Donald Trump doesn’t know who’s coming for dinner. Could be anybody with any kind of thoughts and feelings and podcasts. They could even bring a bunch of friends – Donny don’t care.
So can I come too? Maybe spend some quality time in Ivanka’s bedroom, or sniff Melania’s chair – smell those imported farts! How many towels can I steal? Can I have some secret documents that the FBI didn’t find?
Mind if I stay for breakfast? Do I get a complimentary terrycloth robe with MAGA scrawled across the back, and a cartoon of Donald biting into the Planet Earth like it was an apple?
Are there servants? What color are they? Are they forced to vote for Trump or they lose their jobs? Is that legal? Can I wipe my shitty ass on Donald’s pillow (from Mr. My Pillow who doesn’t like being made fun of so he wants to get into politics to punish those who laugh at him, like most politicians, that’s what it’s there for) so he knows me by my smell like a dog?
Since no one knows who’s inside the Big Bad Mar at any time, then anyone can enter, yes? Like Andy Warhol’s Factory – come on in, try some drugs, roll Don Junior on his side so he doesn’t suffocate, and take a painting off the wall as a souvenir.
Enjoy your stay at the Mar … located in one of the worst American states ever invented, where Ponce De Leon once sought the fountain of youth, and tons of old wrinkled gross freaks are still looking for it.
Enjoy that hickory-smoked melanoma, Grandpa Trump!
