Author: Left Winger



John Bolton, who until recently served as America’s National Security Advisor, and a man who never visited a country he didn’t want to bomb, has recently confirmed the nation’s long-held belief that Rudy Giuliani is a hand grenade in the underpants of America.

Giuliani was an easy hire for Donald Trump, as he ticked all the boxes Trump believes matter: excellent liar, devoid of morals, and lacking the class of two dead flies.

It’s easy to see how Rudy came by the grace, charm and wit he’s known for, as his father served time in Sing Sing for armed robbery and assault and then went on to become an enforcer for a loan shark.

Rudy’s favorite Christmas gifts were brass knuckles, lead pipes and poisoned-tipped candy canes.

He considered becoming a priest and asked God if that was the right path for him, but God responded, “Blow me, you dickwad.”

Giuliani decided to go a different way and has been married three times. Stanford University has received a grant from the Institute for Salamander Advancement to study how it was possible for him to marry out of his species that many times.

Rudy was a life-long Democrat until he switched to Independent in 1975 and Republican in 1980. His mother, after her son was born, was adamant that his father Harold have his tubes tied. Harold agreed, but since that procedure wasn’t available back then, he tied them with his shoelaces.

His mother always maintained that Rudy only became a Republican after they started giving him prestigious jobs. She’s quoted as saying, “He’s definitely not a conservative Republican. He thinks he is, but he isn’t. He stills feels very sorry for the poor.”

Clearly, being a conservative Republican has helped Rudy overcome the afflictions of caring and empathy.

Giuliani keeps his head held high as one of Donald Trump’s personal attorneys yet to be imprisoned.




Constant talk of impeachment now has Donald Trump really stressed. He told aides that he felt the walls were closing in on him, but they allayed his fears when they informed him that he’s gained so much weight that actually, he’s closing in on the walls.

His aides brought in psychiatrist Dr. Harvey Slavin, who, while still on a work-release program for sleeping with his patients with poor vision, is considered to be an occasionally adequate psychiatrist.

Dr. Slavin: How are you feeling today, Mr. Trump?

Trump: Furious. Lindsey Graham is betraying me.

Slavin: How so?

Trump: He promised me that he’d buried his morals and ethics with John McCain, but now he’s gotten all pissy about me deserting the Kurds.

Slavin: Can I ask why did you turn on our allies and make it easy for Turkey to slaughter them?

Trump: Because I don’t have a hotel in Kurdland, but I have a big one in Istanboool.

Slavin: Sir, doesn’t it bother you that because of these kinds of actions millions of American’s think you’re an imbecile and totally full of shit?

Trump: Fake news.

Slavin: Of course it is… Can you share your feelings about millions of Americans wanting to see you in handcuffs?

Trump: More fake news. Handcuffs? Ridiculous. Hey, want to see a picture of Ivanka in handcuffs?

Slavin: You really have a pic-?

Trump: Here, she’s in a bikini I picked out for her.

Slavin, suddenly needing a shower, pushed on.

Slavin: Let’s leave the gutter for a second Sir. Do you have any anxiety over losing next year’s election?

Trump: I can’t lose. Not with all my support in places like Rotted Gums, Missouri, Open Sores, Kentucky and Alabama’s Nazi Mountain Theme Park.

Slavin: Thank God for inbreeding, huh?

Trump: You can say that again.





John Bolton’s blood was still drying on the carpet as I sat in my, that’s right, “my” Oval Office, rearranging index cards in hopes of keeping track of my lies. Fifty thousand cards and counting.

I hadn’t tweeted in over twenty minutes and was jonesing to, badly. If I don’t tweet, how am I supposed to know that I actually exist? I tweet therefore I am.

As I reached for my phone, she barged into my office, and my glorious hate-filled day was about to go sour. The old broad told me her name was Judy Garland, but I knew it was Nancy Pelosi. Trying to trap her, I asked where Lassie was. She replied, “Timmy’s in the well again.” She was sharper than me. It’s not just the lamp.

A looker in her day, the Speaker had big eyes, great legs and unruly breasts. I knew she had ethics, morals and compassion, and yet somehow she was sexier than Kellyanne Conway, who had none of those disabilities.

I figured she’d had four or five children, but still felt confident that I had more stretch marks than she did. I have beautiful stretch marks.

She stared at me with contempt. My day was getting uglier than Sheldon Adelson. Last night’s sleep had been wonderful. I’d had my favorite dream, where I’m the first on the scene of a plane crash and get people’s wallets before the sirens even start.

But now this apparition of impeachment stood before me. I asked her, “What do you want, Judy?”

Pelosi: You need to resign. We want you out so we can push all the haters back under the rocks you let them crawl out from.

I smiled. She wanted something and I knew I had her. She wasn’t in my league,  and when I was done bargaining with her, I would still be President and all she’d walk out of here with were my balls. I’m a great negotiator.