Having a quiet night at home …
… contemplating the first of what we hope will be a long, happy string of indictments. My heart flutters with anticipation. Who will it be on the morrow? Manafort? Flynn? One of the flaccid, chinless twits the slob fathered?
Or might it be … hope against hope … the grease-trap hair-turd, himself?
No! Too soon! Forget I implied anything about his turn coming so quickly. Let him live with it, one criminal charge at a time … one traitorous punk turning state’s evidence at a time … while his rancid sweat gathers in his crotch and he desperately tries to Tweet his sloppy ass out of the fitting end awaiting him.
Sic semper tyrannis.