by Smitty
And I looked at the top of Trump's head, and it snarled at me.
The Tribble. I had to stop it.
Nobody but me, with my innate xenobiological sense, could even detect the heinous alien menace that had possessed this otherwise quotidian buffoon.— I Came; I Saw; I Got Over Macho Grande (@smitty_one_each) April 13, 2018
It growled, the Tribble, emanating malevolence at me. It knew that I knew that it was driving Trump, causing him to operate in a state of poised instability. Trump, on his own, would have imploded as a candidate when we'd run that Access Hollywood play, but that freakish thing
— I Came; I Saw; I Got Over Macho Grande (@smitty_one_each) April 13, 2018
had somehow kept this knuckle dragging barbar–
"You OK, Jim?" Trump inquired. "You're looking paler than usual, and your eyes might fall out of our head. You having one of those micro-cordial infractions?"
The Angry Orange looked honestly concerned. The Tribble was learning— I Came; I Saw; I Got Over Macho Grande (@smitty_one_each) April 13, 2018
(That’s a myocardial infarction, of course.)
how to simulate human emotions.
Whatever it took. It had to be stopped. The Apricot Autocrat and his alien familiar could not be permitted to derail the Umstoppable March of Progress, I vowed my strongest oath to myself.— I Came; I Saw; I Got Over Macho Grande (@smitty_one_each) April 13, 2018