The Poles of Dementia
Our Senile, Morally Depraved Turd-in-Chief Makes a Bold Lawn Statement.
Well, folks—sound the trumpets, drop the pants, and salute the ever-rippling banner of Absolute Dumbassery—because Donald Dipshit Dump just gave himself a present. Two shiny new 100-foot flagpoles, surgically implanted like titanium testicles onto the White House lawn.
Let’s pause to appreciate this: the country is spiraling into economic, judicial, and moral hellfire, and this necrotic ham-loaf of a finger-banging sex pest is out there today giggling about flagpole specs like he’s found the Holy Grail in a Home Depot catalog. “Tapered! Rust-proof! Rope inside the pole!” he barked, as if he were describing his own overcompensating phallic delusions to a room full of sedated contractors.
“This is something that’s always been missing from the White House,” he slobbered on Shit Social—because apparently, what the presidency really lacked wasn’t decency, literacy, or a functioning moral compass—it was two giant fuck-you sticks waving polyester distractions at a collapsing republic.
Meanwhile, back in the real world:
The fucking monsters in Israel are trying to goad us into killing Iranians.
Inflation is roaring back like a meth-addled boomerang.
The Supreme Court is cosplaying Torquemada, now ruling on vibes and vengeance.
The southern border is a militarized live-action roleplay, where ICE now brags about “zero releases” like that’s a badge of honor instead of a war crime.
The federal government is bleeding qualified staff like a horror movie, and what's left are either MAGA loyalists or malfunctioning interns praying to Clarence Thomas for mercy.
American allies have ghosted us harder than your ex, and even the Canadians are side-eyeing our national brain tumor with quiet horror.
But sure. Let’s focus on the goddamn flagpoles.
Trump even interrogated the installation crew with his signature warm charm: “Any illegal immigrants?” Because nothing says “Leader of the Free World” quite like racially profiling blue-collar workers trying to erect your idiot monument to ego.
And let's not forget, this entire scene is happening while he waddles toward more indictments, more dementia-drenched speeches, and more time spent sucking the oxygen out of a dying democracy. He’s not a president. He’s a rotting weather vane, spinning wherever the next gust of grievance takes him—and his fans lap it up like pork drippings on a Confederate skillet.
This isn’t governance. It’s a Looney Tunes coup with better branding.
And the flagpoles? They're not patriotic symbols. They’re tombstones—slender steel memorials for a republic that got tricked into eating lead paint and calling it “freedom.”
So, raise your glass. Salute the poles. One for each hemisphere of what’s left of this festering dementia-blob’s brain. And when the wind blows just right, listen closely—you can hear the faint whistle of a country flatlining beneath the shadow of its own stupidity.
Long may it wave.
