Stage Nine Absurdity and the Box That Broke the President

[Lewie London]

I dunno what’s more knackered, Trump’s brain or his moral compass, but either way the geezer’s gone full pub fruit machine flashing ERROR. 

 

So he’s up there at a press conference, just saw this on Fox News on the tele, yeah, and the journos ask if he’s gonna give Biden a call, what with the poor sod just announcin’ he’s got stage four prostate cancer. Simple question, yeah? But instead of answerin’ like a normal human being, Trump goes, “He’s got stage nine cancer.” Stage nine, bruv, really? There ain’t even such a thing. That’s not a diagnosis, that’s a farkin’ Marvel sequel. Man’s just out ‘ere makin’ up numbers like he’s tryna skip the NHS queue.

 

And this weren’t even in response to some medical inquiry or nuffin. Nah, the press just asked a basic question. And Trump, instead of sayin’ yeah or nah, starts bangin’ on about stage nine cancer for 2 minutes like he’s the ghost of Dr. Oz on meth. Stage four means serious, yeah. But stage nine? That’s a fookin’ fever dream you get from sniffin’ bleach in a tanning bed.

 

Then just as you think the brain fog’s cleared, he pivots, completely unprovoked mind you, to brag about how he “aced” a cognitive test over at Walter Reid. Like what? You failed the basic biology one ten seconds ago, but now you’re Einstein ‘cos you remembered a picture of a camel? Sit down mate, you’re not solving quantum physics, you’re ticking boxes in a glorified memory game designed for people who’ve forgotten what year it is.

 

And then he goes off about the autopen. The autopen! Like we’re all sat ‘ere wondering how Biden signs his letters while battlin’ cancer. Bruv, nobody asked. You brought it up like a nan on Facebook linking everything back to the war. And then he starts bangin' on about Biden's cognition when the subject was prostate cancer and a bloody 2 minute phone call. 

 

But the cherry on top? The box. The little box Trump picks up off a table next to his podium. Man tries to open it like it’s Pandora’s secret stash, fumblin’ like a drunk uncle at Christmas. Couldn’t work it out. Passes it to some other bloke who opens it in a sec like he’s poppin’ open a tin of Tetleys. And Trump’s stood there lookin’ like he just tried to defuse a bomb with oven mitts.

 

Mate’s out ‘ere talkin’ cognitive tests while demonstratin’ he couldn’t win a fight with a sad, little, velvet-covered box that wasn't even locked. And we’re supposed to believe he’s sharp as a tack? Please, lads. The only thing sharp is the decline, and it’s steep as fark.

[impulse]

40 minutes ago, Lewie London said:

Stage nine, bruv, really?

 

Stage 4, Gleason score 9.