Future Barrels of Blood
How Unhinged Malignant Narcissist Donny Dumpster Could Send Americans War to Avenge His Sad Little Embarrassment of a Birthday Parade.
It was meant to be his $45-million coronation by cannonade, complete with tacky corporate sponsorship. Donald Dipshit Dump, the self-styled Sun King of the Second American Confederacy, finally got his stupid military parade.
Squeaky tanks rolled. Flags flapped. Drones buzzed like locusts over an empty cornfield. The whole thing was so under-attended it could have doubled as a Ted Cruz book signing. The reviews were unkind, the photos worse, and the energy in the streets—what little there was—drifted away with the stale cotton-candy fumes of a state fair gone bad.
Into this pathetic pageant popped sleazebag Vice President JD Vance, delivering a line of bullshit history may eventually classify somewhere between ironic and tragic: “We never ask you to go to war unless you absolutely have to,” he told the hapless soldiers assembled along Pennsylvania Avenue, their expressions hovering somewhere between boredom and bureaucratic compliance. It was meant to sound noble, but instead it just sounded weirdly exploitative. And Vance’s halitosis still hung in the air on that sentiment as events overseas were cranking up.
Israel is getting hammered. Iranian missiles are falling with a consistency that would impress any statistician or mortician. Israeli defenses, long mythologized as impenetrable, are straining under the barrage. Bloodsucking Prime Minister Netanyahu, whose instinct for surviving disasters is matched only by his talent for creating them, is said to be panicking behind closed doors. And somewhere in a hermetically sealed glass viewing box—shaped less like a command center and more like a mausoleum for wounded pride—malignant narcissist Dumpy, our increasingly senile nutjob would-be dick-tater, is watching all of it. Brooding. Seething. Rehearsing.
The failed parade haunts him. No crowd. No glory. No viral image to post, except the one where he looked like a microwaved butter sculpture in a bulletproof terrarium. And now Israel, the golden calf of his white racist, evangelical fanbase, is under siege on international television. Dump sees it all. And he sees himself reflected in it. He is nothing if not deeply committed to his own reflection.
This is where the Dear Leader’s malignant narcissism becomes more than a character flaw. For the American people and their military it becomes a threat vector.
Malignant narcissists don’t process setbacks as lessons. They process them as betrayals. For a cretin like Dump, reality is not something to understand—it’s something to dominate. When his ego takes a hit, retaliation is not optional, it’s reflexive. His calculus, if it can be called that, is primitive but effective. Did I look weak? Yes. Is someone I’ve tied myself to under attack? Also yes. Can I bomb someone to feel strong again? Sure—why not?
So what happens next if Israel keeps taking hits? Dump’s next move, in the emotionally mangled mind of the moron himself, is both obvious and irresistible:
He’ll begin with stagecraft. There will be limited American airstrikes, justified as “defensive,” choreographed like a Michael Bay trailer. Fighter jets will take off in slow motion. He’ll squeeze himself into a bomber jacket that he couldn’t zip up with divine assistance. The camera angles will be pre-approved. The explosions, optimized.
Then will come the “advisors.” A small detachment of U.S. troops, technically non-combat, will land in Tel Aviv. Their mission? Vague. Their risk? Enormous. Just enough boots on the ground to get someone killed. Just enough blood to fuel a news cycle. And when that happens—as it always does—Dump will switch tones faster than a televangelist at tax season. He’ll claim his hands were tied, that the Deep State sabotaged his restraint, that Biden is somehow to blame.
And if Iran responds—which they likely will—Dump will escalate. Not strategically, not diplomatically, but theatrically. Stupidly.
He’ll speak of “tactical nukes.” Not because they make sense, but because the word “tactical” lets him sound serious, and the word “nuke” guarantees airtime. It’s the ultimate expression of strength for a coward who has none. The media will gasp. The markets will stutter. Fucker Carlson will have a live-on-air orgasm. And Vance will be there in the background, holding the promise he made like a melted popsicle stick.
It bears repeating: this has nothing to do with defending Israel. Or defending democracy. Or defending troops. It’s about defending Dump’s face—his literal, physical, pouty face—from the bruises that come with looking weak and ineffective. Unadmired, unpopular. The narcissist’s terror is not death. It’s embarrassment. And if the choice is between the world remembering his humiliation or watching the world burn, he will light the match himself.
So maybe Vance meant well, and his words were tidy. But tidy doesn’t survive contact with mental pathology. The promise that Dumpy and Vance won’t send American troops to war “unless they absolutely have to” is already dissolving under the heat of Dump’s rage, vanity, and need to win the next news cycle. And if Israel continues to bleed like the dumb, dying wounded little pissant it is, it won’t be strategy that drives the next strike. It will be revenge—petty, grandiose, narcissistic revenge—preferably with oceans of American blood because, when all is said and done, we were the people who humiliated the Dumpster.
The kind of revenge that illogically turns humiliation into justification for a moron incapable of rational thought. The kind of revenge that can only be born out of Dumpy’s bitter birthday bash with no cake, no crowd, and no applause.
According to his diseased way of “thinking,” it’s never too late to obliterate that humiliation with blood. Barrels and barrels of American blood.
