Epstein Trumpadump Stand-Up

comedy, southern redneck dialect, broad deep-Southern accent, old lady female vocal

This orange barnacle
This sentient spray-tan
This half-melted church potluck casserole
“Donald J. Trump”
Poppin’ up in them files
’Bout thirty-eight thousand damn times
Like athlete’s foot in a locker room Bible study

You know how many times my name in there?
Zero
’Cause I was at home
Payin’ bills
Raisin’ kids
Tryin’ not to get murdered by the healthcare system
Not flyin’ to Kid-Touchin’ Island
For the “all-inclusive felony package”

Thirty-eight. Thousand. Times
That ain’t a typo
Sugar
That’s a punch card from Hell
That’s “buy nine
Get your soul free”
That’s “Welcome back
Mr. Trump
Your usual table in the moral sewer is ready”

Thirty-eight thousand fuckin' times
You ain’t “barely know the man”
You are the frequent flyer mascot
Of the creepiest loyalty program
In human history
You dumb FUCK!

He on TV like:
“Never met him
Barely met him
Know him a little”
Boy
If I “barely met” somebody
And my name show up with his
More times than my electric bill
I’m changin’ my damn phone number, for fuck's sake.

This dude so nasty
So damn motherfuckin' NAAASTY!
If he shook your hand in ’92
You still need a tetanus shot
He out here sniffin’ around
Lookin’ like a sheriff’s sketch
Of “Suspicious Uncle At The Cookout”
All the kids hidin’ in the pantry
Pretendin’ they real into canned beans
Just so he don’t make eye contact

Thirty-eight. Mother. FUCKING. Thousand. Times
That’s not a coincidence
That’s a calendar
That’s a schedule
That’s a damn HR timesheet
For crimes you can’t say in front of Jesus

OOOOH, LAWD... JESUS TAAAKE THE WHEEL!

Thirty-eight thousand
That  orange micro-mushroom weiner bastard.
You know how rotten you gotta be
For Hell to look at your file like
“Mmmmh
We a little full right now
Gonna have to put you on the waitlist,
Donnie”

[leans in
Voice rougher]
And my grandson said:
“Grandma
What’s a Trump?”
I said
“Baby
That’s when the doctor forgets
To throw away the afterbirth
And it runs for president!”

He talk about “protectin’ children”
Sir
The only thing you protect
Is your own reflection
You more dangerous
Than a used needle in a ball pit
More moronic
Than a gender reveal with live ammo
You so stupid
If common sense was pants
You’d be out here bare-ass in a hailstorm

And all these folks still wearin’ his hat
All these maggots...
The pure rot of our country
Like a cult for lead paint survivors
“Hell yeah
Brother
He’s innocent!”
Baby
Your hero on them pages
Like a cockroach in a Waffle House
Turn on the light—there he go
Turn off the light—he still there
Probably eatin’ somebody else’s fries
Throwing a tantrum
Or molesting a kid...
One or the other, I guess..

You worship a man
Who’d sell you for store credit
At a bankrupt casino gift shop
He’d trade your grandbaby
For a bucket of fried chicken skin
And a mirror that says “You’re the smartest”

Fucking. Thirty-eight. Thousand. Times
Say it with me
Y’all
That ain’t destiny
That’s dirt
That’s decades of dirt
Stacked higher than his cholesterol

Thirty-eight thousand
You show up that often, Trump 
In a creep’s little calendar
You ain’t “misunderstood”
You are exactly understood
We just ain’t got enough prisons
To spell your whole bloody résumé

So next time somebody tells you
He’s “chosen by God”
You tell ’em:
“Yeah
Sugar—
Chosen for the extra crispy section
In Hell’s fryer. 
That racist, pedo-fucking maniac
Has his own very special place
In the darkest, hottest, corner 
Of The Pit
Where demon-children 
Will bite off his dick 
Over
And over 
And over.
For the rest of 
FUCKING ETERNITY!"

But, you know...
Most of the pedo-accepting maggots 
Just. Won't. Get. It.

So...

Lets hope somebody 
Blows his fucking head'off...
'Cause..
I'm SO over the fucking Orange
And his fuckin' legions 
Of moronic fuckheads
I could just drop dead

Cheers, 
Don't get your beer in the wrong pipe,
and don't puke on your way out.
God bless, thoughts'n'prayers
And all that fucking bullshit..

