As you know, Donald has all of the best words. All of them. And you shouldn’t feel stupid or insecure for not thinking of them first. It’s not your fault – his IQ is one of the highest.
But sometimes words are too beautiful, too vastly profound not to be shared. And though Donald is humble, more humble than you could understand, he has allowed some of the non-losers below to use some of his words. His great, maga magical words…
Donald Trump has been taking a lot heat lately. People have said many mean things like, “Donald, you’re not qualified to be president,” “Donald, you aren’t even a Republican,” “Donald, you are a racist, fascist, sexist crook in a gilded toupée,” and, most commonly, “Donald, you are a soulless shadow man who will singlehandedly doom America to an endless spiral of despondency and unspeakable humiliation.” Sometimes we forget about sweet blonde Don’s gentle, poetic side. He is a man of words; he knows all of the best ones. Here, we take a glimpse into Donald’s bard-like nature with a sonnet inspired by William Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18” (which doesn’t have as many words as Donald’s).
On poetry, Mr. Trump has only this to say:
“Shakespeare is really just a hack, he’s a loser, people. If I could time travel, I’d go back to England, I’d become king (women can’t resist, Queen Elizabeth’s no exception) and win all of the poem contests. I once wrote a great haiku. It goes like this:
‘Tiny children are not horses.
One vaccine at a time.
Over time.’
I am the greatest poet this country’s ever seen. Look it up.”
“Sonnet Number One Because I am Number One” – Donald Trump
Shall I compare thee, Donald, to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely than Rosie…Disgusting
More temperate than Hillary: your temperament wins awards,
All of them.
Rough winds do shake your sexy corn silk hair,
Which is not a wig,
Your hair is as much a wig
As global warming is NOT a hoax concocted by those communist Chinese,
Losers.
Summer’s lease has run out too soon,
Because God doesn’t know how to run a real estate business,
Our planet is freezing, our scientists are stuck in ice,
And they try to tell you about “Global” “warming,”
I have one word for you: bullshit hoax.
Losers.
But don’t let my intelligence intimidate you,
My IQ is one of the highest,
It’s not your fault that you’re not me
And though beauty always fades,
All women, even the 10s, get old,
Disgusting really.
But not me,
Not beautiful Donald T,
Not my long, beautiful hands,
Are they small?
No, their size is well documented.
And don’t get me started on my hair,
100% mine,
Permanently painted
Yellow as eternal summer,
Golden as my toilet bowl.
But I’m more than just a pretty face,
I don’t pay my taxes,
That makes me smart.
I have inner beauty too,
Heaps of it,
It’s called money,
It’s beautiful.
I’m beautiful,
That is to say, I’m very rich.
The losers don’t get it – they’re so mean,
They don’t understand how
I could even stand
In the Middle of Fifth Avenue
Shoot somebody
And I wouldn’t lose a vote,
Because I’m so temperate,
And I get along with poor people so well,
Probably because I was once poor.
Just a boy,
Abandoned by a cruel, miserly father,
Without possession, without hope,
Nothing but $1 million in my pocket,
Just look at me now:
I know words, I have the best words,
I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to ISIS,
I cherish the weaker sex: bimbos, slobs – I don’t discriminate,
Speaking of that,
I have a great relationship with the blacks,
But above all, I’m a gentleman.
***
Commies are red, waterboarding is blue,
America, if you vote for me,
I’ll make Mexico build a wall for you.
Sometimes things like this happen when I go running…
Please enjoy (but SERIOUSLY PLZZZPLZ!!!1!!1 I quite painfully injured my butt doing cartwheels for this, and only your enjoyment will render my broken, torn posterior worth it) as my severe colleague/hauntingly dead-in-the-glaring-eyed friend/Russian alter ego shares her wisdom on some little known but highly useful running techniques in a variety of every day scenarios, including slumbering bears, husband hunts and pistol poppin’ gangstas.
