⚠️ SNARKY DISCLAIMER

 This is satire. Wild, profane, exasperated, and legally protected under what’s left of the First Amendment. If you think this is about you—it probably is. No real billionaires, ex-presidents, or sex traffickers were harmed in the making of this rant. But we’d sure like a word with a few.

You smell that?

It’s the distinct stench of scandal panic, desperation cologne, and stale Big Mac breath—the unmistakable fragrance of the Felon of the United States trying to outrun reality with a bucket of glitter and a bullhorn.

Because here we are, mid‑July 2025, and the Epstein shitstorm is blowing in hot like a radioactive sandblaster. Names. Dates. Doodles. Birthday books. Congressional subpoenas with Maxwell’s name still smoking on the header.

And what does FOTUS do?

He grabs a goddamn tuba and starts marching in the other direction.

TWEET-TWEET-BOOM!

“LOOK OVER HERE! THE STADIUM’S GOT A WOKE NAME!”

“THE NFL IS COMMUNIST NOW!”

“I NEVER KNEW EPSTEIN, BUT HERE’S A PICTURE OF US HUGGING IN 1992—FAKE!”

“ARREST OBAMA!”

“THE BIRTHDAY BOOK IS A DEEPFAKE CREATED BY SATAN AND THE GAYS!”

This man is throwing so much bullshit in the air he could seed the clouds with lies and make it rain fascism.

Let’s rewind:

Earlier this week, evidence surfaced tying FOTUS to Epstein through a signed note in a literal birthday book. Not some random party invite. A “Happy Birthday, Jeff!” doodle, complete with what appears to be Trump’s personal sketch of a penis with a toupee.

(Art therapy, maybe? Or just presidential foreplay?)

And what does he do?

He doesn’t deny it. He sues the Wall Street Journal.

Because when you’re guilty, the only move left is to scream “DEFAMATION!” while naked and oily in the middle of the courtroom, hoping everyone’s too traumatized to ask questions.

Meanwhile, the House tries to hold hearings.

But Speaker “Christian Mike” Johnson adjourns the session faster than a televangelist hiding his Pornhub password.

Because we can’t let truth interfere with profit margins, can we?

And while all this is happening, FOTUS is slinging distractions like a carny with a cocaine cannon:

• He tries to rename the Super Bowl.
• Calls the New York Times “state media.”
• Posts AI-generated mugshots of Obama in handcuffs like it's Law & Order: Delusion Unit.
• Launches an executive order to jail homeless people—because if we’re locking up the vulnerable, maybe we’ll forget he flew to Little St. James more times than Delta.

He’s not running a campaign anymore.

He’s hosting a magic show in a collapsing tent.

Watch the hands, folks! Don’t look behind the curtain—that’s where the receipts are.

And every one of these distractions is designed to do one thing: Make you forget that this man was part of the Epstein orbit.

Not just a passenger. Not just a party guest.

A known associate who called the guy “terrific,” danced at his mansion, and—according to flight logs, photos, and now handwritten fuck-you notes—was real cozy with the house of horrors.

But you’re not supposed to think about that.

You’re supposed to focus on Hunter Biden’s laptop, or whether Taylor Swift is a CIA psyop, or if Subway is woke now because they gave a sandwich to a drag queen.

Meanwhile, the bodies pile up. The victims are still waiting. The list gets longer.

And the Felon of the United States?

He’s sitting in a gold-plated golf cart screaming “SCAM! HOAX! DEEP STATE!” like a toddler on fire trying to bluff his way out of arson charges.

FINAL THOUGHT?

This isn’t distraction.

This is tactical circus deployment.

Bread and circuses—except the bread’s moldy, the circus is run by felons, and the lions were replaced by lawyers with NDAs.

He’s not running from Epstein.

He’s running interference.

With every lie, every tantrum, every stadium-name-change temper fit, he’s trying to drown out the truth with noise and nationalism.

And if we fall for it—again—then maybe we deserve the next tuba solo.

Because the house is on fire.

 And the clown is holding the fucking match.