
Donald Trump’s sphincter-shaped mouth is grotesque, and the toxic rhetoric that emanates from it is nauseating. Trump often juts his chin forward, a gesture that creates shadows and folds in the neck area that resembles an atrophied vagina. His wispy hair looks like cotton candy drenched in urine. He looks like a rabid raccoon due to the stark contrast between his orange spray-on tan and the paler skin around his eyes.
Trump’s face looks like it was stitched together by Dr. Frankenstein, and it never fails to amaze me that his followers see the face of God in this abomination. It is not Trump’s visage but his hands that give me nightmares.
If Trump’s hands had smooth skin, and his nails were perfectly filed they would still be repulsive because they are so tiny. His doll hands are not in proportion with his ungodly girth; they give me the heebie-jeebies.
Trump’s bruised hand and his profligate use of makeup to cover the discolored patch of skin have led even his supporters to fear that he may be at death’s door. His bruised hand and his cankles are symptoms of chronic venous insufficiency.
A morbidly obese septuagenarian, with a vile temper, bruised hands and cankles is not long for this world. I hope the Grim Reaper grabs him by his hands and hurls him into hell.















