|
The president was having a hard time making GBS threads and it was a problem for everyone. Pmurt drank down his full calorie coca-cola in order to wash down his benzos and gas station quality amphetamines. These of course induced paranoia, a lack of ability to sleep and kept him from making GBS threads, however, Truumo had been doing these drugs for so long that he took these problems as a matter of course. Drumpf's domestic policy had primarily been reduced to apps these days as the intel community had given up on getting him to read anything. Right next to the Twitter app, one of two apps on his phone, was a picture of a drone that would send someone with a paper to sign, which he loved to do, and would authorize a drone strike on someone in the Middle East. He liked this button and pressed it often. Not only because he could drop bombs on a Yemeni wedding or an Afghani hospital, but because he just liked bombing random children, which he had learned really cleared him out after devouring his normal sixteen Big Macs and large fries the night before. Then the intern-slaves, who had been chained to the resolute desk, dragged in the old desk while Mike Pompeo bullwhipped them to drag it faster. The man screeched apocalyptic Christian heresy at the slave-interns, his clothing made entirely out of sewn together Ben Garrison cartoons displaying just how loving ripped the commander in chief was. Early on, the transport would take minutes, but the well worn grooves in the bathroom tile, occasionally made slick by the sacrifice of another slave-intern, really expedited the process, which Troom appreciated. "Took you long enough, Mike," said the president, "I expect better next time." "THE LAMB!" shrieked the cultist, "THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB SHALL SHOW US THE WAY TO THE DARK PYRAMID! ISRAEL MUST BE BATHED IN HOLY NUCLEAR FIRE IN ORDER TO SUMMON..." Murt Troomed out, already bored. Couldn't Pompeo learn anything new to say? If it weren't for the whipping, Turbomop wouldn't have paid attention at all. Pompeo was low ratings. Maybe he could be sent to the UN to humiliate himself again. That made Moptur smile. Now that the resolute desk was before the resolute shitter, the president made a shooing motion with his tiny hands and the intern-slaves were allowed to be whipped by Pompeo elsewhere. After that he'd probably bless a few swords with the blood of the unborn for the IDF. Non-whites only of course. Or maybe Mormons. It was important to mix these things up. Trump signed a few documents, which made him happy, which began to loosen his bowels. He sighed in relaxation, but he really needed something extra this morning. So he called Betsy DeVoss, the only person who hated children more than him. "Betsy, good talking to you, good talking to you," he said, before the phone was even done ringing, "Look, I'm going to press the drone button a few times, could you...You know..." "Make the drone strikes into a Funniest Home Videos compilation?" she asked. "Yeah, that," said Mpoort, "How did you know?" "Oh, I just know," she said. The president actually asked for this once a day, but his brain worms cleared him of the memory each and every morning. The gift of forgetting was forever his. "Just the intro," said Troopm, "I don't have all day." "Yes Mr. President." "Oh, ask Baron if he can help you. He knows all about computers." "He's currently being implanted with gene seeds to serve as the progenitor of the space marines for the space force project, Mrs. President." "Yeah, whatever. Look, just get these drone strikes made into something I can laugh at." "Right away, sir." Crump waited impatiently, but five minutes later, he was laughing at a compilation of people being remotely bomb by former CIA operatives. There actually wasn't anyone at the pentagon anymore. All was outsourced. Not that Trumpmurt cared. Instead, Truma sang along to his favorite song. "You might be a star tonight, so let that camera roll. You're the red white and blue, the funniest things you do..." His bowels stirred and he relaxed, and he was finally able to cut a presidential turd. The theme song continued in glorious 240p. "America, America, this is yooooou." Trump sighed in relief, summoning Stephen Miller to clean him and Trumo smiled now that he'd got that out way. Then he fired off a Tweet, screaming about Witch Hunts, which lacked a Q to the chagrin of tens of thousands of cultists, before he allowed Stephen to play with the app. With a look of pure glee, Stephen pressed the drone button over and over for a full thirty seconds before Trump took it away from him. "That's all," said Roomtp, "Get me some papers to sign on the way." Stephen Miller nodded once and disappeared into a cloud of bats. That meant he was working, which was good. "Now I can finally go golfing," said Truum. Ice Phisherman fucked around with this message at 08:09 on Nov 25, 2020 |
#
¿
Nov 25, 2020 07:54
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ May 22, 2024 01:31 |
|