Earlier this week North Korean dictator and dumpling enthusiast, Kim Jong Un, vowed to carry out a preemptive nuclear strike on the U.S. if it appeared his regime was about to be attacked.

He specifically mentioned the U.S. territory of Guam as a target which makes sense because it has a large U.S. military presence and is comparatively close to Korea. A handful of California’s cities have also been singled out, but I get the strange feeling the threats against San Francisco aren’t having the desired effect.

If there’s one city population in America that probably won’t mind being crammed nut-to-butt in cramped underground bomb shelters, it’s that one.

If I didn’t live so close to DC, I’d actually welcome a nice nuclear warhead draining the swamp of political corruption that’s endemic to the District of Columbia.

But, the more I think about it, none of these options are really crazy enough to be North Korea’s plan. I feel like you to have to get outside the box nuts to understand this chubby little bond villain, and that’s why I’m betting on a submarine bomb.

I would wager a thousand bucks that North Korea has at least investigated the possibility of a tsunami bomb but it only takes a few minutes to show the math just doesn’t work. The amount of nuclear material it would take to make a massive wave is just not practical.

If you fill a submarine up with nuclear weapons and detonate it in a confined space like the deep and high sided Columbia river, it may make a big enough wave to do some damage, but an underwhelming wave is worse than no wave at all.

That’s why the smart money is on a North Korean suicide sub jetting directly into a West Coast harbor before detonating it’s payload. And as an added F U, I’m guessing the bomb will be laced with dangerous isotopes to ensure the land is still glowing for the next century.

I’ve always had a beef with religion.  If God is so goddamned powerful, why doesn’t he feed the hungry, heal the sick and cure whatever plague is ravaging our planet this month?

Sure, we as humans could do most of these things ourselves, but volunteering in a soup kitchen would require far more effort than I’m even willing to consider.

However, if I could just snap my fingers and magically give those filthy transients a pizza, I would definitely spare the ten seconds of energy to do that.

I might even do it almost every day.

God doesn’t do that, so there are three possibilities: he doesn’t exist, doesn’t care or can’t.

Rationally, I lean toward the doesn’t exist option, but the simple fact that we’ve evolved to believe in God or gods probably means something.  It might be that faith is just a great coping mechanism to overcome the unceasing misery of life, but it could be something else.

Even if God exists, he didn’t create the universe.  He probably doesn’t even care about gay marriage, pre-marital sex or the staggering amount of granny porn I view on any given day.  Rules on morality were created by man for man.

People have this idea that if there’s a God, he must be omnipotent, but last time I checked, magic isn’t real.  Maybe God actually exists, but he can only do a few things like whisper in your ear or send a picture of his son to appear in an old Mexican lady’s taco.

There was a time when a beach vacation made a lot of sense. Before the availability of air-conditioning, I can imagine the relief of taking a steam train to the coast and lounging on the hotel’s veranda while a cool sea breeze almost made me forget I was wearing a wool suit and would later masturbate to the fleeting memory of some harlot’s naked ankle.

Fast forward a century and beach vacations are not only anachronistic, they’re fucking moronic.

And if you decide to go the Outer Banks of North Carolina like I did, prepare for an extra special slice of hell while you wait in a five-mile long traffic jam to cross the only goddamn bridge that leads there.

And after you arrive, there are a whole host of new problems.

For one, I’m white, and that angry yellow orb in the sky loves nothing better than frying my pasty ass a nice shade of burgundy. That’s why we wear clothes the other 358 days of the year. Not at the beach though. Here we get practically naked and dare it to fuck us up.

And not to be too alarmist here, but even after greasing myself and my three stupid kids with sunblock and carrying the five tons of shit down to the beach my wife decided we needed, my reward was to go into the only part of our planet where actual honest-to-God fucking monsters live – the ocean.

The only bright spot of the whole week was watching some fat guy freak out when two dolphins decided it would be fun to swim right up to him just to see if he’d crap his swimsuit.

Since I’m not retarded, I view antibiotics and vaccinations as two of the greatest inventions in human history. Prior to their creation, we were virtually powerless against infectious disease, and people had large families because someone was always dying.

Unfortunately, researchers at McMaster’s University in Ontario recently found that Penicillin does have one little drawback. If given to children, it alters chemicals in their brain, affects gut bacteria and seems to cause increased aggression later in life.

Lead author Dr. John Bienenstock did offer a bit of a silver lining. He found that probiotics given in conjunction with penicillin keeps anger at bay, and this raises an interesting question about the role microbes in our stomach play in maintaining good mental health.

