Welp, a lot has changed since the stars last lowered themselves to explore what the future holds for Mr. Donald J. Trump. Today, you'll attend the funeral of your first wife, Ivana Trump, who died in ... a fall down the stairs? Have you ever met one Michael Peterson, who is also a woman-stair-pushing enthusiast? You guys would get along, no doy.
Well, the stars are back after another very long self-care break. Let's see what's on the agenda. Oh, a horoscope for Mr. Trump. Hmm, let's see. Says here that Rudy Giuliani quoted the movie "My Cousin Vinny" while melting at a news conference today in which he and his cohorts accused Democrats of cartoonishly impossible election rigging. So, we didn't miss much. Anyway, you will slip on a pool of Rudy's slimy Just for Men residue and crash through an upstairs window, falling on and killing your dumb adult sons as they try (and fail) to catch you.
OMFG. You got it. The stars apologize for not telling you sooner, but it was painfully obvious to everyone that you were precisely the person who would get it. So ... maybe that's on you, bub. We can't say anything else, but hope springs eternal.
The stars are back today after a long break that was spent watching every cute-animal and/or adorable-child video the internet has ever made, and, boy, are we shocked you're still around. Today looks to be a great day for you to pick fights with every governor in America and claim constitutional powers you don't have and never have possessed, but these moves won't be without consequences. The Washington Monument will detach from its base and, like a heat-seeking missile but for cold, dead, monstrously stupid hearts like yours, it will impale you through your pie plate-sized face.
You'll bleed to death today when your hands fly off from the vigorous hand motions you employ while, during a press conference to update the nation on a pandemic that has killed tens of thousands of people around the world, you digress into a discussion of the number of models you have fucked.
The "new tone" you've struck will so delight the Washington intelligentsia that they'll create a stampede as they rush to fellate you to death. So, mixed bag?
After challenging Michigan Gov. Gretchen Whitmer, whom you've nicknamed Half, even though that doesn't have any cogent meaning in the universe, to an arm-wrestling contest, the prize of which will be a still-inadequate supply of life-saving N95 masks, you'll sadly pass away when the embarrassment of losing a public PR fight to a woman causes your ghastly penis to retreat so far into your body cavity that it creates a deadly obstruction in the nonstop torrent of KFC-fueled slurry coursing through your intestines.
WHERE ARE THE TESTS?
You shall perish on this day when the White House press corps becomes so revolted by your bizarre 25-second-long pronunciation of "China" that they fill the press room with wet vomit and because you are a lumbering clod, you cannot escape in time and you suffocate on the material.
St. Patrick himself will visit during your COVID-induced stupor since you definitely didn't actually get tested for it like you claimed. He'll strike you upon your billowy hair with his staff and will then weave a pointed shamrock through you like a needle. Sláinte!
Turns out binge-watching that new Hillary documentary was a mistake. While watching and eating and tweeting throughout, you succumb to the secret pedomurderer code Killary was speaking and choke on your comb-over.
Tuckered out from golfing for the 263rd day of your presidency, you decide to take a nap on the pile of cash the American taxpayers have contributed to fund your awful resorts. A vivid dream ensues in which you must fight the force of common decency to insult people who are ill with coronavirus, and whilst sleep-punching, you punch through your own mushy brain, and then you die.
"They would like to have the people come off. I would rather have the people stay, but I'd go with them. I told them to make the final decision. I would rather because I like the numbers being where they are. I don't need to have the numbers double because of one ship that wasn't our fault." That's it; that's the horoscope.
Distraught because Bailey Warren ate your well-well-well-well-done steak, you attempt to take solace up the butt of Judge Jeanine, not knowing that she's about to take a wine-fueled dump. It will be stinky and terrible, much like you.
A campaign stop in Satan’s anus will be just what the weirdo long-haired doctor ordered — until you get coronavirus of the urethra. Much worse than regular coronavirus. Sorry.
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