Trump Turns D.C. Into a Drive-Thru Dictatorship
Picture it: Washington, D.C., 2025 — not so much a capital as a 24-hour White Castle run by an escaped patient from the Ego Ward. Trump’s decided the local cops can’t “handle the crime” (translation: someone stole his golf cart idea for a motorcade), so he calls in the U.S. military like he’s ordering room service: “Yeah, hi, it’s Donny. Bring me two battalions, a dozen tanks, and a side of fries.”
Now the streets are clogged with Abrams tanks grinding over potholes, crushing scooters, and sending hipster tourists fleeing into artisanal cupcake shops. Soldiers in full combat gear patrol Dupont Circle, looking like they’re about to storm Normandy — only they’re babysitting joggers and busting kids for selling lemonade without a permit.
Trump, naturally, is watching this armed circus from his bunker, wearing a bathrobe that could upholster a Cadillac, eating Big Macs out of a gold-plated trough. “Beautiful! Gorgeous! This is better than the inauguration, folks!” he shouts between bites, grease pooling in the folds of his face like oil slicks in a Louisiana bayou.
Then there’s Don Jr., doing blow off the barrel of an M4 while livestreaming from the commander’s seat of a Bradley fighting vehicle: “This is what freedom looks like, baby!” Eric’s humping an RPG launcher in public. Ivanka’s “Law & Order” handbag collection drops online, stitched from the hides of endangered species and the shredded remains of the Constitution.
Melania? Nobody knows. She was last seen drifting through the motor pool in a gown slit up to her waist, holding a champagne flute and looking like she’s auditioning for a James Bond film called The Dictator’s Widow.
And the Secret Service? These guys are aroused. They haven’t had this much fun since they got to play “Where’s Waldo?” with the president in Pennsylvania. They’re barking orders at tourists, pointing sniper rifles at pigeons, and making sure nobody gets too close to the Trump family flotilla of Humvees.
But it doesn’t stop there. Marines are guarding the Chick-fil-A drive-thru. SEAL teams are rappelling onto food trucks. The 82nd Airborne is patrolling the National Mall like it’s Fallujah, checking bags for contraband granola bars.
And then — because this is a Trump production — there’s the parade. Oh yeah. Tanks down Pennsylvania Avenue. Trump riding one shirtless, oiled up like a Thanksgiving turkey, American flag in one hand, tossing sandwiches into the crowd like they’re grenades of cholesterol. Behind him? A marching band of Nixon’s ghost, Elvis in full Vegas regalia, and the MyPillow guy screaming about chemtrails.
Biblical plagues start rolling in. Locusts swarm the Lincoln Memorial. Frogs rain down on the Smithsonian. Somewhere, a televangelist declares it the Rapture — but it’s just the Trump family heading to Mar-a-Lago in an armored limo the size of a double-wide.
This isn’t leadership. This isn’t security. This is a crackhouse stage play with a $200 million budget. The tanks aren’t here to protect you. They’re here because the circus is the only thing keeping the ringmaster from realizing the tent burned down years ago.
And the worst part? We’ll watch. We’ll watch because America loves a freak show. We’ll gawk at the tanks, take selfies with the soldiers, and pretend the whole thing isn’t a marching brass band into the septic tank of democracy.
Hell, we’ll probably buy the Ivanka handbags too.