Привет, sup homeys, salut les potes – it’s me, Katya, comin’ atcha live from Moscow, the bizarre, magical world that I’ve been lucky enough to call my home for the past three months. Now, I realize that I have severely, sickeningly neglected this blog to the point that, when I attempted to log on to my WordPress account, I was hurled obscenities and threatened with various forms of retribution, including banishment to Azkaban, public ridicule in the pillory, no ice cream for a decade, etc etc – BUT I must point out that I haven’t written not because I’ve had nothing to say, but, quite the contrary, because I’ve had too much to say; I’ve been completely, entirely distracted by the strange, glorious adventures and odd, hilarious experiences of everyday life here, and haven’t gotten a chance to catch mah golly forsaken breath to write it all down. For that, I am deeply sorry. So here is a redemption post, which documents this past weekend spent in Saint Petersburg, and maybe now all will be forgiven and I can keep eating ice cream far from the chilly presence of pesky dementors and the stockade?? Я остаюсь с надеждой.
***
I should start off by explaining that, despite a maddening knee injury and an upset, wrathful IT Band, my track team and best Russian homey Masha and I decided to hit up Petersburg last weekend with the goal of running a half marathon. Upon mentioning our plan offhandedly to my track coaches a few days before taking off, they were neither amused nor in favor of this tomfoolery (can’t imagine why) and forbid me from running (again, cannot imagine why), so I planned to simply walk/limp it, Crippled Katya style.
Anywhooo Masha and my weekend started off rather unconventionally – that’s to say, with a mildly panicked, slightly clandestine 2:09 am train ride up north to St Pete’s. The “mild panic” was the result of the train officials almost refusing to allow me onto the train, some hullaballoo about my passport identification not being legitimate…
I simply cannot comprehend how they could deem this crumpled ghost face as an unacceptable form of i.d. Mind blowing.
So, after explaining that the international registration office has kidnapped and been holding my passport hostage for the past six weeks, and that I’m just a poor, knee-gimped gal trying to defy all odds and run a half marathon and, above all else, with the help of Masha and her boyfriend (at one desperate point, all of us, including the tiny train attendant lady sprinted as best we could with our bags and my busted knee the entire length of the train, which was unfortunately around 20007 kilometers long, to consult with the Bossman “Начальник” of the train, as the sweet little attendant shrieked all the way, “БЫСТРЕЕ БЫСТРЕЕ!!!! [faster faster!!]” at us), we ultimately persuaded the train staff and captain (I don’t think this is what you call a train’s leader??), himself, to let me on board, but only as a despicable illicit clandestine – they literally swore Masha and me to secrecy, never to tell a soul of these merciful acts. They also warned me that I would probably never be allowed to return to Moscow with my wrinkled, phantom passport copy. So, it was an all in all promising start.
At least things started looking up when we arrived to Saint P-burg, and it immediately started snowing on our sleepy faces, and my shoulders broke in half as I carried my duffel bag, realizing that 275 pounds of clothing is perhaps unnecessary for a weekend trip, and Masha discovered that she’d left her official race documentation in Moscow. Oh wait…………….. But it’s cool, y’all, because anything and everything is possible in Russia, and all of our problems were soon resolved: after that silly joke with the snow, the sun popped out for the rest of the weekend, I simply grew new shoulders, and we found a copy center willing to print Masha a photoshopped race “справка” document (after we were rejected at the first couple of nerdy, “play by the rules” centers). So, after averting a few casual catastrophes, we spent the rest of the day feasting and walking hundreds of kilometers around the beautiful city that is Santo Pedrosburg. Of our discoveries, my personal fave is the Petersburg “Chocolate Museum,” which took us decades to locate, probably because it was literally a single tiny stand manned by one employee, offering a small array of truffles and some strange large chocolate squirrels and motorcycles…I’m not sure…I don’t….there are no words…… Sadly, I failed to take a photo of this jaw-dropping display.