Nighty-night!

4123/7500

[Intro] [room noise Glasses clinking] Well bless my busted ovaries Y’all I been readin’ them little “friend lists” From that dead island pervert And who the hell keeps jumpin’ out Like a drunk raccoon in my trash can? This orange barnacle This sentient spray-tan This half-melted church potluck casserole “Donald J. Trump” Poppin’ up in them files ’Bout thirty-eight thousand damn times Like athlete’s foot in a locker room Bible study You know how many times my name in there? Zero ’Cause I was at home Payin’ bills Raisin’ kids Tryin’ not to get murdered by the healthcare system Not flyin’ to Kid-Touchin’ Island For the “all-inclusive felony package” Thirty-eight. Thousand. Times That ain’t a typo Sugar That’s a punch card from Hell That’s “buy nine Get your soul free” That’s “Welcome back Mr. Trump Your usual table in the moral sewer is ready” Thirty-eight thousand fuckin' times You ain’t “barely know the man” You are the frequent flyer mascot Of the creepiest loyalty program In human history You dumb FUCK! He on TV like: “Never met him Barely met him Know him a little” Boy If I “barely met” somebody And my name show up with his More times than my electric bill I’m changin’ my damn phone number, for fuck's sake. This dude so nasty So damn motherfuckin' NAAASTY! If he shook your hand in ’92 You still need a tetanus shot He out here sniffin’ around Lookin’ like a sheriff’s sketch Of “Suspicious Uncle At The Cookout” All the kids hidin’ in the pantry Pretendin’ they real into canned beans Just so he don’t make eye contact Thirty-eight. Mother. FUCKING. Thousand. Times That’s not a coincidence That’s a calendar That’s a schedule That’s a damn HR timesheet For crimes you can’t say in front of Jesus OOOOH, LAWD... JESUS TAAAKE THE WHEEL! Thirty-eight thousand That orange micro-mushroom weiner bastard. You know how rotten you gotta be For Hell to look at your file like “Mmmmh We a little full right now Gonna have to put you on the waitlist, Donnie” [leans in Voice rougher] And my grandson said: “Grandma What’s a Trump?” I said “Baby That’s when the doctor forgets To throw away the afterbirth And it runs for president!” He talk about “protectin’ children” Sir The only thing you protect Is your own reflection You more dangerous Than a used needle in a ball pit More moronic Than a gender reveal with live ammo You so stupid If common sense was pants You’d be out here bare-ass in a hailstorm And all these folks still wearin’ his hat All these maggots... The pure rot of our country Like a cult for lead paint survivors “Hell yeah Brother He’s innocent!” Baby Your hero on them pages Like a cockroach in a Waffle House Turn on the light—there he go Turn off the light—he still there Probably eatin’ somebody else’s fries Throwing a tantrum Or molesting a kid... One or the other, I guess.. You worship a man Who’d sell you for store credit At a bankrupt casino gift shop He’d trade your grandbaby For a bucket of fried chicken skin And a mirror that says “You’re the smartest” Fucking. Thirty-eight. Thousand. Times Say it with me Y’all That ain’t destiny That’s dirt That’s decades of dirt Stacked higher than his cholesterol Thirty-eight thousand You show up that often, Trump In a creep’s little calendar You ain’t “misunderstood” You are exactly understood We just ain’t got enough prisons To spell your whole bloody résumé So next time somebody tells you He’s “chosen by God” You tell ’em: “Yeah Sugar— Chosen for the extra crispy section In Hell’s fryer. That racist, pedo-fucking maniac Has his own very special place In the darkest, hottest, corner Of The Pit Where demon-children Will bite off his dick Over And over And over. For the rest of FUCKING ETERNITY!" But, you know... Most of the pedo-accepting maggots Just. Won't. Get. It. So... Lets hope somebody Blows his fucking head'off... 'Cause.. I'm SO over the fucking Orange And his fuckin' legions Of moronic fuckheads I could just drop dead Cheers, Don't get your beer in the wrong pipe, and don't puke on your way out. God bless, thoughts'n'prayers And all that fucking bullshit.. Nighty-night!

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