I mean, this looks like something from the third act of Requiem for a Dream

Here’s a closer look:

Dude, you’re not supposed to inject the Clorox directly into your eyeballs. Next time ask Dr. Birx how it can be administered safely.

So this is the guy with his very twitchy finger on the nuclear trigger. He’s ostensibly in charge during the biggest crisis our country has faced in decades. Is it rude for someone to ask — either in person or in print — why the fuck his eyes look like that? Seriously, I’m wondering what protocol is here. Normally I wouldn’t sweat this kind of thing, but this guy talks to other world leaders. And he makes crucial decisions every day that affect literally billions of people. If the pressure has gotten to him it would be better if he’d just stop and smell the flowers for the next several months. Preferably in a poppy field somewhere far, far away.

This is madness, right?

Seriously, it looks like he was carrying a shipment for the Sinaloa Cartel and it exploded in his rectum.


(Okay, maybe he’d spent the day alone in a closet eating Funyuns or something. But why the low energy? Why does he look like he was just rousted from a Victorian opium den? Can’t we ask these questions? Shouldn’t we?)

Is Trump still chafing your arse-cheeks? Then Dear Fcking Lunatic: 101 Obscenely Rude Letters to Donald Trump and its boffo sequels Dear Prsident A**clown: 101 More Rude Letters to Donald Trump and Dear F*cking Moron: 101 More Letters to Donald Trump by Aldous J. Pennyfarthing are the pick-me-up you need! Reviewers have called these books “hysterically funny,” “cathartic,” and “laugh-out-loud” comic relief. And they’re way, way cheaper than therapy.

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