Shades of Caruso Mini-Blog

It’s no surprise that Donald Trump - a man who resembles a smug car transporting a fluffy carpet around on its roof - is proud of himself for being instrumental in the release of the birth certificate of President Barack Obama. After all, Mr. Trump is the kind of man who gives himself a round of applause every time he does pee-pees or poo-poos without needing the assistance of Nanny.

It’s also not surprising that even though he finally got his way after repeatedly taunting the President with the whole birther thing - a movement which I’m sure, in the dank corners of the inventory of things owned that pass for what human beings could argue is his “mind”, he thinks was his invention all along, like the solipsistic turdwad he often seems to be when interviewed - he still has doubts, and wants to see the certificate to make sure it’s real.

Some folks are up in arms about this, but let’s not forget, among the many things he has accomplished - such as attempting to ruin a beautiful stretch of land in Aberdeenshire because, “DONNY WANNA PLAY GOLF AND DONNY GETS HIS WAY WAAAAAAHHHHH!” - his most memorable triumph was his long-running, hugely popular series The Authenticity Verifier, in which he appraised documents with his trademark gold & quartz magnifying glass. Who can forget all of those fascinating hours as the great man stares fixedly & with epic concentration at birth certificates, deeds of ownership, Hitler diaries, Roswell photos, etc. before ending each show with his infamous catchphrase, “You’re valid!”?

So I say let the “man” look at the birth certificate. After all, this latest demand is surely down to his unending desire for truth, & has nothing to do with the growing realisation that he basically just got PWNed by a man he thinks is some kind of mythical being whose existence defies the laws of nature, not to mention the gnawing sense that for all of his efforts to make a dent in history by being one of the world’s greatest havers-of-money, what he will really be remembered for is becoming the figurehead for a loud band of absolute racist fucking scumbag assholes who are the laughing stock of the world. This is in no way a tactic to delay the final, crushing epiphany when his carefully-constructed ego shatters into a million Swastika-shaped pieces, and he realises that his legacy will not be towers or catchphrases or Time Magazine covers, but will be the collective image of him in the minds of sentient, empathic men and women as a cardboard cut-out shell of a human being whose rightful place is standing in the lobby of a car dealership owned by a Ku Klux Klan Grand Wizard.

Seriously, fuck this guy & his clown minions.