Not the Brain! Definitely Not the Brain! Stop Asking About the Fucking Brain!
Who among us hasn’t strolled into Monday morning and said, “Fuck it, I’ll take one preventative MRI, please”?
Once upon a Monday morning so enchantingly perfect it looked hand-painted by angels with too much time on their hands, dawn unfurled across the sky in rosy ribbons. Sunlight spilled through my window in lazy, golden swaths, warming the room with a softness that felt almost orchestrated. Outside, a small choir of birds gathered upon the branches, trilling in delicate harmonies as if the universe had cast them for ambiance. Even the trees seemed to sway in gentle rhythm, their leaves shivering like they were waiting for the overture to begin.
I rose from my bed with the dreamy languor of a princess waking from a hundred-year nap, my long blonde hair cascading over my shoulders in decadent waves—waves so glossy and implausible they could only have been crafted by a unionized team of fairy stylists who do hair, light carpentry, and the occasional curse.
Down the hall pranced my children—Maribellaine Junipressa Rosewood-St.Clair & Gristleby Loamworth Thatchwick the Younger—their cheeks rosy, their steps buoyant, their entire existence radiating the kind of ethereal innocence you only ever read about in books with gold-foil lettering.
In the warm, honeyed glow of the kitchen, I prepared sous vide eggs from my small troop of hens—Ophelia Buttercup, Henrietta von Cluckington, Madam Beakstress, and Lady Eggatha Christie—and potato pancakes from my great-great-grandmother’s heirloom recipe once smuggled across an ocean in her most delicate, unspeakable place, because apparently modesty was negotiable but culinary preservation was sacred.
The whole scene shimmered with such ridiculous enchantment I half-expected a choir of bespectacled mice to break into song.
And on this most glorious of Mondays—this entirely ordinary Monday in every way and yet somehow shimmering with possibility—I felt within me a sudden burning desire. A longing. A need. A thirst.
Today, I thought… today I shall have an MRI.
A bold choice. A whimsical journey. A break in the routine of my usual morning—where I charge my electric car, cash my latest check from George Soros, and complete my daily abortion—into something grander, more mysterious, more spiritually aligned.
Because why not?
Who among us has not awoken on a crystalline Monday morning and thought: “I simply must get inside a giant magnetic tube that howls like it’s trying to exorcise my skeleton.”
Because this is how MRIs work, right? Like a loyalty card at the local nail salon—order five MRIs, get the sixth free. Just strolling into radiology like, “Hey babes, surprise me. Dealer’s choice.”
Because who doesn’t wake up and spontaneously decide to get magnetic imaging done on a random part of their body? No reason. No symptoms. No questions. Perfectly normal behavior—especially, apparently, for the president.
Because this—THIS—is the reality Donald Trump expects us to swallow: the idea that he “just had an MRI.” Just—BOOP—an MRI. No idea why. No idea what part of his body was involved. Just your everyday casual jaunt into a machine that screams like a banshee trying to claw its way out through steel walls.
On Sunday, he said: “I have no idea. It was just an MRI.”
He followed it with: “What part of the body? It wasn’t the brain because I took a cognitive test and I aced it.”
Lil buddy, the “cognitive test” you keep bragging about is a dementia exam, not the SAT for Mensa. It’s the Montreal Cognitive Assessment—a quiz used to determine whether someone is ready for assisted living or merely dehydrated. Passing it is not an achievement; it’s the neurological equivalent of, “Congratulations, you didn’t eat glue today.” You don’t ace that test. You just… complete it.
 |
Reporter: “Can you tell us what they were looking at?”
Trump: “For what? Releasing?”
Reporter: “No, what part of the body was the MRI looking at?”
Trump: “I have no idea.”
Not a clue. Not a flicker. Not even the faintest suspicion of which appendage entered the million-dollar magnetic tube.
And weeks ago, before this fresh chaos, Karoline Leavitt had already stepped to the podium insisting that Trump received only “advanced imaging” and remains in “exceptional physical health,” which is certainly one interpretation of “a man who looks like he’s being operated by remote control through a series of frayed extension cords.” And just today, Karoline Leavitt upgraded the fairy tale, announcing that the president had a “preventative MRI”—as if MRIs are seasonal offerings, right next to Pumpkin Spice colonics and Cranberry Bliss labiaplasty.