Since I don’t have a pic of chocolate squirrelies n motorbikes, here is an equally spectacular photo of one of the sites seen in this snazzy city (reminds me of Notre Dame’s dome)
Race day = an early morning and a delicious breakfast of home-brewed Kasha à la Masha aka MMMMMMM. After our power feast, we headed off to the race, which I planned to walk like a hobbling, gloopy slug and Masha planned to dash like redbull-infused lightning. We both fulfilled these goals. Although, my performance ended a tad prematurely, and somewhat shamefully, as, after around six or seven kilometers, what I presumed to be a stalker bike man began to tail me closely and eventually explained to me that I was in last place and that it might be a good idea to vacate the premises immediately since apparently slow pedestrian injured gals are not welcome at such events ;( I protested at first, but then it just got too embarrassing, and I quickly shuffled away into the shadowy horizon, never to be seen or heard from again. Imagine a single tear… rolling down down down my cheek….hehehe but NAH mane, it was no big dealio. I don’t know the meaning of shame, so I just hung ten for awhile, found some free redbull, did some dignity-rebuilding lunges and waited for Masha to finish (which she did in approximately 2.75 seconds :D). The one good thing about being forcibly escorted off of the race track was that everyone seeing me walk around with my race number thought that I’d finished the race SUUUUUUPER quickly, and they were all like, “AAAAHHH WOW молодец, well done, number one female runner!!!!!!!!” My 15 minutes of fake fame. Glorious.
Post-race galzz (МОЛОДЕЦ ЕЩЕ РАЗ, МАША))))) )
The rest of the dizzay was spent exploring the city and walking 2073 more kilometers around town, sipping hot wine like fancy ladies, exploring secret art parks, crossing sunset-lit bridges of magic and gold, and, of course, hitting up a (literally) hAwT bar where they, for some reason, enjoyed setting the bar on fire every hour or so. I never figured out the logistical mechanics of this stunt, but I think we can rule out gasoline-dousing as a technique due to the lack of fumes. Some mysteries go forever unsolved. Что делать.
It goes without saying that we spent the entire night out painting the town, spending the first few drinks and delectable dessert-feasting with Pasha, our track team homey, and his wife, and then cabbing over to that pyromania bar I’ve already mentioned for some fiery festivities (heh). Because we are insomniac warriors who require no sleep, we decided it would be a good idea to buy 5:30 am train tickets home to Москва, so we proceeded directly and seamlessly from party mode to coffee/morning/train mode. Below is proof of our graceful, seamless transition:
WE ARE BOTH JUST BLINKING – THE CAMERA FLASHED AT THE WRONG MOMENT OK? it’s nbd
And now, I must bid you all “до свидания!” as I hear some angry babushkas rapidly approaching (I think I’m sitting at an off limits table – THERE WILL BE SEVERE CONSEQUENCES IF I DON’T FLEE). Don’t be alarmed. But fo real, I’ve got to run, so until next time, which I very much hope will be in the near future. Пока пока))
Privyet from Mother Russia, where, I’ve recently discovered, there is a wizarding school by the name of Koldovstoretz, not to be confused with Durmstrang (which is actually located in Bulgaria and not Russia?!?!) Like Hogwarts, this esteemed Koldovstoretz Institution has apparently lost my gah damn letter of invitation in the mail, so I haven’t had the chance to become a wizard yet. I’ll become a Russian in the meantime.
Anywhoo, I severely (SEVERUSly**) digress. It’s come to my attention that I haven’t written a single blasted blog post since I arrived to Moscow three weeks ago, and this needs to be remedied. Life here is pretty much infinitely bizarre and riddled with hilarious, nonstop idiosyncrasy, so I think I’ve been too occupied by da entertaining adventures and angry babushkas to sit down and write about it all.
Unfortunately, I’m unwilling to sit here for the next 27 hours recounting all that’s gone down so far (my fingers would get so pissed YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW omgah), but here are some of the highlights:
This is the palace where I live. Apparently, I’m a pretty big deal here, and they’ve named me Tsaritsa Katya of Moscow State University – it’s mainly a symbolic role, kind of a “Queen of England” gig, but I can’t say I’m not flattered.
