Our Lady of the Perpetual Mulligan
When
it comes to Trump, God has left the building.
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Since MAGA is out there once again saying their
Melon-hued Messiah is making “prayer great again,” let’s talk about God and
Trump, shall we?
When Donald was a five-year-old boy, he wasn’t stacking
Lego castles or catching lightning bugs—he was hurling rocks at a baby in a
crib. That’s not “mischief.” That’s “future Netflix documentary.” If Jeffrey
Dahmer had a sandbox, this is the kid they’d have blacklisted.
When the draft came calling and other young men were
bleeding out in jungles, Trump came down with a sudden case of Rich Guy Bone
Spurs — a miracle condition that flares up whenever there’s a war and
disappears the second the disco ball starts spinning. He dodged Vietnam the
same way he dodges taxes: shamelessly, and with paperwork someone else filled
out. His only “combat” experience was stiffing contractors, bankrupting
casinos, and treating every STD scare like it was his own personal Cuban
Missile Crisis.
He left his first wife, who accused him of rape, for
his second, whom he betrayed with his third, whom he betrayed with a Playmate
and a porn star, both bribed into silence with campaign cash. That isn’t a
family tree; it’s a pyramid scheme with marriage licenses stapled to it.
Yes, really.
This is the man MAGA insists is “God’s chosen.” A man who turned sexual
assault into open-mic material and bragged about it like he deserved five stars
and a “would recommend.” Who called women pigs, dogs, and horses while drooling
over his own daughter like she was auditioning for The Apprentice: Pornhub
Edition. Who stole from charities for cancer kids and veterans — yes, literally stole from cancer kids — because apparently
nothing screams “man of God” like snatching dollars out of the chemo jar. Who
thought mocking a disabled reporter was campaign strategy. Who sneered at
stutterers, waved off amputees like they were bad décor, and still strutted
around with hair that looked like it lost a street fight with a weed whacker.
Who laughed when Paul Pelosi was smashed with a hammer, because for him, other
people’s pain is just a free comedy show. Who treated a once-in-a-century
pandemic like background noise while rage-tweeting Hannity talking points and
scarfing McDonald’s. Who unleashed a mob on Congress and then sat glued to the
TV while they smeared shit on the walls — the first and only president to turn
American democracy into a live-action German fetish video.
And because the universe has a sick sense of humor,
there’s also the Epstein chapter. His name is in the files. His friendship with
a convicted pedophile stretched across decades. He even admitted Epstein “stole
his girls” from Mar-a-Lago. Not “girls” like interns. Girls like teenagers. And
he said it like he was filing a customer service complaint. He wasn’t furious
about trafficking — he was mad about market share. Survivors live with scars.
He reduced them to stolen property.
And as if that weren’t grotesque enough, there’s the birthday drawing.
Yes, the one where Trump sent Epstein a smutty little doodle about what they
“had in common” — their “shared secrets.” A literal keepsake of depravity that
Epstein’s estate (yes, there is a fucking Epstein estate — how is that even
real?) has held onto for more than twenty years. Two decades. And now Trump
claims it’s a forgery. Forgery! As if some deranged forger in 2003
thought, “Forget cash, forget art, I’ll fake a horny birthday
card from a washed-up game show host to a pedophile — in 20 years, it’ll blow
the lid off democracy.” Why the fuck would
anyone bother? Don’t waste your breath asking. That’s logic. And the cult has
about as much use for logic as they have for a toothbrush, a cousin they can’t
fuck and a thesaurus.
And still they insist: chosen by God. A man who can’t
quote scripture without sounding like he’s reading the Cheesecake Factory menu
out loud. His great biblical moment (when he wasn’t shaking a Bible that wasn’t
his in front of a church he didn’t go to) — “Two Corinthians” — landed with all
the gravitas of a Denny’s lunch special. He doesn’t attend church unless it’s
staged, and when he does, he holds the Bible like it’s radioactive. He once
called himself “the second coming of Jesus.” Jesus healed the sick. Trump told
them to inject bleach. Jesus fed the hungry. Trump overcharged them for bottled
water at his golf resort. Jesus walked on water. Trump shuffled down a ramp
like he was sneaking past a sleeping toddler.
If God is in this story at all, it’s as a stand-up
comic. God turned him into a ketchup-stained sloth with ankles like beanbags,
hands like raw chicken, and a voice like a leaf blower coughing up blood. God
impeached him twice, made him lose reelection once, dropped a pandemic in his
lap, and stacked up indictments and convictions like fucking trading cards:
fraud, sexual abuse, defamation, 34 felonies.
If this is divine favor, then heaven is running its own
roast.
So, let’s be clear: the Almighty didn’t scroll through eight billion
people and say, “Yes, him. The guy
accused of raping his wife, of sexually assaulting dozens of women, of robbing
cancer charities and stiffing veterans, of looting his own fake university, of
trying to overthrow an election he lost, of cheering while his cultists smeared
shit on the walls of Congress, of paling around with a convicted pedophile, of
racking up 34 felonies and an adjudicated rape liability — that’s my prophet.
That’s the guy I’m sending down to represent Me.”
God didn’t pass over Nobel Prize winners, cancer researchers, exhausted
teachers, or literally anyone who can read a paragraph just to land on Donald
J. Trump. A man who can’t string together a sentence without sounding like a
car alarm in a windstorm. A man whose hair looks like it’s permanently trying
to escape his head. A man who treats every room like a mirror and every crowd
like a hostage situation. A man so insecure he Sharpies his own height on
medical charts. That isn’t prophecy. That’s parody. That’s God saying, “Fine, you want a messiah? Here’s a bloated grievance piñata, a sunburned
bowling ball in a red tie, a diaper-wearing fraud with the vocabulary of a
drunk parrot, the ethics of a payday loan, the body of a melted action figure,
and a civil court verdict finding him liable for sexual abuse — which is just
the justice system’s polite way of saying, ‘we can’t call you a rapist, but
we’re all thinking it.’ Worship that.”
And if you honestly believe the Creator of the universe
hand-picked Donald J. Trump — a Cankled, cake-makeup’d fraud who looks like an
expired ham sweating through a suit, lies with the constancy of a carbon
monoxide alarm, and treats the Ten Commandments like Groupon codes — you’re not
describing faith. You’re describing a cult that treats cruelty like gospel. For
them, prophecy isn’t scripture; it’s a mean tweet about immigrants. It’s a
childish nickname for a political opponent. It’s him ridiculing women, mocking
the disabled, and spitting bile at anyone they’ve been taught to hate. That’s
the whole appeal: he hates who they hate, and in their hollow little universe,
that’s enough to call him “chosen.”
But what really happened had nothing to do with God. It
was simpler, and dumber: a bitter slice of America’s most gullible,
self-sabotaging clowns dragged him back into office. Not because God whispered
in their ears, but because they couldn’t stomach voting for a Black woman. That
wasn’t divine will. That was racism in a choir robe, ignorance lip-syncing
hymns, hatred dressed up as holiness.
Strip that away and all that’s left is bullshit. Not
quaint farm bullshit. Rancid, rat-infested, Manhattan dumpster-in-August
bullshit — sour, steaming, unlivable. But it’s all they’ve got. Because the
second they admit he wasn’t chosen by God, they’ll have to admit their
“messiah” is just a felonious diaper-baby with the IQ of a thumbtack, the
stamina of a deflated bounce house, and the moral compass of a porn pop-up ad.
This was never about God.
They don’t worship God.
They worship Trump.
