Donald’s Best Words in the Mouths of Other Great Non-Losers

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…

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“Sonnet Number One Because I am Number One” by Donald Trump

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.”

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“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.

Katya: On Running

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, Katya’s Back

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.

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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…

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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.

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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.

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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:

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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))

A Modern Haunting: The Horrors of the Millenial Poltergeist

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…

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First, the Thot Police paid me a visit

 

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AND THEN THIS SICK THREAT

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Hoe hoe hoe…..so mean doe 😦

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And then these stupid idiot ghost emojis opening all of my drawers

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OH GAWD SANTA WHY

 

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Sweet jesus get out of my ice box

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EVEN LEAVING NOTES ON MY DOG WHILE SHE’S TAKING A SLUMBER?!?! Psycho a-holes…

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NoooooOOO!OO!O!OoO!O!O!O

 

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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:

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BEN CARSON STABBING VICTIM: ‘CHOSEN ONE?’

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

How To Talk Politics 2015

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…

  1. Speak whatever your point may be as loudly as possible, and remember, shouting, howling and angry weeping are by no means off limits; people are generally unable to comprehend differing political perspectives unless the message is conveyed by means of a deeply horrifying passion.
  2. Always remember that the political arena is like a birthday party laser tag match; think of the president as the birthday boi/gurl (his team is expected to win, but it doesn’t always work out that way cuz some of his friends are mean and care about winning more than pleasing the bday chosen one ;/ ), and imagine the right-wingers and the left-wingers as two teams of children running around in the dark, making fun lil strategies and playing war with lasers blindly fired through artificial fog at the shifting shadows of opponents who are doing just the same right back. AND BY NO MEANS ever forget that there is always a winning team and always a losing team – THERE IS NO COMPROMISE AND NO MODERATION IN LASER TAG I MEAN POLITICS – the game would be no fun otherwise the system could never work otherwise!
  3. If you’re really looking to make a splash and to reveal yourself to your peers as a bold fount of questionable political opinion, there are certain trigger phrases that you should be prepared to whip out for special occasions.  These include but are in no way limited to: “Barack Hussein Obama … heard he was born in Osama Bin Laden’s hidey hole,” “Inequality no longer exists, you dumbass prole,”” “Ben Carson stabbed me once” or a simple “Hillary Clinton…” but preferably, bellow it with maniacal glory or whisper it while threateningly stroking the Dark Mark on the underside of your forearm.
  4. If you want to say something bold and provocative but have no way of backing up your ridiculous assertions, fear not, there is ample space to maneuver around these trivial inconveniences.  Should you decide to play on Team Republican,at the end of your uninformed (shhshhh no one need know) declarations, just throw in a little “I heard it on Fox News,” or the ever-effective “Rush Limbaugh told me,” or simply caress the cross fondly around your neck and tell them softly, “The Lord would have it this way,” (and if they’re still having doubts, offer them your bible to use as a fact checker).  If, on the other hand, you’re playing for Team Democrat, should anyone question your hogwash, immediately, and with the fury of hell, accuse them of being a sexist, racist, anti-semitic, death eater abomination.  This seems to do the trick quite nicely.
  5. And finally, you must never ever forget that you are right and that everyone else is wrong.  DO NOT fall prey to the rookie mistake of listening to a differing perspective.  THIS WILL BE YOUR DOWNFALL as ANY opinion diverging from yours is sickening, irrelevant, ungodly filth and is most likely a crime against humanity.   To avoid falling into the trap of civilized discourse or of a heinous exchange of ideas, it is a common modern practice to plug one’s ears with beeswax just as the old sea dogs and sailors of bygone times once did in order to protect themselves from the infernal lure of the sirens’ fatal song.

Godspeed, my blossoming politicians.  May this misguided poppycock bring you great success along your political path to endless riches and infinite, birdbrained glory.

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