I have given considerable thought to President Trump’s administration, and I find that I can endorse it no longer. It is, quite simply, too stinky.
For a while now, I have been hesitant to explain my reasoning publicly. Cancel culture remains alive and well in this country, and I have no desire to be sent to my room. Nevertheless, there are lines where personal comfort must yield to principle, and the truth must be spoken plainly:
President Trump is a doo-doo pants with pee-pee breath.
This is not a characterization I offer lightly.
I believe the president is currently wearing a stinky diaper containing at least one doo-doo, based on the facial expressions he frequently makes, which bear an unmistakable resemblance to those of a baby going poopy.
In much the same way that the Iran Hostage Crisis came to define the presidency of Jimmy Carter, so too have Trump’s doo-doo pants come to define him. He does not simply have doo-doo pants. He has become the doo-doo pants, and the White House desperately needs a wipey.
The people surrounding the president inspire little more confidence. His administration is populated by individuals who, in my considered judgment, sniff butts.
Stephen Miller, for example, looks like my big toe, and every time this little piggy opens his mouth, I want to make him eat bugs.
Pete Hegseth carries the fragile ego of a man who was told he was “stupid times infinity” and has just realized one cannot multiply stupid any further.
RFK sounds like my glass of milk when I blow into the straw and make bubbles, yet he is the color of orange juice. Why is that?
And Vice President JD Vance reminds me of my uncle. Not my fun uncle. The other one with the beardy face whose car doesn’t even have televisions in the back seats.
These are not insignificant concerns that can be explained away with “I know what you are, but what am I?” Because they know exactly who they are. They are butt sniffers who smell the rank stench of President Doo-Doo Pants, yet refuse to stop him, let alone change his poopy dipey.
President Trump himself has also become extremely boring. He talks too much on television when America should be watching cartoons instead. He is also perpetually cranky, which may be related to the impending doom of the coming midterms, the current quagmire that is the Strait of Hormuz, or the doo-doo currently residing in his pants.
More troubling, however, is the president’s apparent confusion regarding the constitutional limits of his office.
The United States is not a monarchy. Presidents are not allowed to be kings. It’s against the rules drafted by the Pilgrims during the first Thanksgiving. It is why America has presidents while England has kings.
This distinction matters.
The economy is bad. I know this because I am allowed to spend five dollars when we go to the store, and that used to be enough for my favorite cereal and a candy bar. Now, I must choose either the cereal or the candy bar.
This is inflation, and it is completely self-inflicted. Every explanation seems to have one thing in common. It’s Trump’s tariffs, Trump’s war, Trump’s oil prices. Trump, Trump, Trump.
All that matters is that I used to get two things. Now I have one. Bluey was on the cereal box, but there was no toy inside. Yet Trump calls this a level of prosperity we have never seen before, and all the butt sniffers agree.
Foreign policy paints an equally troubling picture. I firmly oppose the continuation of the war in Iran because shooting people hurts them, and that is bad-guy stuff.
This does not mean Iran is the good guy. There is no yin to this yang, and there can be more than one bad guy. This is something adults appear to have considerable difficulty understanding, despite it being extremely obvious. Batman has lots of bad guys.
No, I believe the only unambiguous heroes in this debacle are the brave members of Paw Patrol. I am particularly fond of Rex because he is a dog, but he also has wheels because he is a wheelchair dog, which is cool.
I suspect the Trump administration would call that DEI.