Many people thought MS13 was on a man’s knuckles. They were wrong, and he was deported. I’d be quick to pass judgement on them, but I get it. Numbers are hard. The last time some of these people had to deal with numbers it was on the Richter scale. It was an 8.0 and Trump had diarrhea in his pants.

I had a dream of a tariff. I had a dream of a tear-riff. Beat-scoot-boob! Economy haboob-boop! I finished my scat poem. I heard one lone round of applause. The justification I felt quickly died. It wasn’t for my poem. Donald Trump thought the bathroom was open. He didn’t make it… he shit his pants.

You find yourself in a dark cavern, bending your neck to its furthest extent, and see a faint figure above the clouds. Reminiscent of the dragon Smaug that sat upon and coveted his gold, this equally other-worldly creature lays on his riches. It’s a big ol’ pile of poop. Trump just did a dookie.

A pungent, awful smell fills the room. You fight to force down the acid that rapidly rises from your belly. Through tears, you vaguely make out a figure waddling towards you. Donald Trump draws closer, a fresh dooky in his diaper. He whispers to himself, in delight, “yuuuuuge.”