Dear, loving God,
Let Trump be in the midst of a rally, and let it seize his fancy to mock Biden's age for the crowd. Let him be saying:
Folks, he's out of it, and you know this. He's gaga, some people would say senile. He can't put two sentences together. Many people are saying it's elder abuse, that he can't even feed himself...did you see that thing with the salad on your TV?...
And at that moment, dear God, let Trump visibly shift his weight, hunch his face forward, close his eyes, and shart a little, so that just he knows it. He now knows he's got to get offstage:
But I leave you with that thought, that Grandpa Joe needs his bedti-
And at that instant, dear creator, let Trump let loose with a good half gallon of liquid feces, that hit the stage so loud that the mic picks up the splash sounds. His secret service contingent steps forward, uncertain, getting messages in their earbuds, then steps backward by reflex. Trump continues, by pure instinct:
I think I was served something not so good, by a deep state waiter, so I -
Another gallon of streaming waste follows the same sluiceway down his britches. By now, the young, exuberant fans behind him have caught a whiff, and a few are vomiting. Trump continues:
Don't believe what you're seeing, folks. This is being photo-shopped.
Girl behind Trump: Photo-shopped, my dick!! You're gross! You gross old man!! Ewww!!
Dear God, let it be so. And it will be so. Amen, et cetera.
