Stinky is decomposing.

The disgusting-------------'s big, beautiful obituary will unleash massive global celebrations.

Donald Trump doesn't enter the Oval Office anymore " he oozes into it, like a melted wax figure in a crumpled Men's Wearhouse clearance suit. Those "suits" aren't clothes; they're tarps. Rumpled, puckered, over-sized disguises stretched across a failing contraption of braces, wraps, elastic bands, and God knows what kind of medical plumbing just to keep this cholesterol scarecrow upright. He's less president, more Wizard of Oz malfunctioning animatronic: smoke, mirrors, and machinery groaning underneath the polyester, all staged to convince us this collapsing flesh parade is still "vigorous."
His cankles aren't ankles anymore " they're swollen meat balloons stuffed into black loafers, crying out for mercy. So grotesque that the White House literally parked a giant model airplane in front of him during a Zelensky meeting to hide them from the cameras. That wasn't foreign policy; that was prop comedy. This is the leader of the free world, reduced to peekaboo with a toy plane because his legs look like Easter hams left in the Saharan sun.
And hovering above those swollen honey baked horror shows he calls ankles is the real sideshow: the hand. Always the hand. Every -------- press gaggle, every forced photo-op, he performs the same little trick: bruised, mottled paw smeared in foundation, then carefully hidden under the other like a guilty toddler hiding cookie crumbs. He's not answering questions; he's playing patty-cake with himself. That hand isn't presidential. It's a crime scene in CoverGirl. A swollen claw so heavily spackled in pancake makeup it looks like a drag queen tried to contour a kielbasa. And he sits there gripping it, white-knuckled, pretending no one notices.
Except we do.
And through all this, MAGA's still out here chanting that he's strong. Sharp. Powerful. Give me a ------- break. He's "powerful" the way a swamp cooler is powerful when it's coughing out one last lukewarm fart before it bursts into flames. This is a guy who repeats himself mid-sentence like a busted Alexa, slurs names like your drunk uncle after five Fireball shots, blanks on words, forgets countries, muses about medians, and stares into space like somebody hit pause on the remote. Cognitively, he's not "declining." He's already face-planted off the cliff, splattered at the bottom, and the cult is down there lighting candles to the stain. He once bragged about acing a dementia test by pointing at a camel. Now he looks like he'd flunk a coloring book. Strong? This guy is one ---------- away from accidentally launching a nuke and calling it a birdie.