October 13, 2016
Okay, it’s time to address the elephant penis in the room. One after another, women are coming out to accuse Baby DonDon of being a groper. As that piece of ass Ivanka said, I am not a groper. I am the gropee.
For decades women have put their hands all over me—they’re like octopuses, or octopussies as I like to call them—because of how I smell. What does Baby DonDon smell like? I smell like the private room at Harry Winston.
Besides being vehicles for mammary display, women love jewelry. It’s all about the bling. It’s a bling thing.
THAT’S why they unzip my fly and immediately grab my nutsack. They want tennis bracelets.
Instead of being an example of toxic masculinity or male privilege, I am the victim here. I want to keep my genitals to myself, but women won’t let me.
Did you see yesterday I said my new TV network would be called Don’t Think Twice It’s Alt-Right? And today Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature? Did I call that Nobel Prize or what? Which makes me wonder: Is there a Nobel Prize for Groping?
On the really bad news front, Melania has me sleeping on an air mattress on the roof again. She’s such a skeptic, such a counterpuncher.
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