The Trump Pot is a deceptively simple recipe – much like our immediate past three or four years of history. It must have been more complicated, no? How did we possibly get to this point? Treachery and cunning? Not at all. Simple cruelty and greed. Also, mental illness, manifested and unchecked.
It was the original idea that sparked The Oligarch’s Cookbook. One day, keeping up with the news from home, I was overcome by nausea. Such a mess. What, what did this mess remind me of?
A crockpot cookbook came to mind. You know, those recipes where you are told to open a bag of potato chips and combine them with cornflakes and some cheapass hotdogs in a pot on low for eight hours, or some such culinary chicanery. How could the outcome ever taste good? How confused are the tastebuds that might consider these recipes acceptable? A can of pop? A bottle of ketchup? Give me a break. That is not food. That is a symbolic remnant of food, a wisp of what food used to be. A nostalgic impulse, like the pain in a phantom limb. Much like the state of our executive leadership.
Pour 1 can of baked beans, 1 can of cream of mushroom soup, and a bottle of ketchup into your Trump Pot. Add can of Dr. Pepper. Cook on low for 8 hours, then add a box of yellow cake mix and a can of tuna. Simmer on high for a year, then turn to low for an indefinite period. Throw up because your country makes you so sick. (See: Bill Barrf Bag – that came in handy fast!)
Option: Add a billion guns, a cup of 8chan, and an Electoral College. Garnish with twenty Democratic candidates.
Mmmmmm Trump Pot.