Trumpie, you lost to a girl who out-smarted you so completely that you didn't even realize you had been so cleanly, subtly shanked until the blood spurted out of all your orifices. She got you to say you don't pay taxes. Never has a presidential candidate been so effortlessly eviscerated by his own words.
Look at this Drumpfkoph:
Trump, you're blessed with a Deliverance constituency that has no capacity to grasp what just happened to you in a nation that has had an intellectual inferiority complex since its bastard birth.
You are blessed that even lawyers-cum-bloggers and what passes for a cognoscenti in this same country also did not notice what had befallen you.
You are blessed that this admixture of the unadmirable may reasonably foreseeably not cause your deliverance from competitiveness.
You are blessed that this is a democracy with universal suffrage extended to mental defectives.
My prediction last night had the sole virtue, there are not many in a democracy, of being unfiltered. Mrs. Clinton's embalming of you went unnoticed. Oh, I noticed the "Donald," I noticed your self-satisfied look after the debate.
Oh, I thought of the Cask of Amontillado and how the unfortunate, drunken, obnoxious, misnamed Fortunato, dressed in jester's motley, from googling which I found the disconsolate Stańczyk painting which earlier graced the header, which if democracy had not been dummed down would have fit your mood if you weren't so dummed down, and I thought of the fool Fortunato, completely outwitted by his antagonist Montressor, lured down and lured into the catacombs and tricked by Montressor's infinite insight into the fool's psychic weaknesses to make the decision himself to proceed down and down further, past the nitre, past the point of health, past the point of no earthly return until his arrogance and confused faculties rendered his position in the niche hopeless and himself unaware of what was happening to him until Montressor had chained the drunken, arrogant clown in the wine cellar catacombs and bricked him in before Fortunato knew what was happening and he died of thirst and starvation, his rotting bones never to be found, a political fate befitting one such as you, a von Clownstick.
I thought of all that today Trumpie, and others noticed but I doubt enough and certainly not your coalition of mental defectives and I stick with my ignorant instant reaction last night that I think not you will lose your momentum and you may well become president but I urge you to channel your inner Fortunato and attack Mrs. Clinton as you said today you would do in the remaining two debates for she knows you Trump and she is already prepared for Gennifer Flowers and Monica Lewinsky and those, I predict, will be the last rows that brick you in in your foetid niche where you will politically die and rot and stink and be forgotten and folks will wonder as they did of Fortunato, "What ever became of him?"
Look at this Drumpfkoph:
Hillary Clinton had been waiting for this one: a line of questioning about Donald J. Trump’s refusal to release his income tax returns.
And she pounced at Monday night’s debate, suggesting that perhaps Mr. Trump was concealing that he had not been so charitable or was not as wealthy as he claimed.
But another possibility she raised — that Mr. Trump had not been paying income taxes — set off a curious response from him that sounded a lot like an admission.
“That makes me smart,” Mr. Trump said after Mrs. Clinton brought up how he had paid no taxes more than two decades ago. When she suggested that Mr. Trump was still paying no federal taxes, and had not done so for many years, Mr. Trump offered another retort: “It would be squandered, too, believe me.”
For someone as wealthy as Mr. Trump to pay no federal income taxes would be remarkable, and it was a startling twist. By Tuesday, he was awash in questions — and, in some quarters, outrage — about how a self-described billionaire could possibly avoid having to pay a single dollar to the tax man.
Trump, you're blessed with a Deliverance constituency that has no capacity to grasp what just happened to you in a nation that has had an intellectual inferiority complex since its bastard birth.
You are blessed that even lawyers-cum-bloggers and what passes for a cognoscenti in this same country also did not notice what had befallen you.
You are blessed that this admixture of the unadmirable may reasonably foreseeably not cause your deliverance from competitiveness.
You are blessed that this is a democracy with universal suffrage extended to mental defectives.
My prediction last night had the sole virtue, there are not many in a democracy, of being unfiltered. Mrs. Clinton's embalming of you went unnoticed. Oh, I noticed the "Donald," I noticed your self-satisfied look after the debate.
Oh, I thought of the Cask of Amontillado and how the unfortunate, drunken, obnoxious, misnamed Fortunato, dressed in jester's motley, from googling which I found the disconsolate Stańczyk painting which earlier graced the header, which if democracy had not been dummed down would have fit your mood if you weren't so dummed down, and I thought of the fool Fortunato, completely outwitted by his antagonist Montressor, lured down and lured into the catacombs and tricked by Montressor's infinite insight into the fool's psychic weaknesses to make the decision himself to proceed down and down further, past the nitre, past the point of health, past the point of no earthly return until his arrogance and confused faculties rendered his position in the niche hopeless and himself unaware of what was happening to him until Montressor had chained the drunken, arrogant clown in the wine cellar catacombs and bricked him in before Fortunato knew what was happening and he died of thirst and starvation, his rotting bones never to be found, a political fate befitting one such as you, a von Clownstick.
I thought of all that today Trumpie, and others noticed but I doubt enough and certainly not your coalition of mental defectives and I stick with my ignorant instant reaction last night that I think not you will lose your momentum and you may well become president but I urge you to channel your inner Fortunato and attack Mrs. Clinton as you said today you would do in the remaining two debates for she knows you Trump and she is already prepared for Gennifer Flowers and Monica Lewinsky and those, I predict, will be the last rows that brick you in in your foetid niche where you will politically die and rot and stink and be forgotten and folks will wonder as they did of Fortunato, "What ever became of him?"