I’m no tough guy, and at age 70, way past any thoughts of
getting into an actual physical fight. Verbal is OK, but physical? No way. If I’m
hit in the head, I get an instant headache that lasts the rest of the day.
But I really, really would like to have an octagon or ring
fight with Donald Trump.
Seriously.
Supposedly he’s 6’ 3” to my 5’ 11”and certainly he outweighs
me. But I’m a year younger so I’ll take it. Of course if those height and
weight stats came from him, subtract a few inches and add more than a few pounds.
It’s just that I’ve been so damn frustrated for the last
year and a half. The constant lying from this cancer of a human and the
approval of his lemming hordes leave me with this one shining fantasy.
Fight night USA.
Even though he has the best words, talk doesn’t work. Logic
is out the window. I can no longer go through my days being amazed by his
latest tweets, his reprehensible behavior and the ensuing applause.
Let’s fight, you bloated fuck wad.
You’re bigger and tougher, right?
The whole world will be watching. The emperor vs
everyman.
There will be zero excuses when I decisively kick your ass,
you fat fuck. No one to save you or take the fall you seem to always escape
when you throw someone else under the bus.
Just you and me, pal.
Hell, it can’t be that bad. Neither of us can even go three
rounds. I won't need that much time anyway. Fight fans know that fighters do
their best when they keep anger out of it and stay cool. So you’ll have that
advantage too, because I’m pissed and that’s not going to change. I’ll be
fighting mad.
That’s not like me at all, but you’ve pulled me into your
gutter and I have dreams of breaking your nose.
I’ll be fighting for a majority crowd, you know, like in the
popular vote that you lost. Except there are more of us now, thanks to you.
You’re great alright, as a fight promoter. The entire world will tune in to
watch me kick your balding, follicle challenged, cottage cheese ass. You’ll tap
and whimper after the first time I hit you.
Your bowling and tennis days can’t save you from a few rare
minutes of frightening reality. With no goons or fall guys to protect you, my
bet is that you’ll fold before we even get started. No surprise there, given
your serious problems with bone spurs and all.
It will make me immensely happy to say: “My work here is
done.”
A hammock with a view and a perpetual shit-eating grin will
follow my Immediate retirement from the ring,
Who’s up for helping with our fight camp? I’ve already got a
trainer. Now I’ll need some gym space and maybe a nutrition guy. A six-week
camp, and we’re ready.
How about it Little Donnie, you have the balls to step up,
or are you going to have to admit that you really are all hot air and bullshit?
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