Behold His Wounds: A Passion Play in Pancake Beige

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What the hell is going on with Donald Trump's hands... and neck... and ankles?

Seriously.

What in the Honey Baked ham left on the dashboard of a 1978 Dodge Diplomat outside a bait shop on the Oklahoma panhandle are we looking at here?

Because Donald Trump doesn't enter the Oval Office anymore " he oozes into it, like a tomato-paste-slick wax figure in a crumpled clearance suit from a Paramus Two Guys that went out of business in 1982.

Those "suits" aren't clothes; they're tarps. Rumpled, puckered, oversized disguises stretched across a faltering apparatus of braces, wraps, elastic bands, industrial-strength Velcro, and God knows what kind of geriatric rigging just to keep this scarecrow upright.

He slithers through the Oval Office like anthropomorphic aspic wobbling beneath a crumpled casino curtain: smoke, mirrors, managerial panic, and something mechanical rattling beneath the polyester, all staged to convince us this decomposing meat pageant is still "vigorous."

#3 I couldn't agree more, my friend Corky :-)

His cankles aren't ankles anymore, they're distended meat dirigibles crammed into black loafers and begging for diplomatic intervention.

So grotesque that the White House literally parks model airplanes in front of them like tiny plastic no-fly zones for fat guys in little shoes.

This, my friends, is the so-called "leader of the free world" reduced to playing peekaboo behind toy aircraft because his legs look like two overinflated pigs in a blanket shrink-wrapped into geriatric formalwear at a retirement-community key party.

And then there are those hands.

#6 Flag:

#6 "...not someone's neck shot..."

Thank you for confirming that you have no problem with the other two pics.

#6 "...not someone's neck shot..."

Neck shot you say?

Neck shot?