GOOD MORNING, DONALD

Good morning, Donald. I hope the mirror cracked when you looked into it today, because even glass has limits to what it can endure. You stand there, puffed up in your red tie and cheap bronzer, pretending you’re the second coming of Washington when in reality you’re the bloated balloon left over from the parade — sagging, wheezing, clinging to the lamppost of history. You don’t lead a nation; you vandalize it. You don’t inspire loyalty; you extract it like a mob boss running a racket, then leave your underlings broke, indicted, or both. Giuliani? You’re pinning medals on corpses now. Your allies aren’t patriots — they’re human roadkill you’ve dragged behind the motorcade, stripped of dignity, honor, and whatever was left of their spines.

Every move you’ve made in 2025 reeks of the coward’s brand of cruelty. You can’t build anything, so you dismantle. You can’t uplift, so you purge. Children on tarmacs, shoved into deportation flights like baggage — that’s your legacy. Federal agencies gutted, DEI and aid programs erased like chalk on a sidewalk — that’s your handiwork. You call it liberation; history will call it demolition. You use tariffs like a child smashing glass with a baseball bat, crowing about “victory” while the shards cut the people you swore to protect. And still, your mouth flaps on, promising greatness while delivering only mildew and blood.

You confuse fear for respect. You think pardoning people who assaulted members of law enforcement makes you strong, but it only paints you as the tinpot emperor of the unhinged, a monarch of broken glass and busted porta-potties. You fire civil servants like you’re scratching a lottery ticket, hoping loyalty will appear in the numbers. You chase “America First” while leaving America last, weaker, lonelier, and sicker. And when the courts slap your hands, you snarl about deep states and dark plots — anything to dodge the fact that you are not a president but a parasite.

The truth is simple: you are not the steroid shot America needed. You are the infection. The abscess. The pus swelling under democracy’s skin. Every day you remain in power, the fever rises. Every word you spit, the air grows more toxic. And when this ends — because all infections end — you will not be remembered as a titan or a savior. You will be remembered as the boil that burst, the foul reminder of what happens when a nation lets rot sit too long.

So good morning, Donald. Pour yourself another Diet Coke. Bask in the silence of allies too scared to tell you the truth. Pretend the Medal of Freedom still has meaning when draped around the neck of a man circling bankruptcy court. Pretend the rallies still roar for you and not for the carnival of hate you’ve shackled them to. But know this: the country is awake now. And when the day finally comes to scrub your stench from the floorboards, there will be nothing left of you but a stain — faint, greasy, and destined to be forgotten.

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If you’ve made it this far, you know the boil we’re talking about — the orange, festering lump clinging to the body politic, poisoning the bloodstream and calling it patriotism. Bursting it won’t be clean, it won’t be easy, but it’s necessary if this country is going to heal. Closer to the Edge is where the lancing begins: raw truth, sharpened satire, and investigative fire aimed straight at the rot. If you’ve laughed, raged, or gagged your way through this piece, then you already know how vital this work is. Pitch in. Subscribe. Help us press harder on the swollen infection until it finally ruptures — because disinfecting the wound of Trump’s America takes all of us, and every drop of support helps.