Get out of the car, Donald


Get out of the car, Donald


We were 70 hours behind the inauguration line

When our country’s death wish began to stutter

Like a sexually frustrated poop yogurt commercial

And Donald Trump turned his entire head

Towards the window and screamed

“Pull over you shaggy faced bastard!

That Burger King just looked at me funny

Did you see that? No respect for my huge intellect

Or the Presidency!

I think my ego’s going to puke!”


I pulled the car over

Hoping that maybe this would be the time

Maybe something factual had just

Come out of his mouth

Maybe he really was going to puke


And he’d get out of the car

Like I’d been trying to get him to get out

Of the car since that soul-hacking night

After he’d won the election

And I’d walked out to the car

And found him sitting in the backseat

Humming a Billy Idol song

And screaming “Who the fuck does this Billy Idol

Guy think he is?! Total loser!”

To an empty potato chip bag,

Humming and screaming,

At the same time


I’d been trying to get rid of him

Ever since but it was proving impossible

As much as Helen was determined not to get

In the car for the rest of our finite-forevers


Trump seemed just as determined

To stick around

He’d moved in

He was shitting in the glove box

It was hopeless


But maybe this time he was being truthful

Maybe this time he really had to puke

And he’d get out of the car to do it

And while he was vomiting himself into

A vast parking lot that separated Hobby Lobby

From an abandoned Brakes Plus


I’d be able to slam his door shut

And hit the gas pedal until my nose bled

Until even the rearview mirror

Had nothing else to do with him


And I’d be free!

He’d be gone

We’d all be free!

Sure, I’d be alone in the car again

But Trump’s reminded us all

There are worse things than being lonely

Like injustice and Donald Trump’s children

Loneliness I can live with

At least we’d be free


But instead of getting out of the car to vomit

Donald sat quietly for a couple of minutes spontaneously Tweeting

And when he’d finished insulting the Civil Rights Movement

And everyone who’d ever been to the Virgin Islands

He tightened his seatbelt and told me

He was hungry


“See if you can find us a Burger King”

He whispered, with his hair the color of radioactive semen

And overly breaded onion rings

“Have you seen my knife and fork set?

Am I sitting on it?

I could really go for some Burger King

There it is!

No, that’s my dick




This isn’t going to work out with us

No matter how many times you tweet

“This is totally going to work out between us”


Everyone who’s bothered to pay even a little bit

Of attention knows this isn’t going to work

So you should go

But you won’t go……………




Just because you tell people that David Coverdale

Dreamed the song Still of the Night

Into this existence and after waking up and unable

To find a piece of paper he wrote the lyrics,

So he’d remember them,

On his own dick

Doesn’t mean that David Coverdale actually

Wrote the lyrics to Still of the Night

On his own dick


And just because you order

A wall of Whopper Jrs and tell

The sad cashier that I’m going to pay for them

Doesn’t mean that I’m going to pay for them




You fucking monster!


I could go on but Donald wasn’t listening

He’s really really great at not listening


“Wow! Look at the tits on that squirrel!”

Donald howls like we’re driving 120 mph

With the windows rolled down despite the fact

That the windows are up and we’re only doing 30

Repeating himself:


“Look at the tits on that squirrel!”


Only it wasn’t a squirrel

It was Democracy

And those weren’t tits……….


“What are they then? Am I supposed to say bosoms?!”

Donald blasts, “Would that make everyone

Feel better?!”


I try to point out that they aren’t bosoms

Either but he’s already forking himself full

Of Whopper Jrs.

Still in the car

Not listening


“Bosoms! Ha! You anti-corporate-sensitive-types

Are soooooo sensitive. Hand me another Hamburger Jr, asshole

I mean Squirrel Tits.

I’m tweeting it anyway!”


[Historical Note: In lazy Sci Fi reversing the polarity

Of EMPs solves almost everything


If only this world was lazy Sci Fi

And we had us a bag of polarity reversers

And some goddamn



(written for last night’s F Bomb Fantasy Island reading Mercury Cafe Denver CO)

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