Trump This.

(Originally posted — then accidentally deleted — December 31, 2015.)

As a courtesy,  let me explain something to those who don’t seem to get it.  When you are a female, acknowledging that you are female is not called playing the woman card, it’s just called being a damn woman!  (And likely, being proud of it.) 

Similarly, when you are an African American and you acknowledge that you are an African American living in a society where our favorite beverage is older than your right to go to school with white people, that isn’t called playing the race card, it’s just flipping called being black in America!

I suppose every time Donald Trump opens his mouth I should accuse him of playing the low vocabulary, half illiterate dick card, but just like black people live life with the experience of being black and females live life with the  experience of being female, and as such they bring that — their realities — to the proverbial table,  I’ve always just understood that Donald Trump isn’t playing the dick card, Donald Trump just is an effn’ dick.

And here’s the deal with that race card anyway, we’ll stop playing the race card when you stop being freaking racist — because until then,  it’s not called playing the race card,  it’s just called calling you out on your inappropriate shit. And as for the female one, when you stop saying things like “it doesn’t matter what the press says about you so long as you have a nice, young piece of ass by your side” (actual Donald Trump quote), those of us that are female and demand better will stop holding you accountable for your misogynistic twat ramblings that you attempt to pass off as words.

But hell,  you’d ‘date your own daughter if she wasn’t your daughter,’ so what the fudge would you know about the female existence which requires dealing with disgusting, not even remotely understandable, penis-provoked remarks such as that. Whatever, whoever gave you the inclination that you know a damn thing about the “woman card”, you need to run and tell it “You’re Fired!” there, reality boy, because it lied to you.

And you want to take on Bill Clinton, Donald Trump?  Roll the dice, but baby, save me a front row seat, because that man has beaten everybody that’s ever come at him — and you are not the first one to come throwing some  “sexual innuendos” talk while being physically unable to keep his own damn wanker in his  pants — in a political arena, and I’d love to watch you try. That man eats miserable disgruntled bastards for election breakfast (see Gingrich), and I will enjoy every flipping crunch. Maybe instead of worrying about Clinton, Trump, you should spend the New Years actually learning things like,  umm… what’s the 14th amendment, and where Congress goes when it’s in session.  But I’m guessing your supporters would say that that doesn’t matter. Because they seem to believe that in order to qualify to be the leader of the world’s most dominant nation, you don’t ACTUALLY have to know the principles that this country was founded on,  you just have to look like the offspring of a tangelo and a f*cking banana peel and have said “young piece of ass” by your side. So long as you’re “reeeeeally, really rich.”

As I’ve stated before, Ive lost 17 Facebook “friends” since I began telling people that support the Confederate flag and Donald Trump to take a long walk off a short pier and while doing so, to get the f*ck off my Facebook page with their irresponsible racist pandering. And considering I don’t even know who those people are (I can guess a few), we know that they’re going to miss reading my words and getting pissed at them every 5 seconds waaaay more than I’m going to miss anything that they have to say. So it’s in that spirit that I acknowledge that my New Years resolution this year is to spend a little bit more time being me and a little less time listening to those voices, particularly male, that tell me I have reason to be ashamed of myself for the things that I say and think. Let’s be clear, boys, of those who attempt such,  your real problem with me is no matter what you do, regardless of the Facebook fit you throw, you can’t make me stop writing what I write, you can’t make me see things your way — and I love the hell out of that about myself.

A wise man named Chunky Brown once told me that anything a boy can do, a girl can do and just maybe,  better.  And a wise woman named MY MAMA once lived her life as a testament to such. Anyone that truly believes that a woman can’t do everything a man can do, or that if she can, she has to refuse to acknowledge that she’s female lest she appear weak, is obviously someone that’s never met my mother. She’s more of a man than most men I know,  the only father I’ve ever had,  and yet she’s never left the house without eye makeup on that I remember and she’s usually wearing pink.

You wanna see examples of someone playing the “woman card” take a look at my hand — take a look at my life — and that chick card is pretty much in your flipping face, Trump. Because a WOMAN is who raised me and it’s all some children know. And acknowledging the gender of those who performed feminine-nurtured tasks and triumphed in a masculine world — like “fathering” children and doing it all their damn selves — isn’t called a “card” of any kind, it’s called respect. But I shouldn’t expect you to know anything about that, you’re still figuring out that aerosol is bad for the environment and the rest of us knew that in 199-flipping-2, so it’s only natural that you’re a little behind. And while you’re back there, on behalf of all of us ‘hell yeah, I play the woman card,  it’s the only damn card I’ve got’
GIRLS,  kiss our feminine ass, Trump.

You damn national embarassment of a treatment-resistant hemorrhoid shamelessly riding the butt crack of the nation — which means Alabama and the like.

Thanks, south!

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