A preventative MRI, because they think we’re fucking stupid.
But let’s revisit the brain. The idea that anyone would dismiss the possibility of a brain MRI in his case is the funniest part of this entire fairy-tale-turned-medical-horror-show.
This is a man whose cranial landscape is less “organ of cognition” and more intellectual skid row where common sense turned tricks for loose change. Inside that gilded skull is the cognitive gangbang of confusion, ego, lies, and erectile insecurity grinding under a flickering neon sign. His frontal lobe functions like a cerebral glory hole where stray thoughts wander in and never emerge, while the cortical motherboard sizzles like a cursed relic stolen from a museum basement. The entire operation is run out of an internal call center staffed by three disgruntled possums on a smoke break, misrouting calls and occasionally fighting over an old ham wrapper. And at the center of it all is the cranial snuff film where synapses go to get waterboarded by confusion.
But sure. Not the brain. Anything but the brain.
And yet—somehow—we are supposed to accept this. Nod politely like enchanted villagers in a cursed kingdom and pretend it’s perfectly fine that the president of the United States cannot recall what body part doctors shoved into a machine that sounds like a demon trying to escape a steel coffin.
We deserve to know. We deserve transparency.
Because here’s what we can see with our own eyes—no MRI required: his posture has given up completely, collapsing like a lawn chair at an all-inclusive resort during “Free Margarita Hour,” and he forgets names and places like his brain outsourced memory to interns who stopped showing up. He falls asleep mid-question like his brain hits the fainting couch and demands smelling salts, lurching and slurring like a shopping cart with a busted wheel on black ice.
So forgive me for assuming the MRI might reveal something less “perfect” and more “haunted electrical panel.”
Maybe the technician saw neurons doing coke off a broken mirror, screaming “YOLO” while trying to do parkour across his cerebellum. Maybe the synapses were firing like a malfunctioning vibrator plugged into a Soviet-era power grid. Maybe the frontal lobe looked less like a brain structure and more like the backstage area at a Furry convention during a blackout. Maybe the whole scan resembled a Pay-Per-View broadcast of his cognitive estate sale, proudly sponsored by the boner pill he swears he’s “never even seen in person.”
At this point, if he told us he’d sprouted wings and flown home to Florida wedged between two ibises, Karoline Leavitt would step up to the podium and say, “Yes, that aligns with what we’ve observed from the president’s impressive and extremely normal musculature.”
Meanwhile—meanwhile—these exact same people have spent the past year insisting that Joe Biden signing documents with an autopen constitutes a constitutional crisis. That anything he signed is “illegitimate”. That mechanized writing assistance is proof he’s not in control of his faculties.
The argument, if you recall, was: “He didn’t know what he was signing.”
Okay. Let’s play that game.
Joe Biden used an autopen (they ALL do).
Donald Trump doesn’t know what part of his body was shoved into a physics tantrum disguised as medical equipment.
If we’re doing equivalencies, only one of these men misplaced his own anatomy.
And until Donnie tells us the truth, I’m going to assume the worst. Because if the president can’t remember what happened to his own body in a medical procedure, the country damn sure deserves to know why. And if he’s wandering into MRI machines like they’re vending kiosks at an airport, then what else is he forgetting? Who else is running the country? And how much longer are we supposed to pretend that the emperor isn’t just naked but also lost, confused, and possibly rebooting mid-sentence like a taxidermied ferret in a future serial killer’s third-grade diorama realizing—far too late—that it died with unfinished business.
Tell us the truth, or don’t complain when we diagnose the whole situation as “fucked” with a prognosis of “terminally, irrevocably fucked.”
There’s a difference between a mystery and a cover-up, and this whole operation left “mystery” slumped in a mud-soaked ditch like a deflated MAGA balloon abandoned behind an RV campground hosting a swinger swap meet with one hot tub, zero chlorine, and a dream that should’ve been euthanized at sunrise.
Because if he can’t even remember what the hell happened to him, he sure as shit shouldn’t be trusted with what happens to us.
