Imagine a heart transplant team operating as thoughtfully and patiently as Trump and the band of sycophants he refers to as his cabinet are working to make America great again.
The patient would be cut from throat to groin with Elon’s chainsaw, three or four other organs would be piled in a cardboard box at the foot of the gurney, having been mistaken for the heart, the heart would be trembling in terror, blood spurting from hundreds of holes because they brought plenty of scalpels but no clamps or sponges and the nurses they fired are down in the unemployment line and can’t give up their place to come back and tell the sewing cabinet what to do next, even as they’re ignoring the receptionist who needs to know if they want the donor heart overnighted in from Seattle.
RFK Jr. is at the head of the gurney amid tanks of various anesthetic gases, holding the mask to his own nose, trying each gas in turn until he falls off his stool, craps his pants and starts snoring.
The patient gurgles and someone opens the IV dripping Ringers onto the floor half a turn and administers two aspirin for pain.
The heart coughs, farts and lets out an agonal wheeze and fibrillates to a shuddering halt, the team as one pulls a pair of surgical gloves from the box on the wall and throws them into the trash can on top of the woke masks they refused to wear and fired the surgeon who handed them out. They give high fives all around, pat each other on the back.
Trump goes out and breaks the news, telling the family the transplant was a yuge success but the patient was too DEI to appreciate their efforts and oh, by the way, you need to go see billing right away because we stopped his Medicaid.