Everybody in this country who despises and wants this miserable prick out of office, and especially women, should find a way to verbally assault him with an edge of viciousness never before vented in American political history. And do it nonstop.
These women he has molested, or any woman out there who finds him demeaning, and repulsive, and ghastly, should report that yes, he did molest me, he did have his forceful way with me, but what I discovered is that the dear Donald, now President of the United States, “has a scrawny little needle-dick.” Another woman might tweet that he could not get it up anyway, and “he was hung with three inches of dangling death and demanded oral sex!” Another might report that he doesn't kiss because he's a “fearful germaphobe.” Gloria Allred, feminist attorney for women who have accused Trump of molestation, might infer that one of her clients was shocked that the Donald has “flabby tits.” and “can't see his weenie when he pees because of his bulbous pot-belly.”
Of course, somebody has to say something about his hair, like, “he was born bald and God found some wilted straw, glued up his head, tossed the straw onto the square head and left the grooming of it up to stylists charging $200 for a trim, knowing he had a millionaire father.”
Trump seems obsessed with his manhood, likes to promote himself as super masculine, the sure signs of a male hysteric, which describes a man so insecure he must constantly brag of his athletic exploits and seduction of many beautiful women, and boast constantly of his own bigness and greatness and importance. A tiny, tiny pinprick of his manhood prompts tweets best described as rants defending himself. He was very upset during the debates when his hands were depicted as small and began insulting everybody on the stage, and possibly any one of these insulted pussies, like Jeb Bush, who allowed this nonsense, might have become president if they had walked over and punched the bag of flab in front of millions of Americans, outing him as having a glass jaw, somebody who cannot take a punch, somebody in athletic parlance “who can dish it out but can't take it.”
Some legitimate hero of male sports dominance should come out and tweet that Trump “swings the golf club like a girl, and you can't trust him when he goes into the woods after a shank or a slice.” Trump likes to surround himself or pay tribute to right wing athletes and coaches like Bobby Knight, Curt Schilling, Tom Brady, winners who, when you really think about it, expose Trump as a full time “jock-strap sniffer who feels big and bad when accepted by these warriors in the arena.”
Somebody in the military must discuss his poor feet that got him out of the army and Vietnam in 1968, when our boys at the bottom of the barrel were dying like flies during the Tet offensive. He obviously learned to salute in military school, and clicks it off like a general when he gets off his chopper, but anybody who was ever in basic training would love to sit next door to this man's man in one of many open side-by side toilets when he's taking a shit, like we all did.
Trump's putrid cowardice might be further exposed when an explanation of why he doesn't have a dog is because the President is “terrified of dogs, because everywhere he has ever gone, unguarded, dogs instinctively sniff him out as no damn good and automatically bite him on the ass as he flees (not the nimblest, fastest sprinter). Hell, even Nixon had a dog.
A really painful and devastating accusation that might really ignite his bogus manhood would be for several gay men to come out and claim that Trump, for all his bluster, is a “flaming closet fairy, likes to dress up in fetching female attire, with 36 D cup bra and see-through panties, fully made up, and mince around to romantic show tunes with a stud in leather.”
What we know is that he lies constantly, about everything, and especially himself, so, to fight fire, the alt-truth, the alt-facts among his enemies shall hit the tweet waves like a typhoon, day hour after hour, day after day, week after week, month after month if need be, until this embarrassing, loathsome excuse of a human being becomes so obsessed with the assaults he turns into a full time tweeting machine, a madman, no longer able to function, holed up in his office with his hand-held computer while the country goes to hell, until he is driven from office and made to suffer the ultimate humiliation he deserves: impeachment and banishment from his adoring public.