I Am the Personification of a Hate Crime, and I’m Voting for Donald Trump

Molly Harris satire on Trump

As our nation slowly truffle-shuffles towards the general election, I find myself fascinated by the Republican Party. It has turned into a Kafka-esque human centipede, with Donald Trump emerging triumphantly from its anus to wreak havoc over the rotting, festering corpse of the GOP.

This is my modest proposal—vote for Trump.

Who even cared about the other candidates? Ted Cruz is the human equivalent of a a moist toilette left abandoned on the sweat-riddled gym floor of history, and Marco Rubio wandered through the primaries with the dazed and frightened appearance of a sex doll that came to life through the magic of a pervy wizard and was deeply ashamed of his past actions.

Donald Trump, a vengeful Oompa Loompa with a hairpiece fashioned from a stale piece of Laffy Taffy he found under a park bench, is the only logical choice. So stop resisting. Drink the Kool-Aid. Let the warm flames of hatred and self-tanner wash over you until you forget your worries and cares. Let his words caress you as he whispers softly into your ear with his lizard tongue. We will revert to a simpler time— back when men were men…and back when women were scared of men. Life with a Trump presidency will be like a never-ending episode of “The Flintstones” where Barney has been given authoritarian power and full control of his Twitter feed.

Come dance as society crumbles around us; it’s the Rapture as seen through the lens of “The Jerry Springer Show.” Political machinations are so much more interesting now—C-SPAN streams cage fights between members of Congress (Paul Ryan is constantly oiled up in case of attack, and to show off his chiseled bod), and our health care system is run by a Ronald McDonald lookalike who sacrifices fatties to a deep fryer, just like Mola Ram in “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.”

The auto industry, surprisingly, is thriving; Hummers have made a resurgence and tax breaks are given to drivers willing to run down hippies on bicycles. Movie theaters stream Michael Bay films on loop. In the street, topless women dance for nickels while the uglier ones stand slightly behind, fully covered, cheering them on. Our vice president is the lifeless corpse of George Wallace that David Duke uses for his “Weekend-at-Bernies” cosplay, and our Supreme Court has been replaced by a collection of Magic 8 balls that Chuck Grassley found in his garage. Language has changed: Instead of traditional greetings, we say “You’re fired,” and I think that’s beautiful.

There are no more worries, there is no more pain. Our Lord and Savior Trump has removed all frowny- face emojis from our phones so we express only joy. Marvelous, unhindered joy! 😀 😀 😀 😀 😀 😀 😀 I am an equal in this world now. There is no more inequality, no more racism. We are below Trump—that is all that matters. So much of my life was spent in anger—but what was I angry about? The Antarctic ice sheet melting? Syrian refugees? The unnecessary sequels to “Pirates of the Caribbean”?

But it is all right, everything is all right, the struggle is finished. We have won the victory over ourselves. We love Donald Trump. And when this garbage fire finally overtakes the entire country, consuming all of us in its Cheeto- dust flavored fumes, we will finally know peace. America is Trump. Trump is God. God is dead. God bless America.

(Photo credits: Top, By Michael Vadon – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=42904231; side, By Michael Vadon – →This file has been extracted from another file: Donald Trump August 19, 2015.jpg, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=42609338)

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Molly Harris is a riddle, inside an enigma, wrapped in feminine wiles, nestled in a soft, human skin suit with a blonde wig on top. She arrived to Chicago from the wild cornfields of Indiana and spends most of her time talking about science fiction and glitter and puns.

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