leg without learning the name of the fucking prize, because apparently the self-proclaimed stable genius who keeps reminding us that nobody knows the word “dumb” ends with a B can’t distinguish Nobel from Noble.
All that panting, pawing, and varnishing its corduroys with orange chin grease, and he still thinks “no” is a clerical error he can overturn by forcing himself upon whoever and whatever he wants.
And they gave it to a WOMAN? In the putrid, pustulent, pussy-grabbing primordial sludge that passes for his presidential psyche, a woman is something HE gets, not somebody who gets something HE wants.
Barack Obama has a Nobel Peace Prize, and that’s nine hundred percent of what’s eating this envious little bastard alive.
Obama has one. He doesn’t. He can fill the White House with enough gold to make a Saudi prince request a less ostentatious table, and there will still be that one shiny thing Barack has that he couldn’t buy, browbeat, or bitch his way into being awarded.
Obama, young, lean, ludicrously handsome, wickedly intelligent, devastatingly articulate, with that slow grin, that velvet baritone, that exquisite composure, and a lethal wit he could deliver with one raised eyebrow, sexy enough to make a woman mistake a discussion of monetary policy for foreplay and briefly resent Ben Bernanke for wasting that mouth on the fucking bond market, stood at that 2011 White House Correspondents’ Dinner and filleted him in a tuxedo.
A Black man with all that grace, all that gravitas, all that effortless command of a room this prestige-starved parasite would gargle warm denture water just to impress. In the rancid racial pecking order Donald had inherited right along with the real estate, this man was supposed to be beneath him.
Donald had been peddling the racist birther bullshit that Barack Obama wasn’t even born in the United States, trying to delegitimize the first Black president. And there was Barack, standing behind the presidential seal, making him the fucking punch line for all the world to see.
For a creature of such colossal conceit and cringing insecurity—a vainglorious, vindictive vulgarian—having Obama strip the gilt off his entire goddamn existence must have been fucking annihilating. The genius, the tycoon, the irresistible ladies’ man: he’d spent decades bullying the world into accepting his bullshit as biography, until The Apprentice gave the mythology a boardroom and a broadcast schedule.
This counterfeit Casanova even posed as his own publicist, John Miller, to tell reporters how many women wanted to fuck Donald Trump. He invented another person to corroborate his own bullshit.
And now the actual president was peeling the cellophane off the whole fraudulent creation in front of the Washington press corps, and the man who demanded everybody’s admiration had to endure the public evisceration of the mythology he’d spent his entire life trying to pass off as himself.
And the room laughed. Oh, how they laughed and laughed and laughed.
Obama even put up a mock-up labeled “Trump White House Resort and Casino,” which, considering the People’s House now looks like Saddam Hussein’s third wedding in a Paramus banquet hall, where somebody’s spray-painted the shrimp gold because the groom thought they looked poor, was pretty fucking clairvoyant.
All these years later, Baron von Bitchfit is mentally still at that Correspondents’ Dinner, jaw clenched, corn-niblet fingers curled into fists beneath the table, furiously rehearsing the comeback he wishes he’d delivered before Barack got back from the bathroom.
Except now his comeback has a motorcade and a military budget.
That humiliation seared itself into whatever spite-saturated substitute for a soul this man possesses and metastasized into Obama-Induced Resentment Syndrome, a chronic, terminal condition. He wants the footage destroyed, the witnesses to swear they were choking on dinner rolls, Barack to confess his lifelong envy of Donald’s magnificent physique, and the Nobel committee to issue a groveling apology for its catastrophic error in judgment. He wants to know why winning the presidency TWICE hasn’t entitled Donnie Diapers to unlimited pudding and official recognition as the most special boy in the universe.
None of that is happening, but Veruca Salt in a pair of black patent-leather Florsheims with three inches of elevator lifts and enough heel polish to waterproof a bass boat isn’t leaving Wonka’s factory without her golden goose, even if she has to threaten the Oompa Loompas with federal indictments.
Sooner or later, that overstuffed bad egg is headed down the garbage chute.
And all the while, he’s so spectacularly constipated with resentment that he actually had Barack’s portrait moved and slapped up that oversized “painting” of himself after the assassination attempt, a Franklin Mint limited-edition “Presidential Martyrdom” collectible that looks like it came with a certificate of authenticity, a complimentary velvet display pouch, and six easy payments of $39.95, batteries not included.
The damn thing doesn’t even fit the wall panel.
Unable to wrestle Obama’s Nobel out of the universe, the Great Orange Gland of Grievance got his greasy meat mittens on somebody else’s. María Corina Machado, Venezuela’s opposition leader, handed him her 2025 medal in January, apparently hoping to secure his support for her bid to lead the country. She surrendered the most prestigious honor of her career to a man who’d sell his own grandmother’s dental implants for a McRib coupon, and what did she get in return? Fuck all. No endorsement, no path to power, not even a lousy refrigerator magnet from the White House gift shop. He pocketed her medal, announced he’d received the honor “indirectly,” and essentially told her, “Thanks, bitch. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
And even THAT wasn’t enough for Beelzeblubber, who wants EIGHT peace prizes, one for each war this medal-mad, megalomaniacal mound of presidential mortadella claims he “ended.”
By that standard, I deserve one for not losing my mind when my daughter turned my kitchen into an artisanal pumpkin muffin sweatshop at MIDNIGHT.
Another for the restraint I demonstrated at a stoplight when some horn-humping jackass in a Dodge Ram was riding so far up my ass he could’ve performed a colonoscopy through the tailpipe, and I only flipped him off THREE TIMES.
