“The Great Mix-Up: Trump’s Testicular Transplant of Truthiness”
It all began one mysterious Thursday at Walter Reed Medical Center, where Donald J. Trump had arrived complaining of “a little uncomfortableness down below—possibly the greatest discomfort ever recorded, many people are saying so.”
Doctors, mildly alarmed but mostly confused, scheduled an urgent exploratory procedure. Unfortunately, there was a mix-up in the charting department, where someone had scribbled “buttocks area” instead of “testicular region.” The handwriting looked like a spider had stepped in ink and attempted cursive.
The surgical team, led by Dr. Barry Cleft, assumed they were operating on the presidential rear end.
“Oddly shaped, but we’ve seen worse,” Cleft murmured as he made the incision.
Three hours later, Trump awoke in a haze, clutching his lower regions.
“What happened?” he slurred. “Why do I feel like I can no longer make sense… but also make so much more sense?”
That’s when it started.
Trump began speaking in a whole new dialect—one that linguists have since dubbed “Bullshese.”
It was unlike anything heard before. A combination of vague threats, accidental poetry, off-topic flexing, and completely invented statistics.
At a press briefing the next day, he said:
“Ladies and gentlemen… I have just returned from a medical victory. Probably the most successful backside transplant in history, which, frankly, is now where all my ideas come from. They upgraded me. I am no longer running on brain cells. I am powered by pure speculation.”
His cabinet looked on in stunned silence.
Mike Pompeo blinked twice and said, “Did he just declare himself a reverse cyborg?”
Trump continued:
“I had my bottom converted into a signal amplifier. All the best thoughts—from the deepest source. It’s a direct pipeline now. Straight from the cheeks of wisdom.”
Even his closest advisors were baffled. Sean Hannity tried to translate in real-time and ended up in a fetal position muttering, “The nouns… they don’t connect…”
Jared Kushner attempted to decode one sentence using an AI chatbot, but the bot short-circuited and printed out a receipt that said “Sorry, bro.”
Dr. Barry Cleft later held a press conference of his own:
“We thought we were performing a standard gluteal procedure. We had no idea it would somehow rewire the former president’s speech patterns to… that.”
Reporters begged for clarification.
“Doctor,” one asked, “what exactly did you do down there?”
Cleft replied, “Honestly? We just poked around a bit and accidentally connected a nerve labeled ‘Hyperbole Protocol Alpha.’ I didn’t know that was a thing.”
From that day on, Trump no longer needed a speechwriter. He simply opened his mouth and bullshit poetry flowed:
“I am the wind beneath your economy. The socks in the washing machine of destiny. The cheeseburger in the salad of freedom.”
Crowds still cheered. Mostly out of confusion, but also awe.
World leaders stopped calling. Some, like Macron, quietly blocked his number. Boris Johnson admitted, “I speak a bit of nonsense myself, but this is… advanced.”
And his new nickname among his staff?
“Captain Cheek-Speak.”
No one could understand him, not even himself. But he didn’t care.
Because in the land of the vaguely coherent, the man who talks utter crap is still somehow king.
