Trumpus Rex

BEHOLD, Blotus! His super special mostessness, astonishment of men and angels, lesser human beings, too; Blotus the incredible, the terrible, unstoppable! His most absurd amazing person, just amazing!

The superhuman superman emerges from his blissful inner sanctum: his unbelievably incredible -- you'll never behold such elegance, millions of dollars, really, a gilded palace -- Xanadu, his stately pleasure dome decreed. Everything within this five-star testament to his vast holdings and infinite worth is fitting, just the way it has to be for one as ultrafabulous as he. Glittering grains of sand beneath his very feet are raked by hand and smoothed for his approval -- nothing in his purview shall ever come asunder.

Blotus breathes deep. Takes in the green and even greener of his graceful lawns and gardens, lushing hedges, winding vines along the rows of cloistered columns, glorious bursting tropical flora hymn their grateful praise, and then, besides all this, the curling white-capped rolling ocean salaams to his most eminence without ceasing. Hoards of towering cumulus reflect his kind beatitude, halcyon zephyrs frolic thither, here and also yonder. All things bow down at Blotus' first appearance, awaiting pearls to fall from oft his pretty puckered lips. So yes. Another day! All nature sings and round him rings the music of the spheres.

Hark! The royal bowels must be moved, but must he do it? Blotus has a man for that, and now's the special moment. Before he even lifts a finger, the butler arrives behind with gilded throne. Lifts the hem of the Bloviarch's robe and seats his Highness on the padded tripod. Of all the pleasures in a day and believe me, they are multiple, this is the most fulfilling. Blotus swells with satisfaction as the royal anus opens and expels. He reflects with fondness on his best beloved nanny. How many a morning of Blotus' boyhood dawned as his adored Treblinka divined such glorious futures from his super potent droppings. Yes, he was her golden boy, her star-kissed coocheecoo infanta -- this one -- he's The One, who will most certainly attain exalting. Command a powerful empire, yes, he will. And yes, obliterate pretenders who would dare to block his way.

Yet today, a distant, maybe not so distant sounding, like a silent rumble rolls a thousand leagues beneath his sea. Many millions of years ago, unlike anything even the Bloviarch or sainted nanny could foresee, a cataclysm cleaved the single landmass into twain, before the morning stars all sang, and what if, just what if, beneath fair Blotus' pinkish lacquered tootsies, even now, an unsuspected ruination lays in wait.

Not seconds after the royal bum is buffed, Blotus' Geomancer and his Campaign Dowser assume the porch. "Something untoward, I tell you, this way comes," the Dowser says, and the next naysayer seconds: "For all your many warnings and the winnings you have frightened up...for all the vanquished litter of the lesser men you laid to waste..."

"What is it? Cut the crap!" the Bloviarch demands. "You yak such wank at Us who never loses, never ever! Never has and never will not not win! We don't not win -- never haven't not come out on top. And let me tell you something else. I love the losers, many of my closest associates are losers. It's not that I don't love the losers, I do. I do! They can't help it, they're hopeless flotsam, wretched refuse, stiffs! But somebody get them, please, out of my sight. GET 'EM OUT! If you two approach with news that there's losing going on -- Pierre! Roll out the pecker-picker. I'll whack you peoples' privates off so fast your eyes will spurt blood like girls do from, wherever. Now, what's the upshot? Make it quick, the hour has come to tally up our winnings."

Both underlings back out but fast. They beg the Bloviarch's most humble pardon. Bad news days are over. No more bad news. And yet. It seems a seam, a rift that is, newly ascertained from recent exploration in his empire's never ending lust for gold -- black gold that is -- that particular rift lies directly underneath the Blotus' happy island paradise! A plate tectonic lodged oh, many eons, even epochs long ago, beneath the limestone seabed, it now convulses upward, poised to give the slip, let's say, any day now. This awful cataclysm lays in wait, suducting the peaceful southeast coast of superspecial Palm Beach, Florida. More's the pity , since the epicenter underpins the rich, idyllic, ultra desirable, plus exclusive palace known as Mar-a-Lago, OMG!

History, as they tell us, has a history of repeating. The tectonic plate intruded underneath the vestigial peninsula of Florida was once the last link between the Old World and the New. Some even say this chunk of earth may be the one that Plato recorded in his history of legendary Atlantis. How terrible for our glorious experiment -- America! If this should be the day that buried plate of old disgorges! Atlantis, rumored to have produced the most advanced technology of all the worlds of time -- if this should be the day that fissure rifts, unleashing fire and brimstone, and the dreadful awful Atlantic, once Blotus' private ocean to command, pulls away away away then returns with such a terrifying destruction that Islamists in New Jersey cheer the end of his estate! Sucking the Unstoppable himself into its churning miasma...

All that we can do, our only hope is pray for Apocalypse now, before November. And further pray, Almighty God, that Blotus is at home.

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