Donald Trump is an overgrown mutant toddler. He is that kid in the grocery store falling out in aisle 7 because he’s not getting any gummy bears. That kid on the airplane who stares at you from the back of his seat then pokes his tongue out at you and when you politely tell his mom he claims you threatened to punch him. He’s a temper tantrum having little bitch of a kid; the kind some of us will admit that if we’d given birth to him we’d be looking longingly at the clinic for the rest of our lives.
I don’t usually watch debates. They make me insanely nervous. And since I suffer from anxiety it’s like having my toenails pulled out slowly by a duck billed platypus’ weirdo flippers. But I watched this time because this is one of the most important events of my adult life. Like, life changing important. Like, my quarter life crisis involves getting herpes from an exotic male stripper while being lost in the desert type important because that’s what I feel like after suffering through that debate; I just came home from my shenanigans and the doctor told me I have herpes and this particular strain is characterized by bright orange festering sores covered in sparse blond hair. Herpes thy name is Trump.
But I think I know the cure. Because while y’all were mad at him and pulling out your hair screaming at your tv, I was sitting quietly just mad at his mama. Yup. That woman should be ashamed of herself. As a mother and self proclaimed BadMommi the very last thing I want to do is judge another woman’s choices while raising her offspring. But, ma’am? You have been not only lackadaisical and negligent of your duties but you have actually set motherhood back to cave man era fend-for-yourself child rearing which consisted of popping a baby out and just hoping it survived against saber tooth tigers.
Because Donald Trump is feral and needs an ass whupping; that’s what would make this country great again. He needs a full on, pants down, open hand, over the knee whupping for acting up in front of company. A chased you-around-the-house-and-up-the-stairs-but-I-still-have-enough-energy-to-crack-that-belt whupping. A, “I’m not one of your little friends,” and “I’ll give you something to cry about,” ass whupping. He deserves an all out, full on, unforgettable spanking and afterwards we’d all be in a much better space.
How would this fix the problem, you may be pondering? Hitting kids is illegal and wrong, you might say. Why don’t we use our words? Well, I know he deserves a whupping of epic portions because Donald Trump doesn’t seem to understand words. He doesn’t have the basic foundation of a supportive childhood to help him comprehend words because the following is clearly quite true:
He was never told no. Sometimes you tell your child no not because you don’t have it or because you don’t want to but just because it feels good. I say no so often I’ve been known to answer questions like, “Are we eating dinner?” “Can I go to the bathroom?” and “My name is Miles, right?” with a resounding, “No!”
The word “no” is good for a child’s soul and feels soothing on a mom’s tongue. “No” teaches us that we can’t always have our way. That debate was evidence this word had never been uttered to this bright orange Cheeto. Had it been deployed he would know you can’t explain how you are right by saying, “because I’m right.”
He would also know that you can’t be president just because you think it looks fun but you don’t actually understand the job. Because the way he answered those questions last night assured me that I need to call my management company and have them turn the laundry room into a bomb shelter for protection from all the countries who hate us now. If he said Mexico one more time I was going to explode. All Mama Trump had to do around age 3 was, “No Donald, you cannot take that truck from your classmate just because you said it was yours and he’s brown.” You had one fucking job, Mama Trump! One!
He lies. All politicians lie. We know. Hillary lies. I know. But the lies that Hillary tells are the, “I-know-how-this-game-is-played-and-if-y’all-knew-all-the-real-shit-we-did-behind-closed-doors-you-would-have-nightmares-so-just-keep-watching-Scandal” lies. Donald’s lies are the dangerous kind. These are outright ridiculous lies. Blatant, big disastrous lies. The kind of lies you tell when you’re an asshole kid. He lies like a 2 year old who just learned to enjoy the taste of words in his mouth. He lies like a kid who came back from being on punishment but says he just went on a cruise so his friends won’t know he got punked by his mom. He lies so that you start to question your own sanity.
Once I watched Miles stick a fork in the socket and blow out all the lights in the living room and then look directly in the eyes with a full serious face and said, “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t do it.” But. I. Just. Saw. You. I watched you with my own eyes! And you know what happens to kids who lie like that in normal, loving homes? Ass whuppings. Or at least time out for a week. But the way Donald lies about the things WE ALL HAVE ON RECORD signals to me that a firm hand has never touched his bottom.
He doesn’t play well with others. He’s that kid at school everybody hates because he’s a bully but then gets mad because he says everybody is picking on him. It’s always everybody else’s fault. And you know what happened to that kid in my school? He got punched in the face. And then his mama came and whupped his ass in front of the class because he kept tattletaling stupid shit and she was sick of coming up to the school.
“Not nice. She’s not being nice. That’s very not nice.” I started to feel like we should abolish the word “nice” just because Trump seems to think it means, “She’s not doing what I say!” His lips would have poked out in protest but he doesn’t really have any; more like an outlined hole out of which atrocities pour. Again, Trump doesn’t understand words. The word “nice” doesn’t mean agreeing with everything you say or taking your abuse with a smile. It means treating someone with the respect and dignity of a human being. It is clear that he lost this definition in his flash card pack back in kindergarten. But let me help you, Mr. Trump: nice = not being a whiny bitch ass brat.
He won’t groom himself. It is a known fact that boys sometimes do not like to groom. Miles cried like I was choking him when I gave him a bath as a baby and he sometimes goes into the bathroom, turns on the shower and just stands there at 13. He’s like a cat, water being his sworn enemy. He also hates lotion, toothbrushes and combs. It is struggle to leave the house without him being smelly, ashy and lint covered.
That being said, I am 100% sure Melania goes through the same painstaking torture each morning. All I have to say is: blond straw combover. It looked like the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz (notably not The Wiz as no black person mythological or otherwise should step anywhere near this day glow cluster fuck called a man) finally got his brains from the Wizard and needed the extra space in his head so he decided to store his excess hay with Trump. No amount of coconut oil can fix that, sweetie. None.
Moral of the story: start disciplining your kids before they grow up to be over-pompous, hate spewing, nonsensical, overripe, talking carrots. Or they become Trump supporters. Because those of you who agree with this tomfoolish fuckery need a swift kick in the throat. #sorrynotsorry #youcanallgetit #myjobtitleisprofessionalasswhupper #askmyson. And since wants to keep mentioning his name, let’s all take a cue from Mama Obama and raise kids who are intelligent, poised and full of ideas instead of bullshit. Get on your job BadMommis!