Below is a small video tour of my regal inner dwellings:
I tried to tell them, like, “Look guys, I’m just a normal person like everyone else – I don’t need all this special treatment; I’m a simple girl with simple tastes,” but they just wouldn’t have it and insist on treating me like a Tsar, so I mean, whatever, who am I to complain amirite?! ehehe
Also, I have my own personal bank, which is pretty snazzy:
All in all, life is Russia is quite good. Castles and royalty aside, I’m loving it here – the food on campus has defied vastly my expectations (in a good way, aside from the surprise cow tongue I once found in my salad), the people are quite nice (even the patrolling babushkas who like to invade my room while I’m showering, hoping to lecture me about the dangers of fire, replacing refrigerators with chairs, offering me chocolates – it keeps me on my toes, and I never have any way of knowing what’s coming next…I can’t help but visualize a babushka breaking down my door with an axe, screaming “Heeeeeere’s Johnny”/”Воооот Жонни”….Omgahsuchnightmarezbutthey’reactuallyreallysweetladiesISWEAR)
(Above is visual documentation of the subtle refrigerator swap that went down about a week ago)
Another magical element of Moscow Life has been the track team that I joined a couple of weeks ago. I run in a place called the “Moscow Sport Palace” (fittingly continuing the theme of regality and further persuading me that I may be of long lost, noble Romanov descent) and am both meeting some of the fittest, friendliest Russians around town while simultaneously sculpting myself into an Olympic, gold medalist runner named Svetlana (gon’ make dis dream a reality – just you wait til May, homeys ;D).
Here’s a pic after ice skating/running a 5k one fine Saturday morning on an ice-rink-I-mean-running-path along the river:
(I’m in the center dressed in black, wif my good homedawg/speed demon Masha in white, beside me)
HOKAY, so I am being summoned to dinnalin and must leave this update as it is. More will soon come – I am by no means finished spinning peculiar tales of my Moskva days.
Poka for now.
As one can hardly fail to notice, we are living in a blossoming internet-centric age of tweeting, instamodel Millenials who have contributed a great many delightful new facets to society such as billions of selfies, brows on fleek, thot juice, a brilliant new use for the hashtag, and the unifying, friendship-based concept of squad. However, it seems that human society is not the only one influenced by the Millenials’ world of werqing, twerking and social networking… it seems that we’ve all been a little TOO turnt up, a lil too gah damn cray cray, and have attracted the attention of quite a mess of ghosts, demons and poltergeists who also strive to be “on fleek AF.” Below is the documentation of the first ever modern-day, Millenial poltergeist haunting. Those who are faint of heart, be warned. This newfangled, contemporary shit is far more terrifying than any haunting humanity has ever yet encountered…
First, the Thot Police paid me a visit
AND THEN THIS SICK THREAT
Hoe hoe hoe…..so mean doe 😦
And then these stupid idiot ghost emojis opening all of my drawers
OH GAWD SANTA WHY
Sweet jesus get out of my ice box
EVEN LEAVING NOTES ON MY DOG WHILE SHE’S TAKING A SLUMBER?!?! Psycho a-holes…
NoooooOOO!OO!O!OoO!O!O!O
Dagger to my damn heart.
…So now I am currently hiding in a fort made out of books, flip phones, dishes that need to be washed by hand, paper newspapers and face-to-face conversation, all of which Millenials (even ghost Millenials) despise. But I really don’t know how much longer I’ll last in here, so here’s one more selfie in case I die:
A number of troubling allegations have shrouded Republican presidential candidate Ben Carson’s history and political credentials with mystery and doubt. However, not until very recently has there been serious cause for alarm. Just this morning, the stabbing victim of Mr. Carson’s admittedly dark, angry past has come forward with a haunting, lightning bolt-shaped belt buckle scar and a claim to be the “Chosen One” of an ancient political prophecy, foretelling the demise of the GOP’s maniacal bad seeds, including surgeon-turned-politician Dr. Benny C.
The victim and survivor of Mr. Carson’s bout of wild knife fury, a rather hairy potter and general craftsman by trade, has chosen to withhold his name from publication for privacy and safety reasons, and, consequently, will be referred to simply as the Boy Who Lived (or BWL for short). When asked why he hadn’t stepped forward earlier with such prophetic forebodings, the Boy Who Lived replied that he hadn’t even been aware of the ill-omened tidings until an enormous man carrying a disturbing birthday cake broke into his home to inform him of his destiny. [The intruder was later positively identified as 55th governor of New Jersey Chris Christie.]