It also raises one other interesting question. Did antibiotics make all of you resentful, easily-offended, whiny little bitches?

As a cynic, I expect nothing and usually less, so getting outraged just isn’t in my DNA. And as an alcoholic, I know that a sweet release from the pressures and disappointment of life are never more than six beers and five Jägermeister shots away.

If you’re someone who is always looking to argue on social media, is convinced you have all the answers and get mad whenever you hear a viewpoint that doesn’t match your own, you’re a cunt and antibiotics may be partially to blame. And while it’s too late for you, if you have kids make sure they’re given a probiotic so this current state of social douchebaggery can slowly die on the vine.

Some people spend their whole lives looking for their purpose and never find it.  Other poor saps finally settle on one, but it isn’t the real one, so they live a life of quiet desperation.  And some people are morons, and their only role is to serve as a cautionary tale for others in their search.

At some point I began to become obsessed with the idea of finding what I was supposed to do.  I read books, went to college, and I even built a snow penis so massive that God himself looked down approvingly, but he stayed silent.

I was born on July 19^th, and I always had the feeling that was my magic day.  The one day of the year the veil between this world and the next would slip a little, and I’d get a fleeting glimpse of my destiny.

One year a voice in a dream gave me Virginia pick 3 lotto numbers.  I bought a hundred tickets the next day and pocketed about $30 grand after taxes.  The next year the voice returned and gave me more numbers, but I didn’t understand that the word blank meant zero, and by the time I bought all the number combinations for the two numbers I understood, I only made about three grand.

Then it went dark.  Year after year came and went without a peep.  As the big day approached in 2015 I began to fear I had totally fallen out of celestial favor.  I even stopped drinking for a week to see if that rebooted the synapses, but nothing happened, and I fell off the wagon.

This year I had a wonderful dream I was on the moon by a lunar oasis.  Only this one didn’t bring up water from some long lost aquifer; it produced oxygen.  I took off my space helmet and drove my little moon buggy around the pockmarked surface, and as I paused to look at the earth off on the horizon, I felt a sense of joy and excitement I hadn’t felt in years.  Unfortunately a gentle rain started to fall and I awoke.

It seems the mall has their sprinklers set to go off at precisely 11:55 p.m., and as I staggered to my feet I realized I was still too drunk to drive.  I started to look for a newer, drier flowerbed to take a nap, but then I saw a sign.

The movie theater was having a special midnight showing of some stupid horror flick that was directed by a hometown kid made good, and that was just the place to have a snack and rest up for round two.

I sank into my theater chair, the lights went down and I slept the sleep of angels.  Then the hiss of gas and shooting started.

Alcoholics survive car crashes because they go limp at the time of the impact and that limits the trauma to their body.  It also seems to work in mass shootings.

That prick in Aurora, Colorado chose a July 19^th showing for his movie theater shooting, and this copycat followed his lead to the smallest detail.  He dyed his hair, sported a gas mask, and he used his shitty M&P 15 to fire rounds into the crowd.

Even in my diminished stated I had some appreciation for his act.  His attention to detail was impressive, and as performance-art goes, I admired his commitment to the bit.  Unfortunately, appreciation fell short of admiration because I’ve always had a thing against people who dye their hair stupid colors for attention.

People dove over seats, martyrs covered their loved ones and people streamed for the exits, but I just stared dead ahead.  This guy was killing for attention but I’d happily die before he got mine.

Thankfully, before my adrenaline could overwhelm the quiet calm of the booze and pills, he emptied the magazine, and as he transitioned over to the shotgun a middle-aged bald guy jumped out of the shadows and tackled him.

Baldy must have been a cop or a former Marine because it only took him a few seconds to get on the guy’s chest, rip of his mask and start raining punches down on his face.

As the dull, empty thud of his blows mingled with the screams and cries from the survivors, I couldn’t help but stare as he systematically and methodically beat this guy to death.

In less than a minute he turned his face into a bloody, puffy mess, and it was so slick and rubbery that his punches were glancing off and hitting the floor.  At that point he changed tactics and wrapped his raw, red hands around the guy’s throat and choked him so hard I literally watched his eyes start to bulge and pop out of their swollen sockets.

As copy-cat gurgled out his last breath, baldy grunted and kept asking over and over, “You like that, you sick fuck?  You like that?”

