Weekend at Donnie’s
Donald Trump Disappeared, and Twitter Rose from the Dead
Aug 31, 2025
Donald Trump disappeared for four days. Poof. Gone. No
rallies, no photo-ops, no Fox call-ins, no fresh word salad leaking out of his
dentures like Taco Bell hot sauce packets left in the sun. Four long,
suspiciously quiet days where the president of the United States was basically
doing cosplay as Jimmy Hoffa.
And let me say it up top: I don’t give a flying fuck about
his heart, kidneys, lungs, colon, or whatever organ is left rattling around in
that bloated polyester casing. He looks like someone tried to rehydrate a
rotisserie chicken in a motel microwave and then spray-painted it orange. His
skin has the pallor of a bruised tangerine left rolling around the back of a
Walmart truck, his jowls sag like melted cheese sliding off a gas-station
nacho, and his whole body carries the defeated slump of a party balloon three
weeks after the party. He’s less “leader of the free world” and more “science
experiment left too close to a tanning bed.”
Are you f'ng kidding me?
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I don’t give a fuck if his hands look like grayscale
rotisserie chickens left too long under the warming lamp at Costco. What I care
about is this: when the leader of the free world vanishes into the Mar-a-Lago
ether for half a week, the American people deserve to know if he’s still
upright or if Melania finally succeeded at her greatest acting role: First
Widow.
Which makes the hypocrisy even richer. Because these are
the same people—Jake fucking Tapper repeating it with a straight face, Seb
goddamn Gorka booming it like Dracula in a tracksuit, Steve Bannon frothing
into his fourteenth shirt of the day, and every MAGA idiot in between—who built
an entire campaign on Joe Biden being physically unfit for office. They’ve been
shrieking for years that Biden is weak, frail, a walking corpse. And yet, now
it’s their guy who disappears for four days straight without a peep, hiding
from the press like it’s a subpoena.
Oh, the fucking irony.
For twelve beautiful, unhinged hours, Twitter was alive
again. Not with discourse, not with doomscrolling, but with gallows humor at
its absolute peak. It was like the site briefly remembered its golden era, back
when it was a town square instead of a Proud Boys garage sale. Memes flew like
confetti: Donnie Weekend at Bernie’s. Donnie frozen in carbonite. Donnie being
wheeled around in a Rascal scooter with Ivanka working the pedals. For the
first time in years, Twitter was unified, cackling in morbid anticipation,
while somewhere Elon Musk was furiously trying to figure out how to monetize
Trump’s obituary.
Honestly, the whole thing felt like the deleted timeline
from Back to the Future where Biff becomes president and the entire country
rots into a neon-lit casino dystopia. Only now, four decades later, Biff has
slumped over in his Temu Versailles Oval Office and we’re all wondering if Doc
Brown needs to swing by with the DeLorean to reset history.
And spare me the lectures about decency. This isn’t about
us losing our humanity — it’s about him torching his. Trump dragged the bar so
far underground it’s practically fracking at this point. You don’t get to spend
a decade turning cruelty into a campaign platform and then act shocked when the
world laughs at your silence. He made the rules, and now he’s choking on them.
Because this is who he’s always been. The man who flailed
his arms to mock Serge Kovaleski, a disabled reporter. The man who turned Joe
Biden’s lifelong stutter into a punchline, sneering “I’m gonna bring the
country tuh-tuh-tuh-together” like a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving. The man who
sneered at John McCain for being captured — “I like people who weren’t
captured.” The man who insulted a military widow, attacked a Gold Star family,
and called America’s war dead “suckers and losers.” The man who bragged about
grabbing women “by the pussy.” The man who incited a mob to sack the Capitol,
then pardoned them all like he was Oprah giving away sedition. And now, Ashli
Babbitt — who died breaking into the literal beating heart of American
democracy — is honored by the Air Force, while her family pockets a $5 million
check from a government that won’t fund pediatric cancer research. That’s not
irony — that’s depravity with a Pentagon stamp.
So when MAGA clutches its pearls because Twitter speculated
about Dear Leader’s sudden game of hide-and-seek? Spare me. They can fuck all
the way off. These are the same goons who treated every Biden stumble like the
Zapruder film. Their guy vanishes like a mob accountant with a gambling debt,
and we’re supposed to lower our voices out of respect? No thanks.
His disappearing act is the closest thing to a policy
achievement he’s had in years — four straight days of him not actively making
America worse.
Here’s the ugly, hilarious, tragic truth: we laughed
because he trained us to laugh. Trump turned the presidency into a circus where
cruelty was the main act. And when the clown disappears from the ring, the
audience doesn’t cry — we scan the exits and crack jokes. That’s what he’s done
to us: he broke the empathy reflex. He taught us that mockery is the only way
to survive him. And while that’s funny, it’s also heartbreaking.
I know, I know, I should probably feel bad about laughing
at all of this. I’m a mom. I’m a human being. I am capable of compassion and
empathy and decency. But here’s the caveat: I don’t give a fuck about that
creature. Not in the fucking least. The damage he has done to this country, to
actual human beings, to groups already marginalized—LGBTQ people, immigrants,
women, disabled folks—is incalculable. What he’s done to our public discourse,
what he’s encouraged to crawl out of the shadows—racism, sexism, homophobia,
xenophobia, bigotry, cruelty—has poisoned everything.
Was I publicly rooting for him to be dead? No. Would I cry
if he was? Fuck no. And I don’t feel bad about that. Not in the fucking least.
Because here’s the truth: the only shred of guilt I could
possibly feel isn’t about him, it’s about us — about how much damage we’ll
still be left to clean up when he’s gone.
But maybe, just maybe, when he is finally gone, we can have
a national conversation about trying really fucking hard to shake off this
madness. About clawing our way back to some semblance of accountability,
responsibility, and basic decency. We’ve never been perfect. America has always
had its sins to confront. But Trump has made the worst of us so much fucking
worse. And maybe—just maybe—when he’s out of the picture, we can start to
reverse the clock a little on all of that.
So no, I don’t feel bad. I don’t feel bad for the memes,
the jokes, the obituaries drafted in advance. And I sure as hell don’t feel bad
reminding every pearl-clutching MAGA sycophant that when you build your entire
movement on cruelty, don’t be surprised when the internet finally returns the
favor.
Because yesterday, after four long days, he finally
surfaced. Not to engage the press, not to answer questions, not to reassure the
country, not even to blurt out one of his half-digested “sir” stories—but just
to show his face, looking like microwaved ass. Puffy, waxy, sagging like a
hotel heat lamp carving station, with skin the exact shade of a rusted traffic
cone. For a man who hasn’t shut up since the day he was fucking born, that
silence was deafening. He looked less like a president and more like a bloated
extra from The Walking Dead who wandered onto the set by accident.
And maybe that’s the most poetic irony of all: the loudest
man in American history finally went quiet, and the country’s first instinct
was to laugh.
