When I was officially convinced that there was absolutely nothing left to say about this election, last Wednesday happened.
There stood the former president, in a bold fashion statement that can only be described as “traffic cone chic,” parading around in an orange vest that clashed so violently with his face, it looked like a sunset gone horribly wrong.
Then came the pièce de résistance: he nearly bit the dust trying to wrestle open the door of a fake garbage truck he’d rented for yet another publicity stunt (at least no one jumped out of said truck and tried to “assasinate” him. Honestly, it was like watching a toddler try to open a jar of pickles—clumsy, desperate, and ripe for disaster.
And as if that wasn’t enough to put your faith in humanity on life support, he strutted onto the stage still wearing that garish orange doublet, addressing a crowd that looked like they’d just stumbled out of an all-you-can-eat Asenapine buffet.
So there you have it: a glorious three-ring circus of political insanity. But hey, what do I know? Just another day in the Land of the Free, where the absurd is not just expected, it’s celebrated.