It’s become our custom to check in on Donald Trump’s Twitter feed every Sunday. This was never intended to become a weekly feature, mind you—it just happened. It happened because nearly every single weekend, Donald Trump runs away from the White House in order to spend time in his private resorts and clubs. This, in turn, means he is away from his staff. This, in turn, means there’s nobody around to distract the garbage fire from the shrieking noises forever echoing around his head, and nobody around to suggest to the garbage fire that maybe he should do some presidenting instead of staring dull-eyed at Fox News all day, and so every single sodding weekend you can be absolutely assured that the garbage fire will pick up his smartphone with his stubby little fingers and start tweeting garbage fire thoughts at the rest of the world.
So fine, let’s do this thing.
• On Saturday, the theoretical President of the United States attacked our free press in a way that would have been unheard of in past years.
• He followed up by promoting, to his 43.4 million followers, a transparently malevolent conspiracy theory site. Consider, for a moment, that the man theoretically in charge of our nation’s nuclear arsenal and military forces apparently lacks the mental capacity to distinguish between real and hoax news sites. Now consider that House and Senate Republicans continue to protect, defend, and endorse this obviously unfit imbecile.
• He spent Sunday morning calling for the election of a pedophile, declaring that his not-pedophile opponent “WANTS TO RAISE TAXES TO THE SKY.” Again, this is an actual supposed president saying this. It might as well become the Republican Party motto, at this point: We’ll support actual child molesters if they’ll help us cut a rich man’s taxes. Go ahead, embroider it onto a pillow. Pedophiles unite.
• He then lied about his own influence in Alabama because of course he did.
There. There ya go. Trump spent another holiday weekend being a lying, incompetent, spittle-flecked pedophile-supporting garbage fire. As he does every weekend, and in fact does during any moment of any day when he doesn’t have a staff member jingling their keys above his face to distract him.
We’ll do this every weekend. Paul Ryan, call your office. Mitch McConnell, poke your crooked neck out of your crooked shell and take a look-see at what your party is, right now, in this moment. Grow a spine, any of you. Pretend, for one brief moment, that you give a damn.
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