i love Trump.
there, i said it.
go ahead, judge me.
he’s loud,
he stinks,
he humps everything with a pulse,
and he once ate an entire bucket of fried chicken
that wasn’t his.
but i love him.
i walk him twice a day.
people glare at me at the park
when i shout his name—
“TRUMP! COME HERE!”
“TRUMP! DROP IT!”
“TRUMP! GET YOUR FACE OUT OF HER BAG!”
you have not known shame
until you’ve had to yell “TRUMP, HEEL!”
while your dog dry-humps someone’s golden retriever
in front of a yoga mom with three rescue stickers on her Subaru.
he doesn’t listen.
he chases squirrels like they owe him money.
he barks at nothing,
growls at his own reflection,
and has a habit of peeing
on things other dogs have clearly marked as sacred.
he once pissed on my neighbor’s Biden sign.
i swear it was personal.
he chewed through my couch cushions
during the January 6th hearings.
i like to think it was commentary.
but he also ate a sponge
and half a Bic pen that week,
so maybe he’s just dumb.
people assume i named him that on purpose.
i didn’t.
he came that way—
a rescue,
all teeth and attitude,
with a bad case of mange
and a stupid little snort
like he’s laughing at his own flatulence.
which he does.
a lot.
he’s terrified of vacuums,
mailmen,
and thunder—
but he’ll try to fight a Rottweiler
if it looks at him funny.
he’s all bark,
no logic,
and too proud to admit when he’s lost.
but when the day’s gone to shit,
and i’m on the couch
with a bottle of wine
and nothing left to believe in,
he curls up beside me,
snorts twice,
and rests his head on my foot
like he owns the whole damn world.
and i think,
“goddamn it, Trump,
you stupid, farting, egomaniacal bastard—
i love you.”
