Dear Diary, In three sleeps I will be the 45th President of the United States…
“Your kind words will be meaningless,” says the spirit, “if your actions betray them.”
Please notice that I am standing behind a large stack of what appears to be important documents which tells you Mr. Crusher has no conflicts of interest.
What are we going to do about our enemies? I think we should hit them hard.
See you in Moscow!
The false flag operation. The dangers of vaccination. The Prophecies. The End Times. The unipolar global world order of the secret cabal. All are a labor to discern. All are a labor to assemble. To labor them into being is a work of sanity.
Let us leave them to their cold collation. Erstwhile we devour the nation.
Happy Birthday Ken
The man who drains the swamp in metaphorical reality goes to Washington and amasses money and power.
Convention be damned, thinks Crusher: there will be no deference to norms in the his White House.
The sun rises over the city of Geld. “Thank-you, Damien Crusher,” says the President-elect. “Thank-you…
I have been summoned by the President-elect, Mr. Crusher. He wishes to speak to me of peace. Not only of peace, but of war. And not only of peace and of war, but of the Middle East. You see, Mr. Crusher believes that he can bring peace to the Middle East.
Mr. George W. Bush furrows his brow, rests his chin in hand. As he floats in the air, his tapping foot touches nothing.
“I was supposed to say something to you about starting World War III. You know, to do it, or to don’t do it. It’s either good or evil, World War III. ”
“So true. I haven’t made up my mind yet, to be honest. Some days I’m leaning one way, other days—.”
Gather around, children, gather around. That’s right, at my feet, like good patriotic Americans. Kids, don’t sit on the Louis XIV chairs, made of the best 24k gold, okay? Sit here on the marble floor, which my servants will have an easier time sanitizing after you’re gone, which hopefully will be soon.
I submit my report to the Electoral College, as follows…
– “Look at her,” shouts the Orange Menace. “Look at the loser! So SAD!”
They look. They attack. Now that the party has been given a common theme, a shared purpose, they co-ordinate, like a master switch turning everything on simultaneously. They focus their hate on the young lady and set to the work of tearing her down.