This brain-dead buffoon needs a frontal lobotomy and a moral GPS—though, let’s be honest, even Siri would refuse to give him directions.

Greenland is not for sale, you absolute nincompoop.

Which part of “No” short-circuits that last remaining neuron in your skull, Nimrod?

Why don’t you go perfect your golf swing or call up Sean at Fox to regale him with your latest tales of vengeance, retribution, and whatever absurd conspiracy theory is fueling your tantrums today?

If I had voted for this orange, bloated carcass of bad decisions—because, say, I’d been in a coma for 20 years and had the cognitive awareness of a houseplant—I’d personally perform my own root canal with a rusty screwdriver.

For the love of all things rational, have this dumb MFr tested—check for brain cell activity.

Either that, or for the safety of the nation, get him away from a mic or a flock of reporters who are desperately trying to milk him for a complete sentence—only to be force-fed another serving of incoherent, steaming BS.

Good Lord, every time this walking national embarrassment opens his mouth, he pulls nonsense out of his ass like some kind of malfunctioning Pez dispenser of stupidity.