Trump and Putin on stage again, like a bad Vegas residency that just won’t close, except the tickets are free and the drinks are poisoned. This wasn’t a summit about Ukraine—it was a garage sale for future dirty deals, “lightly used sanctions, barely bombed, all sales final.” Putin strutted in with his war face, cold, calculated, already picturing the champagne toast back in Moscow. Trump? He looked like an exhausted host of Wheel of Misfortune, stalling until the network cancels his slot.
For Putin, it was the dream package: red carpet rolled out, a fighter jet flyover, and an American president who treats the job like a time-share pitch. For Trump, it was just another stop in his travelling scam carnival, where the prizes are for him, the bill is for you, and the game is always rigged.
Europe and Ukraine? They got played like a lounge pianist on a Tuesday night—background music for Putin’s victory lap. There will be no ceasefire, no peace, just more missile-dusted mornings in Ukrainian kitchens, more funerals that never should have been.
And tonight, as he slips into that gilded bed, Trump won’t be thinking of the wreckage he left behind. He’ll be in that familiar mental space—Jeffrey Epstein pacing in his skull, Gavin Newsom chasing him down the digital alleyways. For the rest of us, it’s just another entry in the world’s longest-running crime saga: The Apprentice: Dictator’s Edition.
The big reveal, Alaska for Ukraine
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The stench of the Maga Bile Regime has given me a wheeze in my lungs.