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Kakisto Cracy
Kakisto Cracy

Nothing but flipping off this mobster blubberpuppet--every single day--until he's dead or in the slammer. Follow us on Twitter @FUKakistocracy #ITMFA

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Trump is Russian malware uploaded to your computer via what you thought was an innocent USB you found in the parking lot whose dildo shape proved irresistible to your swampy mind. Now you’ve got 8-bit naked Russian dwarves running around on your monitor and your desk is about to become extremely Not Safe For Work. Solution: sledgehammer.

Trump is a bloated corpse in a field next to your house that’s been steadily farting and emitting noxious fumes for three years now but every time you call the trash pickup people they tell you the smell can’t be that bad because you’re still able to talk on the phone and you shouldn’t complain until you actually slip into a stink-induced coma, and you know what? Today might be the day.

Trump is a mouthful of wet Kleenex, a tin foil pirate hat, and a pair of sandpaper underwear as you stagger into a job interview only to discover that the position you were applying for has been given to the carcass of a roadkill raccoon that someone lit on fire and threw off the roof, and you’re starting to wonder how you got into this position in the first place. Clue: you should have voted for the lady.

Trump is a community theatre actor doing an impression of John Goodman trying to put together a complicated model airplane but getting glue stuck to his fingers and mashing all the wrong pieces together until his patience finally snaps and he swipes the whole table onto the floor in a clatter of broken plastic pieces and he shakes his fist at the sky and bellows, “I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS SHIT, I’M JOHN MOTHERFUCKING GOODMAN!...” Actually, never mind, Trump’s not nearly that cool. Check back tomorrow, there’ll be something about buttholes or dogshit or whatever.

Trump is a turd in a sink, circling the drain, but it won’t go down the pipe until it’s smooshed into poopy little pieces or we get a badass plumber to come in and rip the whole fixture out.

Trump is the losing contestant in the Shaved Donkey Dick contest after the judges determined that the tiny desiccated organ he presented for competition was so small, shriveled, and choked with bristles that it could not be determined to even be a shaved donkey dick at all, so he was summarily disqualified for the comically inadequate handling of genitals.

Trump is a turd formed entirely from scabs, having been excreted by a person whose diet consists exclusively of his own scabs who nonetheless presents himself as a diet and nutrition expert, appearing in long, ranting infomercials where he bellows about how healthy he is even as he maniacally gnaws at the open wounds on all his puss-smeared appendages while squeezing out yet another horrifying, scabby turd. Bon appetit, America—you are what you eat.

Trump is a corpse hanging on a hook, wrapped in a garbage bag, with a mess of rats writhing in the puddle of liquified drizzle that stains the floor below.

Trump is 350 pounds of wet Cheeto mush in a bespoke garbage bag.

Trump is the cadaver of a dead rapist shackled to your ankle and the only way for you to unlock the shackle is if you say something morally courageous to reject the dead rapist’s actions, but you keep mum, dragging that rotting pile of meat along behind you and you become known for the stench everywhere you go.

Trump is a mashed potato buffet at the National Pus Laboratory where an unspeakable mix-up has resulted in the head chef clacking together his serving ladels to gather the diners’ attention before nervously stating that what everyone thought was a heaping portion of buttery mashed potatoes may in fact be something quite different. Your red hatted co-worker, cheeks bulging with a mouthful, grins as he claims he’s never tasted better, and you get a glimpse of the steaming pus squeezing through the gaps in his teeth. Ain’t that America?

Trump is the last shriveled testicle at the bottom of a bucket at the end of a testicle-gargling contest, which, when held up by the judges for the deadlocked competitors to finish off for the win, causes everyone on stage to projectile vomit. And these are people who have *already* gargled buckets full of testicles.

Trump is a maggoty chicken bone in a vanilla milkshake, and no matter how stupid you are, you have to realize that there’s no reason for that rotting hunk of food waste to be where it is, and no one but the coyotes and jackals are going to enjoy slurping and gnawing on it.

Trump is a crusty sock in a ham sandwich and no matter how hard you chew, you’re not going to learn to love the taste in your mouth. Cleanse your palate with a shot of kerosene and a lit match.

Trump is the covergirl for Bloated Mobster Torso Monthly for the past 36 issues. Fun fact: every previous cover star of BMT Monthly has ended up limbless and decapitated, bobbing down the East River with all the rest of the trash and sewage.

Trump is a demon turd covered in fried chicken skin and wrapped in a jumbo garbage bag, taking command of all the rats and cockroaches in the alley where you dumped him for stinking up the house.

Trump is the shriveled husk of a used Pocket Pussy™️ which a shirtless Russian midget removes distastefully from his pocket to drop in the gutter where a shadowy cluster of aroused dictators and tyrants scuttle from the shadows to fight for possession of the broken old cum-sponge. Far away, hyenas howl in the deepening night.

Trump is a bowl of cold Cheez-Whiz™️ slowly congealing into a styrofoam-like shell and being passed around a kindergarten classroom so all the snot-nosed innocents can run their tongues across the vaguely cheese-like surface to marvel at how similar the flavor is to the paint chips they’ve been snacking on at home.