I got up to leave, and I took one last look into the first killer’s eyes and time stood still.  He had been in this exact theater the day after the shootings in Aurora, and a window opened and that lovely music came to his aid as Alfred explained everything.  “Some men aren’t looking for anything logical.  They can’t be bought or reasoned with.  They just want to watch the world burn.”

And we found our purpose.

Chapter 2

Dr. Jackson Dayer was standing in the middle of the cracked and wreck-strewn pavement of what had once been the parking lot of an old shopping mall.  His followers now inhabited what had been its department stores, eateries, and trendy little boutiques.  A small fraction of them at least.   Thousands more were camped in a sea of tents that would have amazed Alamgir.

That lucky old sun had the best view, and he saw a mass of men, women and, children frantically twisting and contorting their bodies so that they almost blended into one frothing mass.  In the eye of this little hurricane one man stood apart.  He had a cadre of body guards, and they formed a tight circle around him.  Their arms were interlocked, and every few seconds a small section of their human jetty would buckle as a wave pounded against it.

Dr. Dayer was a tall man, at least six foot seven, and added to his already formidable height by wearing a pair of scavenged cowboy boots.  Today his pulpit was the back of an old army truck, and spider webs of speakers went out in all directions, but the truth is it didn’t matter what he said.

Dr. Dayer was the miracle man.  El hombre miraculoso.  For thousands of years men had been predicting the end of the world, and every single one of them was wrong  except for Dayer.  He even got the damned hour right.

“But what are we to do about this abomination?” Dr. Dayer’s voice shrieked from the microphones.  “This New United States seeks to rise from the ashes, but what God has torn asunder, let no man join together.”

“Men would lie with other men, and they called it a virtue.  God was removed from schools, and they called it wisdom.  Girls were robbed of their innocence and taught to prostitute themselves like the Whore of Babylon, and that was freedom.

“There shall be no laws except for those found within this book” Dayer shouted while waving the Bible over his head, “And if they will not enter God’s holy light, we will drag them into it.”

Thousands of shouts came back from the crowd.  They sounded like they were each speaking a different language.

“God’s kingdom is at hand and only by purifying this earth can this place be made ready.  His will shall not be denied.”

Dayer paused and looked down at his notes.  The sweat coming down his forehead was dripping onto the pages and blurring the ink.

“I have seen a vision of the things that are to come.  We are to overwhelm this land like a tidal wave that will stretch from sea to sea, and we will make it all new again.  With God in our hearts we will not be stopped.”

The crowd watched his frantic gestures as he spouted fire, fueled by brimstone, inspired by insanity, and as hard as it is to believe,  Dr. Jackson Dayer wasn’t always nuts.  Not in any of his lives.

In this one he was a pretty normal guy until grad school – A former archaeology student who was an Atheist until the age of twenty.

Like most of the world’s problems, this one traced its roots to the Middle East, and while on a dig there, he was overcome by the heat and forced to retire to the shade.  While drifting in and out of consciousness he got a glimpse of the good old days.

A thousand years ago he had been there as a Christian knight during the first Crusade.  His name was Charles Cartier, and he was a warrior and servant of Count Raymond of Toulouse.

In the years after he saw it, he reconstructed the still pictures of his fever dream into an honest to God vision where his Lord and Savior had directed him to this particular moment in history for a reason.  It was to show him what the power of faith could accomplish.

Dayer looked on as the knights were besieged within the ancient city of Antioch by Kerbogha, the Emir of Mosul.  Racked as they were by hunger and thirst, their brains made fertile breeding grounds for visions and signs from above.  The first of these came from a poor soldier named Peter Bartholomew.  Peter claimed that he was visited by Saint Andrew, and the Saint showed him the secret location of the lance that was used to pierce Christ’s side during the Crucifixion.

It was complete bullshit, but under Peter’s orders, the floor of St. Peter’s Cathedral was excavated and as their faith began to wane, Peter jumped into the trench and began to claw furiously at the ground with his hands.  After some time, his nails scratched against a slender piece of iron.  “Behold,” he said.  “It is the lance that pierced Christ’s side.”  He held it high above his head for all to see.

News of the miracle traveled throughout the Christian city.  Morale that flagged a week before, now soared to new heights.  The Christian soldiers began five days of fasting in order to atone for their past misdeeds.  They pushed their bodies beyond the breaking point.  Faith was their only sustenance now.

Camped outside Antioch’s gates, a massive force was arrayed against the city.  Composed of both Turks and Arabs, they vastly outnumbered their Christian enemies.  Early on the morning of June 28, the starving Christians burst out of Antioch’s gate and the Muslim host awaited an easy victory.

