Before I was a prophet, I was a clinician. I worked in all kinds of psychiatric facilities and clinics. I admitted, treated and discharged people. For each person I worked with, I had to do a diagnosis and mental status. It was what I did, thousands and thousands of times over the course of decades.
I thought that was behind me, but today I found myself slipping back into that mode.
The press conference lasted 77 minutes. It did not have gorillas wearing tutus on roller skates. No, gorillas could not compete with what I saw. When the Dunce described his administration as a "fine-tuned machine", I immediately thought of a cuckoo clock - a cuckoo clock with a daily tweeting cuckoo boasting a Woody Woodpecker haircut.
As I watched terms like: loosening of associations; flight of ideas; delusional; manic; grandiose; poor impulse control; impaired judgment; disorientation; low intelligence; narcissistic; dishonest; anti-social; poor interpersonal skills; poor communication; rambling; using neologisms (really, really bigly use of neologisms); dangerous to himself and others; bizarre appearance; euphoria; and tacky dresser came to mind.
Yes, the Delusional one is a "space shot". That would be my official diagnosis. He is out there orbiting somewhere between Mars and Jupiter. He dwells in the asteroid belt. Unfortunately for us, the U.S., he is also our president.
I'm guessing this had something to do with Robert Harward's turning down the National Security Advisor position today. You know, the job that became available when Dopey fired Mike Flynn. Speaking of Flynn, Dumbo said that Flynn was doing a really, really great job right up until the Dweeb fired him.
I guess that's a hard sell - T. "Do you want this job?" H. "What happened to the guy who had it before me?" T. "I fired him." H. "What did he do?" T. "He did a really, really great job." H. "As tempting as it sounds, I'm afraid I have to pass on it." T. "Why?" H. "Um, ah, I have some really pressing personal things that I must attend to." T. "Too bad. What do you have going on?" H. "I forgot to eat lunch." T. "Too bad it would have been a really great, really fabulous, really wonderful, really amazing job. Please excuse me, I have to go oil my machine." H. "Knock yourself out."
Drooling Donald is driven everywhere he goes by a team of psychiatric attendants dressed up as Secret Service agents. They use a specially equipped black limousine that's fully padded and stocked with a good supply of Risperidone Oral Solution.
Holy Moly!
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