The reality of the love-making is that the man who whines incessantly as if he were Obama's brother is really a man without a tower of power between the legs. He is a wind bag whose manhood is a glad bag filled with two peas.
You don't become a ranter like Trump and have anything of value when it comes to between the sheets action.
I don't care if he called Ms Kelly names or referred to her bleeding from her vajayjay. I hate the bitch too - as I so often dismiss fake blonds with smiles on camera that turn to a strong fishy odor up close and personal.
We knew Trump would be there for a few good laughs - I loved when he slammed the infestation of southern roaches, but he has no plans other than to call those who challenge him names.
Okay, big boy. Call me a fag or a fairy. I'm game. I'll smack you with my purse that has the 50 pound gold plated words of God which are presently unemployed but so willing to push your bad hairdo into your navel with robust swings and poundings. You will truly be able to talk out of your ass, arse.
I know you'll be a brat and you'll run as a third party - but remember this - Bernie Sanders is NOT A DEMOCRAT and he'll have socialist dollars to match your stank ass in his independent run for the President.
Your words now sound like a ripe catbox smells. We've had our laugh. Now go fock off!
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