Some Brainly Thoughts From the Stable Genius

At last! The Brain speaks!

S E E D E D   C O N T E N T

Hi, I'm Donald Trump's Brain, and I Have Some Shit to Say

The Mouthy Renegade WriterSep 09, 202541412Share Too much to explain. But allow me to try.

Sigh. I get blamed for so much shit. So allow me to explain a few things about Bullshitimus Dimwiticus to you.

People everywhere wonder what the hell is wrong with him. One only has to hear him speak for a minute or two before deciding that he must have brain damage. I'm not gonna lie, that's not too far from the truth.

I had it rough growing up. I entered the world with a disadvantage in life. Unlike that entitled orange prick.

For starters, his mother, Mary Anne, was an alkie. Imagine being married to Fuhrer Fred, and the bullshit that came with THAT. Having to shat five of his big-headed children out of her womb is enough to turn anyone into a day-drinker.

And this was decades before Fetal Alcohol Syndrome was a thing.

Donald Douchenozzle's mother, Mary Anne. Sort of looks like Barron in 1930s drag.

She'd become quite the consumer of spirits by the time little Donnie was born. And I do mean "little." They thought he was a girl, initially. This was decades before the term "micropenis" was a thing.

No wonder he's so goddamn angry all the time.

It doesn't help a man's self-esteem when you can't satisfy a woman. Nobody wants to hear, "Oh, it's in there, already?" or "I can't believe I fit the whole thing in my mouth, balls and all." It's no wonder Captain Rapey is always forcing himself on someone, including little girls.

This was decades before Dick-Spurs was a thing. Wait, it's still not? Shit.

Since I was marinated in vodka right from Jump Street, I wasn't able to stop Diaper Donnie from acting on his sociopathic urges. My amygdala and prefrontal cortex, along with my hypothalamus and periaqueductal gray, regulate impulsive behavior, anger, and rage. Sadly, those parts were pickled by the time Mango Mussolini was introduced to the world.

Mary Anne almost spilled her cosmopolitan on that final push. And he's been whining and crying ever since.

It's never easy for someone when their parent does things that negatively affect them while in utero. Hitler's mother used meth. Pablo Escobar's madre was a fan of the Devil's Dandruff. Jeffrey Dahmer's mom ate paint chips and licked poisonous toads.

So little Donnie Dick-Smack didn't really have a choice in the matter.

I tried my best to do right by him, but it's not easy when you're as shitfaced as Robert Downey Jr. on an '80s movie set. I tried to walk a straight line for him while he was struggling with learning his ABCs and eating paste. I signaled to him that boogers weren't a good choice for kindergarten snacks, but he wouldn't listen.

He passed that trait down to Don Jr. and Eric. That micro-peen thing, too. No wonder they're such pissy little asswipes.

It didn't get easier as Don Fraud Van Damn progressed through grade school to junior high. Private school teachers can only do so much. His sub-80 IQ limited his educational options.

No matter how much money Fred Wurst had, it wasn't going to make up for the bad wiring in young Trumpenstein's head. Even the best tutors money could buy didn't do much to improve Groper Cleveland's lot in life. Thank Christ, Daddy had a lot of money. High school and college diplomas don't come cheap.

He didn't learn a damn thing, educationally. Only how to sexually harass his female tutors. A few of the dudes, too.

This is yet another component of Trump's constant anger. There's a reason he is bigoted against LGBTQ people and thinks that gay people are groomers and pedophiles. When you are hung like a pimple and forced to wear dresses as a young child while playing "house" with your older siblings, certain tendencies develop.

Why else do you think he's portrayed himself as such a swinging bachelor? Textbook closest bi/homosexual, self-loather.

Again, with me as his brain, swimming in Lake Mead, the preferred drink of his Scottish ancestors, Donald Dickless didn't have much of a chance. Papa Fred Savage had to get aggressive and take up some of the slack caused by the liquid damage I'd incurred.

He trained Donald J. Tantrump to be mean. Ruthless. And to lie. He could deny anything he didn't care for about himself. These traits served him well in the family business. The portion of me that dealt with guilt, empathy, and regret died in a DUI crash long before his career.

I've had a rough go of it, being Donald Dumbass' brain. I get blamed for a lot of shit.

I'm not saying that I'm fully responsible for all of the characteristics that make Jabba the Trump who he is. Being raised as an entitled, snot-nosed prick all of his life certainly didn't help make him a decent human being. When you're surrounded by a ruthless businessman father and a mother who cruised around on autopilot, it's easy to feel the world owes you something.

But no matter how much money Julius Sleazer has, it's not enough to buy Mommy and Daddy's love.

So King Nothing looked for the next best thing: The fandom and adoration of the masses. Though only stupid people support His Unholy Incontinence, at least he has the love of millions.

And their credit card information. PTSD Barnum is the master of shameless self-promotion.

Have you seen these dogshit products he's constantly hawking? Gold faux-leather basketball shoes? $200 guitars that he has airbrushed with the American flag and Freedom Chickens, marking them up 750% in the name of fake patriotism?

I'm honestly surprised that his mouth breathing members of Cult 45 have the brainpower to navigate the checkout portion of his shitty website.

If I'm being honest, I'm tired. Worn out. During this unquittable job I've held for going on 80 years. Sir Psycho Syphilis hasn't been a good host. He's at the tail end of his time here on Earth. I honestly can't remember my middle name at times.

Just as he can't. Though he'll likely tell you the J. stands for "Jesus.' He thinks THAT highly of himself. Praise be.

But that's the overcompensating thing he's always done. You can fool every fuckwit who supports you into thinking you're smart, talented, and good at business. You can convince mainstream media that you know what it takes to make America great again. But there's always one that you'll never trick into believing all of your bullshit:

The one staring back at you in the mirror.

And I'm a big part of that self-realization. He knows that he's a tumbling, tumbling dickweed. And that the clock is ticking. That he's hated by millions of people who detest racism, bigotry, sexism, and homophobia.

Every time we lock eyes as he's applying his browish-orange pancake batter makeup that looks like a mixture of baby shit and curry, he knows. I'm surprised he hasn't aimed a pistol at me and pulled the trigger. But again, a malignant narcissist of his level doesn't believe in suicide.

He thinks he's God's gift to humanity. And to junior high girls. If only he were as self-aware as this small part of me still is. But I'm tired. I'm over his shit. I'm ready to go to sleep for good. I'd love to stop working.

And trust me, Donald's mouth feels the same way. We're ready for permanent retirement.

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