ViaAndes Robinson
Hey Donald Trump. you’re not just a fraud—you’re a quivering, gutless worm who’d sell your own soul to dodge a consequence, if you hadn’t already pawned it for a Big Mac. You slithered out of the White House on March 21, 2025, puffing your chest about crushing Tren de Aragua with the Alien Enemies Act, acting like some wartime badass. But the second the ink’s dry and people start asking questions, you collapse into a puddle of excuses: “I don’t know when it was signed ‘cause I didn’t sign it. Other people handled it.” Are you kidding me, you sniveling fraud? It’s on the White House website—your website, you illiterate buffoon—branded with your title. You’re the President, not some D-list lackey who can shrug and say, “Oops, wrong memo.” You’re a spineless disgrace who can’t even admit he touched the pen, let alone own the chaos you’ve unleashed. This isn’t leadership—it’s a tantrum from a toddler too scared to face the mess he made.
And then—then—you have the gall to drag @marcorubio into your pathetic little play: “But Marco Rubio’s done a great job and he wanted them out and we go along with that.” Holy hell, Don, could you grovel any harder? You’re not a president—you’re a simpering lapdog licking Rubio’s boots while pretending you’re still the alpha. You’re so terrified of accountability you’d pin this on a random intern if they’d take the hit, but Rubio’s your golden fall guy. What a sick joke: the “tough guy” who’s really just a shivering yes-man with a comb-over, tossing his own team under the bus to save his sagging hide. This isn’t some petty squabble—it’s the Alien Enemies Act, a wartime power trip that could cage thousands, ignite riots, and torch America’s reputation. And you’re treating it like a casual favor Rubio texted you about between holes at Mar-a-Lago. You’re not just weak—you’re a reckless, brain-dead liability who’d rather play golf than govern.
Let’s paint this picture in neon: you’re a swaggering hypocrite who’s all bluster, no guts. You’ve spent years howling about “law and order”—Mr. Wall-Builder, Mr. Deport-the-Universe, Mr. I’ll-Make-Criminals-Weep. But when it’s time to stand by your own decree, you melt faster than your spray tan in a rainstorm. Pointing at Rubio like a snitch begging for mercy—“He made me do it!”—you’re not a leader; you’re a punchline with a pulse, too chickensh!t to own your own garbage. Real leaders don’t cower behind their senators or play dumb about their own administration. You’re a hollow shell of a man, a walking catastrophe who’d rather dodge blame than face a mirror. The Alien Enemies Act isn’t a game, but you’re too busy perfecting your victim act to notice the country burning around you. Pathetic doesn’t even cover it—you’re a stain on history’s shoe.
And here’s the kill shot, delivered with a smirk: you’re a craven little leech who lives for the cheers but bolts at the first hiss. You’ll claim credit for the sunrise if it gets you a clap, but when the heat’s on, you’re gone faster than Melania at a prenup meeting. You’re not just a coward—you’re a betrayal machine, screwing over every sucker who bought your “strongman” con. America’s stuck with a whining man-baby who thinks leadership is a photo op, not a duty. You’re a rancid, self-obsessed clown who’s too fragile to handle the job and too arrogant to quit. Grow a spine, you simpering relic, or crawl back to your gold-plated swamp—because this gutless, flailing farce you call leadership is a middle finger to every American still dumb enough to trust you.”
