The Ballad of the Trumpening

4 Chan sometimes produces pure liquefied shit and sometimes it produces pure fucking gold.  Here’s the best story ever from the /pol board.

I was still young when the Trumpening finally happened. Suddenly full of vigor and enthusiasm, defiantly hopeful after having endured several years of diabolical sin and degeneracy. Reinvigorated and optimistic in the lead-up to what would have been Patriarch Trump’s glorious six-term presidency. But my joy would be short lived. Exactly eighty eight hours before his inauguration, Mr. Trump unexpectedly fled into some nearby woods, and was never seen again. No explanation. He simply knew something the rest of us didn’t. He had no choice.

The walls were never built, and the Mexican border-toads continued to multiply exponentially. Then the nukes fell, and the new pandemics arrived. The rampaging diversifiers continued to swarm across the civilized world, bringing a cataclysmic wave of cultural enrichment and peace to every last inch of Earth. AIDS became mandatory. Vatican City was dismantled and reconstructed using trillions of Common Core text books. Artificial womb-children were instantly dissected and reassembled at birth, fashioned into ambisexual pan-gender omni humans before being reanimated and married into polygamous otherkin sects. The children were injected with estrogen, liquified cancer, and watermelon iced tea, their trans-human brains genetically engineered to run exclusively on Windows 10 (the last operating system to ever exist). Women and men began perpetually menstruating, so we started calling them “bleeders”. Tampons and bandages were made illegal as symbols of hate speech, so the bleeders gushed into state-issued Swedish bike shorts while communicating entirely in emoticon sign language.

The universal television news network “Salon & IKEA Broadcasting Service” kept us all informed as the EU engaged in a massive space-battle, annihilating over 6 quintillion alien UFOs with kale-powered ebola lasers that they had hidden on Ceres. But it was all a lie. A giant psyop orchestrated by President Chelsea and VP Malia. They were not actually fighting extra terrestrials. Their enemy was seen as much more problematic. In reality, they were secretly exterminating the few remaining white cis-males left alive. After hiding out in the sewers, I too followed Trump’s lead, and fled innawoods. The planet was left in ruins, and smoldering death and Tumblr posts touched every last corner of the globe.

Decades passed, and memory of the previous world had all but faded. It had been several days since my last meal. I scampered between desert shantytowns, scavenging for pieces of discarded Skittles and edible panties. I had wrapped my entire body in several layers of scrap metal and identified as a Google self-driving car, so the authorities wouldn’t detain me. I was starving, but reluctant to blow my cover by heading into the center of town. I had no choice, I was on the verge of passing out. I spotted a plywood shack in the distance, a faded cardboard sign hanging above the door. I squinted in the blazing midday sun, unable to fully make it out. Something about the spray painted brass-colored block letters looked vaguely familiar. Dizzy now. I stumbled inside while clumsily bumping into the door frame. Pieces of metal rattled and dislodged, scattering across the floor. My eyesight further blurred, and my vision faded to black as I was caught by dozens of powerful arms scooping me up to safety.

When I regained consciousness I could make out ten cloaked figures, their robes made entirely out of blonde hair. Beautiful, blonde pads of manly hair. I was surrounded by glass bottles of un-fluoridated German carrot juice, chilled to perfection. A determined voice broke the silence as I was handed a drink. “We know who you are, and you’re not alone” I immediately recognized the voice. Could it be? The robust figure leaned forward, brushing away the loose pieces of metal covering my head before slowly removing his blonde hood. Before I could clearly view his face, he held up a card and muttered “Tap tap tap bing bing bong. This your card?” That voice! Mr. Trump? He must have been over 100 years old, but still as clear-minded and regal as ever. I muttered in amazement “You’re a-a-alive? What’s going on? Where am I?” There was a brief pause as the robed figures shared glances before holding aloft their cards. Cards that were identical to the one I had kept in my wallet all these years, so faded and worn. Donald tapped me on the shoulder and declared reassuringly before handing me an assault shovel. “You’re home, son. Remember, sometimes by losing a battle you find a new way to win the war. Now we finally build that wall, and win that war.”

I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes, tears of joy running down my face. All those cards, held aloft by white cis-hands. I smiled politely to the others before looking back to Chieftain Trump. His last words before we all set out will stay with me forever. “Anon… You’re hired. Mark my words, son. You are hired!” The cloaked figures began cheering and boisterously singing Twisted Sister songs as we trekked nonstop to the Mexican border, ankle-deep in toads. We began digging, and just kept on singing. “We’re not gonna take it! No, we ain’t gonna take it! We’re not gonna take it… anymore!” Trump looked on proudly, silently mouthing the lyrics.

>We’re right
>We’re free
>We’ll fight
>You’ll see


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