The State of Disunion

Adolph Trump Parties Like it's 1939

I thought I could hang for the State of the Union, but who knew it would suddenly dissolve into the crime of the century? I’ve seen train wrecks with more dignity and bar fights with better choreography. This wasn’t just a speech—it was a séance summoning the ghosts of bad decisions past, present, and future.

Oh, please don’t rip the skin off transgender children. Please, men of no conscience or decency. Trump eats kids for lunch.

The worst vibe in a room? That’s an understatement. I’ve played dive bars at last call when the cash register came up short and seen less tension. The chamber had the energy of a family reunion where half the attendees are on speaking terms, and the other half are sharpening knives under the table. Even the network anchors—who usually coat these things in the language of "historic" and "monumental"—looked like they wanted to slip out for a smoke break.

And there, in the gallery, a vision of reluctant suffering: Melania Trump, digging through her purse like a woman searching for a last shred of patience, finally pulling out a travel-sized bottle of Pepto Bismol and taking a slow, contemplative swig. A metaphor so perfect it should be printed on the currency of whatever nation we become when this whole thing collapses.

The speech itself? A rambling odyssey of grievances and self-congratulations, punctuated by the kind of forced applause that makes hostage videos look cheerful. The camera panned the room, and you could see it: some folks were nodding, others were grinding their teeth, and a few just stared straight ahead, as if contemplating the life choices that led them here.

Growling like some Transylvanian vampire bat with the biblical undertones of Satan himself, Donald J. Trump stood at the podium, his jowls quivering, his hands—tiny, waxen, forever balled into impotent fists—gripping the edges of reality. It was a eulogy, they said, but for whom? The nation? Democracy? The last gasps of civility? Before he stood a congregation of the damned felons in flag pins, sycophants posing as statesmen, a parade of the morally bankrupt wrapped in star-spangled delusions.

To some, his voice was the fearsome roar of an apocalyptic beast; to others, a mere whimpering hedgehog, flattened and twitching under the weight of its own self-inflicted absurdities. On this very day, amidst the carnage of his own making, the bloated oracle of Mar-a-Lago slapped tariffs on Canada—America’s most loyal trade partner—because nothing says 'strong leadership' quite like gutting your neighbour’s pockets and setting your own house on fire. But did Canada kneel before the petulant man-child and his punitive fantasies? Not a chance. Instead, Justin Trudeau and Ontario Premier Doug Ford laced up their gloves and sent the Clown Prince of Grift stumbling backward with a counterpunch so fierce even the ghost of Ali took notice. Reverse tariffs? Oh, Canada, you magnificent bastards.

And then there was Ford, never a man of eloquence, suddenly transformed into a folk hero on MSNBC’s Nicole Wallace. Who would have guessed that the Premier, usually built more for beer tents than battle rings, would deliver the most memorable moment of his political career? Canadians could only dream of the day when their scrappy prime minister, would step into the ring with America’s puffy pretender, a man assembled from sausage casings and long-expired steakhouse cuts, and lay him out cold. Lights out, Donnie. No more cheap bourbon, no more well-done Trump steaks drowning in ketchup. Just a cold Canadian night and a warm glass of Newfoundland Screech, served with a side of consequences.

As Trump continued to spew his funhouse-mirror vision of reality, the last remaining brain cells in his cranium seemed to abandon ship, splattering across the podium in some kind of primal rebellion. The words came slurred and jumbled, half-chewed like the Big Mac still wedged between his back molars. Dear Nancy Pelosi we needed you? To rip up the nonsense, scatter the pieces, and let Mike Johnson’s pencil neck quiver under the weight of its own irrelevance? But no, Johnson—paperboy of no fixed address—sat in place, wide-eyed and obedient, having taken a rare break from mopping the Yellow Brick driveway at Mar-a-Lago to watch his master’s downward spiral.

And so it went, the great American farce playing on a loop. The emperor, naked but for his spray tan and grievance, preaching to the choir of the morally embalmed. The nation’s eulogy, written in crayon, smudged with Diet Coke, destined to be torn apart by history’s steady hands.

Sorry folks. I had to cut out. Surviving this debacle requires a stomach of cast iron.