An Island, a Ballroom and Absolutely No Balls

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Looks like Trump is on an island again. This time without his friend Jeffrey Epstein.

After the blue tsunami, Donald’s circle of friends appears to be shrinking by the hour. The rats are leaving the sinking ship, frantically checking whether their LinkedIn profiles still mention the captain.

Stephen Miller, naturally, is staying. The White House ghoul looks like he’s been waiting for this moment. Everybody else sees a collapsing administration. Stephen sees an opportunity to get closer. Possibly close enough to wear Trump’s skin as a suit.

Somewhere, a tailor is refusing the commission.

Then there’s JD Vance, blaming the Iran war for the midterm debacle. Blatantly. In the open. The kind of honesty that arrives when someone starts calculating how much distance he can put between himself and his boss before the next camera switches on.

The whispers about Pete Hegseth are getting louder, too. Calls for his head to roll.

Bitch, please. Start with getting his sorry ass out of the building and back to whatever scumbag hole issued him. Give him a cardboard box. Somebody check it for classified documents before he leaves.

Even Fox News sounds like it’s reconsidering the relationship. You know things are going badly when your emotional support network starts asking follow-up questions.

But hey. The ballroom.

“Watch the beam go up.”

That scene needed one puff of smoke and Trump disappearing through a trapdoor. Unfortunately, the contractor had only been paid to install the chandeliers.

So there he stood, inviting everyone to admire a piece of steel while the political scaffolding came down around him.

Poor Donald. Alone on his little island, waving at people who suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.

The little prince with a ballroom, but no balls.

Today’s Sour Thought

The beam went up. Everyone else quietly backed toward the fucking exit.