Charles Cartier was among to first men to leave the protection of the city’s walls, and he charged at the enemy headlong.  Many of his fellow knights had been forced to eat their horses, but he was still perched atop his skeletal white steed.

In Dayer’s defense, I guess his old body really did resemble one of the four horseman that day.  Tendons and bones twisted and flexed as he drove headlong into the enemy’s lines, and in a moment he was in their ranks.

The Arabs fled the field, but their fearsome Turkish masters fought on, and as Cartier pushed forward, the Turks pressed in hard from his left and right.  Facing death he became possessed with a wild desperation that animated his sword with superhuman speed and power.

He cut a bloody arc in front of his mount but one man managed to dodge the scythe and drove his lance through the side of the knight’s neck, severing his spine.

As he slumped off his horse and his eyes closed, his psyche fractured so completely, it left an indelible mark on his very soul.   He had become death and hell followed with him.

A flushed Jackson Dayer pumped his fist one last time into the air and leapt from the truck.  His bodyguards closed ranks around him and attempted to part the sea ahead of them.  People whirling madly in circles would hit the men and ricochet into other men behind them.  Women would kneel in prayer in their path.

Dayer’s escort continued navigating through the maelstrom until they finally reached the edge of the parking lot.  A similar group of men formed another circle around a large white limousine.  As Dr. Dayer approached, they threw open a door and stepped aside so he could slip in.  A few of the guards followed him inside as others ran ahead to begin the laborious process of clearing a path for the massive car to exit.

Once on the highway, the limousine’s driver buried the gas pedal and the car made the five-mile trip to Dayer’s newest headquarters, the house on the hill.

The house itself was a beautiful mansion based on the Governor’s Palace in Williamsburg.  It was flanked by a matching pair of outbuildings and surrounded by a thickly-built wall that turned the whole compound into a veritable fortress.

Some of Dayer’s personal security force manned the gates, while others patrolled the walls, but the truth is this was the calmest area for miles.  The rank-and-file were told no one was allowed to climb the hill without proper permission and with the threat of crucifixion being a very real possibility, no one disobeyed.

As the car pulled through the gates and made the crushing sound on the white pebble driveway, the Doctor bounded out the door and in five gangly strides made his way up the steps of the building.  He was greeted at the door by his only friend, a warm washcloth in her hand.

“Come in and lay down,” she said.

Dayer didn’t ever remember not having headaches, but they were so much worse now.  And there was a method to their madness.  If he sat alone reading the Bible, he was fine.  If he addressed a small crowd, he was still fine.  But once he hit the stage, it was as if the personal magnetism that radiated out from him to the crowd was slowly tearing him apart.

Claire walked over the couch and sat down, and in a now well-worn custom Dayer laid down on his back with his head in her lap as she slowly massaged whiskey into his temples.

None of his security force was allowed inside the building without authorization and the men that surrounded the walls could only guess what went on behind the blacked out windows.  Even the cleaning staff was only allowed in when the doctor was away.

The security staff was told by his sister that it was because Jackson needed to speak to God, and any outside interruptions could break his tie with the Almighty.  It was universally believed.  At least, no one ever publicly questioned it.

As Jackson began to relax he felt all of the tension start to drain from his stomach.  Then, it seeped out from his shoulders and finally from his mind.

“How does that feel,” she asked.”

“Heavenly,” was Dayer’s only reply.

Claire continued the massage until Jackson’s head lulled back and she stared into his maniacally flashing blue eyes for a second before she leaned over his shoulder and kissed him on the mouth.

 

Jackson woke up in the early morning hours and was relieved the pain was gone, but it made no sense.  He seemed to be punished for doing good and rewarded for sin, but he pushed those thoughts out of his mind.  Claire was sprawled out on the bed.  The thin linen sheet perfectly molded to her covered breast.  The other breast was exposed, and he stared at it for a moment, before closing his eyes tight.  Without ever opening them, he slid out of bed and deftly crept from the room.

Jackson walked into the hallway and down to the bathroom.  He went inside and locked the door.  He flipped on the lights, walked over to the sink and turned on the cold water.

Careful not to remove his gaze from the sink and accidentally catch even a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he washed his hands and face.  After drying his hands he draped the towel over the lights to block his reflection.

Chapter 3

There’s something cool about townhouses that form a little courtyard.  It’s like being in the keep of a castle, and I liked to lounge in the middle of mine and pretend I was the lord.  I sat in judgement as people came out of their homes, and I made a mental inventory of what I would do with each one.

