(Now with 70% less democracy and 100% more limited-edition cologne)

⚠️ SATIRE WARNING ⚠️

 This rant is rated G—for “George is tired of your shit.” The following material contains high-grade profanity, righteous indignation, and more truth than any State of the Union address you’ve heard since the Nixon administration. If you're looking for polite analysis, go watch a think tank cry on C-SPAN.

You ever wonder what happens when a con artist wins the presidency and decides he’s not gonna govern, he’s gonna sell shit?

Not metaphorically—literally.

We’re living in the first true Home Shopping Presidency. Call now, operators are standing by! Get your fragrance, your crypto, your cell service, maybe even a goddamn invitation to power if your wallet’s fat enough and your ethics are thin.

And the best part? It’s all happening while the guy’s in office.

That’s right, folks—he’s not even pretending anymore.

We’ve got a president who walked out of the inauguration, took a piss on the Hatch Act, and launched a meme coin with his own face on it. A crypto coin! Because nothing says “servant of the people” like a fake digital Chuck E. Cheese token used to launder campaign donations.

And then—wait for it—the First Lady drops her own damn coin.

We are now running the government like a goddamn multi-level marketing scam.

Buy the coin, get a sticker, tell your friends. Invite five people and you might get an ambassadorship to Malta.

But oh, it gets worse.

Because while the rubes are out there buying up $TRUMP and $MELANIA like they’re rare Pokémon, he’s rolling back crypto enforcement. Shut down the watchdogs, silence the whistleblowers, and let the cash flood in like it’s spring break in Dubai.

You think he’s done? You think that’s enough grift?

Oh no. He opened a club. A goddamn velvet-rope, invite-only, members-only, billionaires-and-bond-villains club.

Right in the middle of Washington D.C.

You want access? You want to rub elbows with cabinet secretaries and oil lobbyists? Great.

That’ll be five hundred thousand dollars. Up front. No refunds.

They call it “The Executive Branch.” I call it “The Fuck You Club.”

Because you know who’s not invited?

You.

The people footing the bill for this whole circus are still waiting on a damn pothole to be fixed, and meanwhile there’s a literal paywall around democracy.

And just in case anyone forgot who’s boss, they launched a perfume. A perfume!

“Victory 45–47.”

 Because nothing says “stable genius” like charging 250 bucks for a bottle of liquid ego, bottled in the tears of ethics lawyers.

And he’s got a smartphone now! That’s right, the Trump Phone is here.

Because when you’re being spied on by three-letter agencies, why not just go full circle and get your surveillance direct from the manufacturer?

This isn’t a presidency—it’s a fucking clearance sale.

And the clearance is on your dignity.

He’s not building anything. He’s not protecting anything.

He’s monetizing the flag, the office, the goddamn nuclear codes if we don’t stop him.

Hell, at this point I wouldn’t be surprised if the Resolute Desk came with a QR code.

Scan here for 10% off gold-plated cufflinks and a downloadable insult for the press corps.

This isn’t America First—it’s Trump Family First and Everyone Else Pays at the Door.

So the next time you see him holding a Bible, or a flag, or a crying baby—check for a price tag.

Because in this presidency, everything is for sale.

And if you don’t have the money?

You’re not invited.