In which Dame Slap finally speaks of the Donald, and delivers the gibberish the pond long hoped for ...

 

 

 

 

At last Dame Slap gets around to talking about the Donald experience. Far too late of course, and meaningless, but then Dame Slap had long ago perfected the role of meaningless IPA stooge and shill ...

 

The pond used to remonstrate, demand an explanation, publish a reminder of that giddy night in New York that Dame Slap donned the MAGA cap, thereby attracting the attention of the cult master ...

 

 

 

Now we have the notion of a valuable aberration, not a long term option?

 

Did she have any guilt, any buyer's remorse, was she capable of reflection or insight? As it turns out, waiting for Dame Slap to scribble about the Donald's epic reign as wannabe nepotic child narcissist emperor is way worse than waiting for Godot ...

 

 

 

Schumpeterian creative destruction? That's the best she's got for rampant incompetence and sublime stupidity? Schrödinger's cat might have been more useful, or perhaps the cat in Alice ...

 

 

 

 

 

Much like the Donald, Dame Slap finds it hard to admit error or to concede ... and some of her Donald triumphs are patently absurd, showing her ability to grasp at straws. He was such a divisive, hated figure, but at least he got out the vote? And he was a great loser? Yep, there's IPA shilling at its stoogiest ... and apparently not understanding that when Kong gets angry, when Kong gets mad, when Kong loses, he's likely to head to the Empire State Building or at least Trump Tower and do what damage he can ...

 

 

 

 

A foul mouthed bully lacking decency and grace, full of contempt? But all that was plain enough when the Dame donned the MAGA cap, thereby endorsing pussy groping as a way to enjoy the world. Did it take her four years to realise what she'd been endorsing by the donning. Is she that thick? Do you think the pond expected any alternative response to that rhetorical question, because at the core of Dame Slap is a moral vacuum, where seizing the moment and owning the woke and the libs is always more important than admitting in the process you're doing a dance with the devil.

 

As for the rest, the pond realised the moment that Dame Slap wrote that Biden had delivered a pitch-perfect speech that we're all doomed ...  but then confronted with her previous love of the ugly, what else could she do?

 

 

And so to a final gobbet in which Dame Slap pretends her donning of the MAGA cap was just a chance to enjoy a Borat movie ... no longer a blinkered booster, this Dame, just blinkered in the usual Dame Slap way ...

What an epic fail, what an epic tosser ... as if the pond would forget that MAGA cap donning ... though speaking of local events, it would have liked to have celebrated another transformation, that of a thoroughly stupid man into a white ant ... courtesy the infallible Pope ...

 

And now the pond is still in hunger games mode, but when running a marathon, is it wrong to pause for a little treat, a little energy giver? The pond promises that the bromancer won't take up much time ...

 

 

 

 

Yes, it's the bromancer being as fatuous as Charlie Brown being confronted by a football ...

 

 

 

 

 

 

The pond isn't sure what's more comical, the Donald being Donald, or the bromancer suddenly being shocked and disappointed ...

Read, marvel or weep as you will ... there is no reason for the Donald to abandon his general political persona, petulant, impetuous ratbaggery that it is, it having been so successful at fucking the United States and the planet ... yet he really should exercise some basic modicum of responsibility while doing the fucking ...

Make sense of that and you might comprehend the reptile mind, or the nirvana arising from embracing sublime contradictions ...

As for that bromancer line about the messy policy compromises being not too bad? That's the best he's got?

But that's the bromancer for you, so deeply mired in stupidity it's easy to see why he loved the onion muncher. But at least, as the pond promised, he stayed in the shallow water, and kept it short. Pick up the water and the energy bar, and you can sprint through the final gobbet of delusion ...

 

And there you have it. Many criticisms of the Donald are overdone, and yet, finally a realisation that a petulant man child might spend the next few months smashing the Lego set up, and at last the bromancer discovering some extremely hard criticism and condemnation ...  you know, love taps with a feather duster of disappointments ...

Oh Murdochians, what bullshit artists you are, what viewers of the world through the rear view vision mirror ...

Where was Dame Slap and the bromancer when it might have mattered? Why either MIA or wringing hands like a Pontius Pilate ...

What a relief it is to know that all this Donald nonsense is surely winding down, and the pond can join the immortal Rowe in contemplating a sodden, coal-infatuated white anting barfly, with a goodly chance of finding more wretches high on coal fumes here ... (oh the pond remembers the highs, frolicking in the Tamworth power station's tailing heaps, and those glorious days when coal gas left the kitchen walls coated with an inch of thick black grease, and the pond was assigned the task of removing it. Who couldn't love coal like a Joel, at least if they wanted to leave the house a few cells short of a working battery pack)...