Some I would fuck, some I would murder, and maybe one I would marry.  Not this one, though.

This old cunt married money, ran the Historic Fredericksburg foundation and lavished attention on her dogs because they were her children.  As she hurried by, always seemingly in a rush while never actually doing anything important, she gave me a fake expression of concern.  “Are we still recovering?” she asked.

I nodded my head and stared at the ground, and she mentioned something else and kept walking.  I fought the urge to smile because that day in the theater was the best day of my life, but that’s our little secret.

It was notoriously difficult to get on disability in this area, and the blowhard judge in Richmond seemed to get a hard-on every time he banged his gavel and denied a claim.  But, he didn’t dare do that with me.  My lawyer explained the horrible events of that night and how PTSD had left me so scarred; I literally pissed myself if it got dark.

That last part was just lucky.  The power went off for about thirty seconds during our first disability consultation in his law office, and I decided to piss my khakis because that seemed like something someone with PTSD would do.  It must have made an impression because he kept mentioning it to show how screwed up I was.

The judge banged his little hammer, and just like magic old piss pants was now the proud owner of a $3,000 a month money check.  Aside from the 12 large I had to pay my lawyer, that is.

Thanks to my Aunt who was kind enough to die while she still had an inheritance for her only nephew, I now owned my own home and had my monthly expenses covered by Uncle Sam.  The system had worked for me, but that didn’t matter.  In fact, it did matter.  I didn’t want anything rational.  I was just going to make it burn.

Dye job seemed like a guy that tried way too hard, but he was weighed and found wanting.  Anybody can open fire on a crowd and kill a few people.  Hell, it takes some extra training and planning, but it’s not even that hard to hijack a plane, fly it into a building and kill a few a thousand.  That’s not for me, though.  This little guy was going for the gusto.

The dream, the dream, the beautiful dream.  It was hilly and marked with thousands of tombstones.  At the top of the field was a massive U.S. flag.  Next to the flag was a stone obelisk, at least sixty feet in height.

Each side of the obelisk held a picture.  The first picture showed a fresh faced man with an AR-15 as a street battle raged behind him.

I walked to the other side of the monument and saw that it held a different picture, but I couldn’t see it because of glare from the sun.  I stepped back a few feet for a better look, but the glare was replaced by frost.  A hoary rime of ice had glazed over the picture, obscuring it completely.  I strained my eyes but could still not make it out.

I looked out of the see of tombstones to read the names and dates but they all said “Known Only To God.”

At least I had a start.  Now I just needed to figure out how to start a war between three hundred million heavily armed and angry citizens who hated each other.  Should be easy, right?

It was not easy.

 

You’ve got to hand it to Trump. He was getting buried in the polls, the liberal media was hounding him at every turn, and Democratic politicians wouldn’t back off their nonsensical narrative that the Russkies somehow gave him the election.

Then he flipped the script.

He attacked Syria, a Russian ally, for supposedly using poison gas on civilians and his popularity soared. There’s just one problem; Syrian President Bashar Al-Assad didn’t actually use chemical weapons. One of our terrorist allies probably did it to frame him.

Unfortunately for Assad, his country never pursued a nuclear weapons program, and if it wasn’t for the nuclear-armed Russians he’d be deader than Saddam Hussein and Muammar Gaddafi.

The truth is nuclear weapons are awesome, and without them Kim Jong-Un’s beefy man-tits would probably be wedged in a spider-hole as he waited for U.S. and ROK soldiers to find him.

The U.S. doesn’t want nuclear weapons to proliferate because we can’t bully nuclear armed powers. A naval squadron off your shore doesn’t have quite the same intimidating factor when you know you can literally obliterate one of your enemy’s cities, along with a few million of their people.

He can saber rattle all he wants, but the truth is Trump can’t do shit to North Korea because Kim Jong-Un has the big bomb, and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it.

The hospital where my three unwanted miracles were born has a close relationship with a group called La Leche League. And each time we had a kid, one of these lactavists would come to our room and tell us how we were putting their future at risk if we dared to use formula instead of the food our babies were designed to consume.

Since these kids had half my DNA, I was hoping she meant Miller Lite and Hot Pockets, but she really meant breast milk.

On three separate occasions they claimed children who were breastfed perform higher on standardized tests, and one of them said it is equivalent to boosting a child’s IQ by seven points.

