Excuse me but what is that? A throbbing mushroom cloud in the sky?
The Mushroom-Fixated Meatheads of Empire
“If Kamala wins, only death and destruction await because she is the candidate of endless wars. I am the candidate of peace,”
Trump continued,
“I am peace.”
The old gods are restless, stirring and thinking about that moment before wakefulness when reality feels more real, more wicked. Sharper. Or maybe it’s just the Pentagon’s morning wood. Either way, the sky’s about to get real veiny and bright.
Let’s not mince words: the Trump-era war doctrine is scrawled in testosterone, mushroom-dicked madness, and a delusional belief that every geopolitical itch can be scratched with the throbbing tip of American might. Diplomacy? Please. Negotiation? Whatever. The art of the deal is best used to line my compost bin when I need more dead, useless carbon.
The mushroom cloud is their totem, an uncanny resemblance to the tool wielded by the tool to destroy so many women. He destroys America now the same way but on a scale phenomenally larger. The sacred schlong of empire. Freudian doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s not policy—it’s a tantric apocalypse kink.
Edging closer to something...
The Cold War left the right edged for 40 years and now they’re wandering the earth with half-loaded missiles and half-erect doctrines, trying to find some poor brown country to finish inside. They can’t read a treaty, but they’ll drop a thousand-pound “message” in the sand and call it clarity.
This isn’t foreign policy—it’s a war boner with a flag on it. The kind of engorged exceptionalism that would stick its dick in a volcano and call it manifest destiny. They call it freedom.
The mushroom is the sigil of their cult: Round, proud, engorged with promise, blooming violently in the breath of Armageddon. A toadstool with a death wish.
I don't know anyone, on either side, that wanted this. This isn't freedom. It's just jerking off in public.