Despite the constant negative press covfefe, it is true that my name is Kalashnikov. There are some who call me Nik. I say some, and perhaps these some are my friends, but perhaps also not, the ones who call me… Read More ›
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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 for once again causing the sun to rise over your tremendous city.”
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.