Trump is a watery, steaming turd emerging from the ass of the Republican Party and sliding directly into the open mouths of 41% of the American population who shit it right back out onto the heads of the poor, the downtrodden, and the vulnerable. Clue: manure makes things grow.

Trump is a batshit milkshake that’s been spoiling in your car for the past three years but you can’t stop yourself from sucking on that straw so hard you see stars.

Trump is a loaded diaper filled with baby shit, undigested Big Mac mush, the bitten-off shards of toenails, and shredded scraps of the U.S. Constitution, and if you’d like to see it up close just call your Republican congressperson and ask for the Trump Calzone. They’ll deliver a hot and steaming mess right to your front door for slightly more than the price of a trillion-dollar cup of coffee.

Trump is a chicken fried wig sandwich you shouldn’t have ordered at the Toupée or Not Toupée Café, where you should never have gone for lunch.

Trump is a dildo on sale in a Russian sex shop but you can get the exact same effect by making one at home with a four-inch segment of dowel wrapped in barbed wire, dipped in spoiled mayonnaise, then leaving it to congeal in a puddle of baby shit over night. Now you can use it to fuck yourself in a way that you won’t be likely to soon forget.

Trump is a frightened wad of toilet paper fluttering at the edge of a gutter as a torrential rain begins to fall.

Trump is a rabid hyena chewing on your intestines while you’re still conscious, lying on the cold ground and wondering why in the world you took this shortcut through the field where all the sex perverts and druggies hang out.

Trump is that disheveled old dude in the middle of the dance floor who can’t dance, is dressed for the wrong decade, and keeps cutting rancid egg farts because he thinks no one can hear him over the music, but we all know where that stink is coming from. Hang the DJ.

Trump is a pig penis in a blender and this smoothie is going to make you puke before you even have a chance to taste it.

Trump is a splattering fart in a silent room where a bunch of sweet old grandmas are sewing a quilt, but the moment veers from horror to tragedy when the Fart Lord demands a swath of the beautiful work to wipe up his shitty ass.

Trump is a dirty limerick recited at a poetry reading by a rapist in a KKK robe to the shocked silence of the assembled crowd. Then, from the back comes the sound of a single person slow-clapping and everyone turns to stare at the naked little Russian midget in the back row with a big grin on his face and a pool of blood spreading under his chair, and everyone’s like, “This poetry reading has gotten *seriously* out of hand.”

Trump is a case of violent diarrhea in the person who is in the front part of a horse costume, while all of us are in the back. And here we thought it couldn’t get any worse than being made a horse’s ass by a rapist in an ill-fitting suit.

Trump is Guy Fieri’s actual face served as an open-faced grilled cheese sandwich, which then appears on the cover of Storm Front Weekly as the Sexiest Sandwich Alive, which apparently appeals to Nazis and the mentally ill while the rest of us scratch our heads and pray for asteroids.

Trump is a baby penis in a spotlight on a stage, shriveling down into itself as the audience laughs, jeers, and boos until it takes a magnifying glass to find the pathetic member that has shrunken so small it barely casts a shadow. Sweep it up, and throw that comically inadequate dick in the trash.

Trump is a haunted fart in an abandoned mayonnaise factory that whips all the rats into a sexual frenzy, and this is America.

Trump is a feral hog taking a dump on your wedding cake but you’re going to eat it anyway because you already paid so much for this special day, and how bad can a mouthful of hog shit really be? (Super super bad, it turns out. Fast-forward straight to the divorce party, no cake or hogs involved.)

Trump is the Cookie Monster, and all our norms and values and traditions are cookies in a bowl in front of him. He gnashes them all to pieces, managing to not even swallow a single crumb, while all our precious norms, values and traditions are reduced to crumbles and dust. Someone shows him a copy of the US Constitution, and he bellows “COOO-KIEEE!!”

Trump is a dead clown lying in a puddle out at the fairgrounds after the circus left town in the middle of the night without him. He’s starting to attract rats, though, and those might be harder to get rid of than all the snaggletoothed and bug-eyed carnies that brought him here in the first place.

Trump is Turd Lord of Shit Mountain, and all his dingleberry followers crowd around and swoon even as he slowly liquifies into floes of hot diarrhea, slithering down the brown slopes, slightly raising the elevation for the next Turd Lord to climb to the top. Because there’s always another Turd Lord.

Trump is the sucking maw of his own inadequacy, swallowing himself in a nightmarish ouroboros of child molesting and money laundering shit while we all watch, mouth agape, hoping like hell that his oral turd recycling routine doesn’t spread to more of our friends and neighbors.

Trump is the second coming of a fart you shouldn’t have trusted, especially not in your ivory linen suit, and now you’ve got a lot of explaining to do to everyone standing behind you with a front row seat to When Sharts Attack.

Trump is a rotting fish head on a popsicle stick you can’t stop licking, and you’re starting to think that the shirtless Russian midget driving the ice cream truck might have oversold you on his stinky treats.