And a third for not informing my neighbor that her drunk-ass husband asked me about my sex life while I was handing out Halloween candy, because maintaining peaceful relations between sovereign households while a shitfaced suburban satyr conducts unsolicited research into my vagina over a bowl of fun-size Snickers requires the restraint of a bomb-disposal technician.
Did I summon the Norwegian ambassador to acknowledge my extraordinary contributions to suburban détente? No. I went inside and ate a leftover muffin.
The Tangerine Tantrum Tyrant expects the full Scandinavian production, complete with trumpets, tuxedos, a twenty-one-gun salute, and preferably a notarized statement confirming Barack Obama’s dick is smaller than his.
He’d insist his proctologist submit a five-star review of his asshole for inclusion in the banquet program, then demand to be carried into Oslo on a gilded sedan chair by four Norwegian weightlifters in orthopedic back braces while the string section abandons the overture to fan his swollen, swampy balls with their sheet music, assuming the cellist can hoist that collapsed wedding cake of Man-FUPA without giving himself a fucking hernia.
Even after all that ceremonial ball ventilation, he’d need Daddy to tell him he’s a good boy, which leaves the Nobel committee playing the role of five Norwegians in oatmeal-colored fisherman sweaters who can refuse him without getting fired.
Daddy said no, Donnie. Daddy keeps saying no. You need to stop fucking asking.
Except the Pouting Potentate of Pissbabyvania doesn’t hear no. He hears an invitation to apply pressure, punish, and threaten until whoever’s refusing him submits or breaks. He believes wanting something obligates everyone else to surrender it. Countries. Institutions. Women. Consent is an administrative inconvenience. He told us on the Access Hollywood tape: “I don’t even wait.”
He. Doesn’t. Wait.
Grab ’em by the Peace Prize.
He thinks the Nobel committee owes him a medal for taking his boot off a throat he put it on. With Iran, he’s demanding the medal before he’s even lifted the fucking boot—counting it among the wars he supposedly settled while still talking about how he’s going to settle or win it, as though starting a fire and eventually getting bored with watching it burn qualifies as an advanced degree in fire prevention.
That’s the arsonist who torches the Sizzler, calls 911, and plants his ass on the fire hose demanding a hero’s parade because he rescued the five-gallon bucket of ranch dressing. The firefighters are trying to save the building, the salad bar has reached temperatures ordinarily associated with Mercury, and this kerosene-cologned catastrophe is demanding the fire chief thank him personally before asking whether the cameras caught his good side.
Ending a war you started doesn’t make you a peacemaker. And “winning” a war you started sure as shit doesn’t make you one either.
Take that definition to Minab, where a U.S. strike hit a girls’ school and killed 175 children, and explain to the parents who buried them why the man presiding over the war deserves a gala and a commemorative photograph with the king of Norway.
Their daughters are dead, and this self-absorbed sack of presidential suet expects the world to console him because nobody gave him a necklace.
As if the dead children weren’t enough, Mussolini Alfredo is preparing to livestream the firing-squad execution of Nidal Hasan, the Fort Hood murderer, who uses a wheelchair. American soldiers, a condemned man, a worldwide audience, and a government convinced that military justice has been missing a production crew.
Gandhi never even got the fucking medal, but this bloodthirsty butter sculpture expects one while his people work out the camera angles for a public fucking execution.
Giving this malevolent, marauding madman a Nobel Peace Prize is like giving Jeffrey Dahmer a James Beard Award for sourcing locally, Ted Bundy a Volunteer of the Year plaque for helping lovely young women carry things to his car, and Joe Exotic the Carole Baskin Award for Excellence in Conflict Resolution.
And since we’re handing out honors to men whose résumés read like evidence inventories, find this spray-tanned supplicant a consolation prize before he works himself into a presidential prolapse. Rummage through the recycling, find a Fancy Feast lid, punch two holes in it, and thread a ribbon through the bastard. Check the edges, because I refuse to spend three weeks hearing that the president received a Purple Heart for being lightly inconvenienced by a can of Gravy Lovers Ocean Whitefish & Tuna.
Hang it around his neck, tell him it’s an upgrade on his FIFA Peace Prize, pat him on the head, and give him a chocolate chip cookie. Throw in a juice box and a participation certificate with a gold foil sticker that says WORLD’S BEST DONALD.
None of it fucking matters, because I’m never gonna be a natural blonde married to Ewan McGregor, he’s never gonna be a six-foot-three, 213-pound, high-IQ genius, and there isn’t enough gold in Fort Knox to bribe, bully, blackmail, or bludgeon somebody into hanging something around his sweaty neck-fold cheese that will ever make him a man of peace.
He’s not a war-ender. He’s not a humanitarian. He’s not some magnanimous, merciful, olive-branch-wielding statesman. He’s a sadistic, self-sucking, spectacularly spiteful son of a bitch who doesn’t give a solitary shit about peace unless there’s a piece of something in it for him.
Barack Obama is never going to apologize for embarrassing him.
That room full of people is never going to stop laughing at him.
And the Nobel committee is never giving that fat, ugly fuck a prize.
UPDATE: What I feared would happen when I finally told my story about the Trumps coming after me happened: another letter, six pages of threats citing my tweets and the very Substack essay I wrote about them threatening me, because now they’re threatening me for telling you they’re threatening me.
It’s straight up harassment, and I’d be lying to all of you if I said it didn’t scare the shit out of me, or that I haven’t spent a good chunk of the last two days crying, but I will be goddamned if I let them scare me into silence.
I’m fairly sure this is going to result in a lawsuit, but I guess we’ll wait and see, because I’m not going to stop.
In the meantime, thank you, all of you, for your incredible, unwavering support—it’s the only way I’m getting through this.
I love you guys! Stay safe, stay strong, and stay connected to each other!
💙 Jo
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