Additionally, according to the BWL, he only survived Carson’s fury–and just barely–through the protective powers of his belt buckle which had, incidentally, been imbued with a stupid idiot’s love – the force most despised by Carson, which warded off his pointed metallic advances and broke his pathological power, banishing him into the shadow realm of his home bathroom where he huddled, in a haughty, contemptuous state of broken disdain, his madness diminished but by no means destroyed.
The BWL claims that he was later contacted by a crazed, bespectacled figure who incessantly waved rotten tea leaves in his face, shouting in a strange Brooklyn accent that the “GOP horcruxes must be destroyed.” The Boy Who Lived was unsettled but didn’t take the ravings particularly seriously until he discovered while watching the news that the deranged clairvoyant had been none other than Bernie Sanders, yet another presidential hopeful, spouting promises of socialist nirvana while simultaneously advising the destruction of horcruxes on the side.
Though the BWL attempted to contact Sanders once more to determine the nature of Ben Carson’s purported rightwing-swinging horcruxes, he never heard from bespectacled Bernie again, only receiving a grave warning from the Socialist Party USA to cease all correspondence immediately lest there be “dire consequences for us all…” Shortly thereafter, however, Mr. BWL received a number of peculiar emails from the personal address ‘madame_prez_HRC@yahoo.com,’ listing the horcruxes, one by one, in odd, ominous succession. The list reads as follows: 1. Donald Trump’s hair[piece] 2. Ben Carson’s watercolor self portrait with Jesus 3. George W. Bush’s special golden goblet (rumored to contain Osama Bin Laden’s tears) 4. Sarah Palin’s spectacles 5. Ted Cruz’s bible 6. Trump Towers, and, last of all, 7. The wall between Mexico and the United States.
Should Bernie Sanders and the mysterious “Madame Prez HRC’s” emails be truthful, the Boy Who Lived surely has a daunting quest set forth before him and we ask that all US citizens, muggles, wizards, elephants and donkeys alike, stand united in support of this brave hairy pottery artisan as he embarks upon what’s certain to be a frightfully unsettling journey. And remember to at all times keep your eyes peeled for anything peculiar or wicked lurking in the shadows of the political underworld, whether it be a knife-carrying Carson, a wig(?)-wielding, bigotry-bearing Trump, or really just any politician with a particularly mischievous look in the eye. Which might just be each and every one of them. Godspeed.
Have you ever wanted to “talk politics” but don’t quite know the the hot button issues/the code of conduct/the meaning of “veto” (does anyone really?!) Do you find yourself forgetting the tricky little details, such as the number of branches of government, the Presidents’ coronation date, or the difference between a “radical” dude and a “radical” Speaker of the House? Well, here are some simple standard rules of protocol to follow to help any poor ignorant fool successfully spit some mad politics…
Godspeed, my blossoming politicians. May this misguided poppycock bring you great success along your political path to endless riches and infinite, birdbrained glory.
Two takes, one commercial (for the latest and greatest cutlery invention: THE SLICER KNIFER). We haven’t yet decided whether an American or a Russian accent will sell our product more effectively – or if there’s really even a perceptible difference between the two takes! Please let us know your thoughts, and call us at 1-800-SLICE-YO-KNIFE if you’re interested in one of our superb butter blades.
As some of you already know, I recently attempted to post a Lord Voldy version of Adele’s “Hello,” but that ended up being a twisted, husk of a failure because the angry copyright monsters stripped me of my sound and left me with an unsettling silent video of an evil sorcerer’s weird face instead of the darkly magical music video I’d originally envisioned … SO since they’ve forced my hand, I have had no other choice but to go Voldemort himself for some disturbing though legally acceptable vocals. And He (Who Must Not be Named) has provided in spades.
Please enjoy this haunting ballad:
A Maniac's Menagerie of Motley Thoughts 