NOTE: I awoke today to find this mysterious note on my bathroom sink.
Bob,
You addled bastard, you approached me in your fetid dream last night and asked my advice.
At least, I think you did—I had the Cowboys game on at the time, and Washington was stomping them, like they were a gang of sick junkies.
My attention wasn't fully yours.
If I grasped your question, you asked what America should do with 45, now that the maddened crowds—like Bond in the grand finale—have dispatched his fat diapered ass.
The Ephedrine supply is practically nonexistent here, so I must keep my answer brief.
America doesn't have to do anything about 45.
Come mid-December—too chilly for tubby to golf in Virginia—45 will depart DC permanently for his rat-hole in Florida, announcing by Tweet a "hard-earned" Christmas vacation.
From there, Snowden-like, 45 will flee to Moscow, requesting permanent asylum.
Putin will grant the asylum, glad for yet another thing to lord over fatso.
But when Putin learns 45 is broke and knows no Top Secrets the Kremlin doesn't, he'll graciously deliver one of his infamous gifts.
The only question for America: where to dispose of the remains?
I suggest the ruins of Reactor 4 in Chernobyl.
— Hunter