I understand that thanks to the transfer of antibodies from the mother, breastfeeding has been proven to help newborns fight infections.

Breastfeeding might also help preemies put on weight faster than formula, but as I’ve always suspected, a new study published in the journal Pediatrics shows breastfeeding has little impact on long-term cognitive or behavioral development.

You only see an IQ difference because smart parents are always looking for a way to give their kids a head-start, and since intelligence is mostly inherited, those same high IQ parents who made the conscious choice to breastfeed also pass on their high IQ genes to their kids.

And if you still have any doubts, watch any National Geographic documentary on people with various bones in their noses or plates in their lips. I guarantee they all have a nearly 100% breastfeeding rate, and these savages still live in goddamned huts.

The left-wing media has been in an uproar over President Trump’s plan to remove federal funding from the National Endowment for the Arts and PBS but they’re expected to positively go ballistic over his proposed new liberal tax.

It turns out foot-stomping tirades, vagina-inspired protests and impassioned Facebook posts don’t actually do anything to help the oppressed people that liberals pretend to care so much about, so the government plans to step in and do what their consciences won’t.

A full draft of the proposed document has yet to be released, but White House press secretary Sean Spicer has hinted that it’s going to be far reaching. In addition to taxing nearly all of their discretionary income, a sort of mandatory conscription has been proposed.

Studies have shown that households headed by liberals are actually 30% less likely to give to charitable causes than households headed by conservatives. Liberals are also less likely than conservatives to actually volunteer to help others, but this plan will change that.

Once enacted, men and women over the age of 18 who identify as liberal will be required to devote at least ten hours a week to actually helping others and simply posting for ten hours on Facebook that the government should do it won’t count. Ditto for voting Democrat and then sitting back with a sense of smug satisfaction.

It’s also being suggested that liberals should have to live for at least two years in predominantly non-white neighborhoods so their enlightened sense of race relations can inspire a sense a racial harmony. The joy of hunting them for sport is also expected to increase neighborhood morale.

By most measures, American Indians aren’t doing well. Their average incomes are far below the national average, the white man’s sweet, sweet fire-water continues to devastate their communities and thanks to heavy-handed wildlife policies, they’re only allowed to use half of the buffalo.

That being said, they’re still doing better than the NFL’s Washington Redskins.

The Skins pulled off one of their few competent moves a few years ago when they hired proven talent evaluator and magical drunk, Scot McCloughan, to be their general manager. Not coincidentally, they also posted their first back-to-back winning seasons in nearly 20 years.

Unfortunately, much like the Little Bighorn, this minor victory was fleeting because team president and human shit-stain Bruce Allen reportedly became jealous of all the credit McCloughan was getting and engineered his ouster.

Sure the team was 28-55 under Allen before McCloughan joined, but he can suddenly become competent, right?

Nope. Today was the first day of free agency, and the Skins are now the first team in league history to lose two wide receivers that had at least a thousand receiving yards the previous year.

And it was also leaked today that their quarterback, Kirk Cousins, offered to sign a team friendly long-term deal last year but Allen vetoed it. Instead, he countered with an absurdly low offer that pissed off Cousins so much he has now asked to be traded.

God I wish I had a nice smallpox blanket right about now.

I used to live next to moron, and he dated a really hot Native American chick but he cheated on her, and she said he cursed him. He then got freaked out because every time something bad happened to him, he attributed it to the curse.

I then explained that all of the bad things that kept happening to him like his DUI or his truck getting repossessed were because he was an imbecile and a fuck-up, not because his hot ex-girlfriend cast some hocus-pocus bullshit while dancing around a fire.

Plus, if injuns had any real magic, this would still be their country.

Flash forward a few years, and last Friday a group of new ladies put down Pinterest and Facebook long enough to gather under the crescent moon and cast a “binding spell” on Trump to keep him from doing harm and to banish him from office.

All they needed was an orange candle with Trump’s name inscribed on it with a pin, an unflattering photo of him (as if one exists), a Tarot card of The Tower and some other stupid thing I’m not even going to bother to look back up to type.

It may have been a feather.

Whatever the fuck it was, these dopes plan to continue casting their spells, and they’re calling for all likeminded witches to join them again on March 26, April 24th and May 23rd.

First off, are you idiots serious? Second, do you honestly think sitting on the floor chanting incantations you’ve read from your smart phone while moving novelty items around an orange candle will do anything?

I once kicked a gypsy in the nuts and nothing bad happened to me, so I’m pretty sure this curse nonsense is a waste of time.