The Plot Against #PredatorInChief

I confess.

I hatched The Plot Against Donald Trump.

I dreamed up the hashtag #PredatorInChief.

I never imagined it would go viral after so many months of being kicked around in the presidential gutter.

I never thought anyone would ever believe the fantastical stories of sexual harassment.

The Good Old Boys never bought these stories before.

And it sure wasn’t my idea to bring Gloria Allred and Lisa Bloom on board to represent the ladies who complain of raping and groping and harassing and kissing and hovering and threatening. Ad infinitum. (You don’t know what that means, Donald? But you’re “really smart” and you went to “an Ivy League College” and you graduated “first in your class.”)

Hell, Donald, you have all the Best Words. (From your mouth to the Space Station.)

The Trumpettes are after me everywhere I go, accusing me of being a traitor to my sex.

Kirsten is really mad at me after Donald called her a strumpet, sort of. (She’s much too pretty to be a strumpet (or a STrumpette) or even just an ordinary loose woman who would “do anything for campaign donations” in The World According to Trump.)

Jeez, Donald! You looked like such an easy target. You are really dumb. As in dumb as a doornail dumb.

After all, the Ruskies were able to shower you (with gold-like sprinkles) at the Moscow Ritz-Carlton, keep a record of kompromat, and blackmail you into doing every little thang they wanted in Moscow—because you were paid $20 million for the Miss Universe pageant and got a loan for a few hundred million rubles to prop up your itty bitty building projects all over tarnation.

So now the Trumpsters are on my trail to discredit me at every turn.

(Ain’t I a woman?)

It wasn’t easy finding sixteen women to publicly accuse you, Donald, but I managed it when the lamestream media weren’t paying attention because, Donald, I needed to WIN.

You know about winning, don’t you, Donald? Winning at all costs? Winning when the truth is twisted, gutted, splayed, set on fire, and turned inside out? You don’t get Pinocchios for telling only the boring truth, after all.

I went to the elites to audition the women I needed, and trust me, Donald, you’re more elite than they are. Just because they read BOOKS and watch PLAYS and EXERCISE and use BIG WORDS and write with COMPUTERS and eat VEGETABLES and drive TESLAS doesn’t make them smarter than you because . . .

Nobody, but nobody is smarter than The Donald.

Not in the Whole Wide World.

About Everything.

And that’s a Fact.

(Not FAKE NEWS.)