The Peculiar Origins of Donald Trump's Brain.

I can't even take this man seriously...he is as transparent as fly-wire.
What exacerbates his outlandish pronouncements is a sub-par intelligence,
and so we wind up in a situation where we have a moron,
who is trying with all his might to hoodwink us...
One with a narcissistic over-inflated ego, who was brought up in rather special circumstances where money cushioned and cocooned him from ever having to learn to face responsibility for the consequences of his actions.

A Chicago Mob family type of environment, in which crime was absolutely the norm,
and ethics or morality being terms you would need to look up in a dictionary, as they were concepts which were viewed as something for little old Ladies on Sundays, or bleeding-heart liberals, in other words, they were terms for SCHMUCKS...

And someone like this, is going to become the Leader of The Free World??? 


That's one thing that Donald rarely encounters on the barren prairie of his mind... Doubts!

Tumbleweeds maybe, but never Doubts!!!

As is common to all of the mentally-challenged, and in that category I include the entire cabinet of buffoons which make up the Republican contenders, they rarely have a doubt in the dilapidated mansions and echoing slaughter-houses of their minds.

They know their own minds, these pugnacious, boldly strutting, hubristic, self-important Men, they know the vast deserts of their own subterranean topography intimately.

After all...its not hard to do, it's just a quick stroll through a deserted shopping center, with empty shelves endlessly replicated; a monotonous linoleum checkerboard pattern stretches out like a sea to infinity, merging with bland, fluorescent-lit corridors filled with the sleep-walking, spiritually half-dead clones, victims of the 1 percent, as the Republican contenders swan about on ubiquitous shopping trollies, gliding by with megaphones, emphatically telling us all how little it is, they really know.

You know the type, these are basically shoot from the hip kinda guys...who couldn't articulate a sensible, coherent policy for school-time lunches...let alone a lemonade stand, without months of marketing research, a stage-manager and a speaking coach.

Then I noticed that it was as if there were no 'conscious membrane of machinery' or thought processes occurring between the moment of external stimuli and Donald's response.

Somewhat reminiscent of a lizard in an industrial quagmire.

And much like crocodiles I guess in temperament as well.

In fact I began to notice all sorts of odd coincidences and similarities, which would ordinarily be considered alarming, were it anyone else other than the exceptional, larger-than-life Mister Trump.

Quoth he quietly, and with the ease of someone used to giving instructions from the side of his mouth, in quick staccato bursts of whispered words like machine gun bullets coated in grease and being spat from the mouth of Florida’s Chief Surgeon-General muttering to a colleague, while in the midst of a high-stakes round of Golf, inebriated and high on the finest snow money can buy in Florida, and therefore blissfully unaware of the clutch of paparazzi, who, with microphones raised and bated breath are hanging on his every word...

'He had an exceptionally thin cerebral cortex'...he whispered with a concerned look on his sun-burnt, bloated face.

The doctor hunched over slightly and glanced nervously at the wall of trees to the left of the fairway, then he peered quizzically down at his phone as if she, the character inside his handheld device, would know whether this was a good idea or not.

Finally, the good doctor seared his English-challenged, oxygen-deprived Mexican golf caddy with a look that could kill, except his caddy wasn't looking, instead he was staring fixedly at the green beneath his feet, choking on a mixture of self-loathing for his ineptitude at winding up here, which was where exactly? and heat-struck paranoia...

As if it had suddenly dawned on him, that he had been attending a cleverly disguised ritual sacrifice the whole time, the bloody sacrament for some dark, insane cult, and that unless he could articulate his confusion to someone in authority, in English, he was about to be the 'special guest'...

Abruptly the good doctor continued, abandoning any pretext about Golfing on the cliff-top least on this remote, wind-swept artificial plateau, with its darkly azure coastal waters leaping 
chaotically high into the air all around him like tongues of flame, as the ocean clashed and coalesced on giant, igneous boulders dripping with foam directly beneath him, at least here he could speak his mind, wrapped up in the elitist, international winds, held aloft from the frenetic hubble and bubble of his office, cocooned and momentarily cloistered from the downpour of media slings and arrows that awaited his return.

'It was uncanny' the surgeon continued, shouting hoarsely now into the wind, and in a body language that expressed a slightly conspiratorial tone...he was about to reveal a secret!

It was as if a cosmetic, plastic surgeon, emerging from an especially decadent evening had momentarily experienced an epiphany, tucked away inside one of his acid-flashbacks from the old days, and suddenly, entirely out-of-character for this plastic professional had decided to share his secret with his dazed, octogenarian patients, who all glared back in disbelief as he matter-of-factly lectured them, explaining that: having a breast implant, or a nose job or a butt-augment didn't actually make one a better person...

"The bloody cheek...the Nerve of some people"...

‘There were certain similarities to the autopsy of a crocodile's brain...there it was! It was finally out!

I had been performing for some students that morning...

And, and the brain's outer membrane was covered...

covered I say, in a myriad of familiar, tiny striations...

it almost looked like patterns had rippled themselves into the sand of a shallow pool...

except it was not your normal pattern at all...

then I remembered...

why they were so familiar!' he was almost stuttering now, and spitting with excitement.

'Yep, you guessed it...Reptile DNA!' exclaimed the corpulent good doctor breathlessly and finally sighing in relief, he could let go now...

as if he had just delivered an enormous Hippo of a baby.

'I had to call a colleague for confirmation, and she too was initially dumb-struck by the similarities!'

"Gentlemen, we are traversing new ground here!"

"New frontiers of Genetics and Science are being uncovered!"

Donald Trump's brain it appears, has turned out to be a minor cornucopia of new discoveries for science...

A truly remarkable individual !

When asked about her son's truly remarkable genetic aberrations outside the opening of another of her franchised 'Aristokats' Bar and Sauna establishments;

‘The Place to be Seen for the PETS of the 1%’ says the neon slogan bleeding in hot pinks,

Mrs Trump replied irritably:

"Oh Yeah? Look Mr Wise-guy where do you think they got that piddley, baby-rat, lobster face of Yours?"

"In a Dumpster behind Coney Island you little Creep!"

"The 3-Mile Island Atomic Energy Board settled with my husband years ago...besides, you ugly little twat, random mutations do occur you know?"

Then, in a manner completely filled-up with malice, as if suddenly realising what she had said ;

"Listen to me you piece of stain under my shoe, I swear I will Sue Your Ass, the minute..."

Her rantings were abruptly stymied, and the last we saw of the vociferous Mrs Trump was the back of her hot-pink fairy-floss hairdo as she was forcibly carried off, indignantly posturing on a chaise-lounge stretcher made out of pure Leopard skin whilst sucking painfully on an extra-long cigarette and holding aloft unsuccessfully, an extra dry martini which beaded down her scrawny, blotchy arms as she was unceremoniously carried away by a grim-faced team of steroid-enhanced fitness instructors and personal trainers wearing nothing but hot-pink bow-ties and hot-pink G-strings...

Note* ~ The above was written using fiction and/or fictitious elements...


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