Donald Trump Made Me Fat

FAT, And weak, too, says angry, unhinged feminist. All I can say is–and I ask this question of all the land orca feminists I have seen waddling around at demonstrations for years– if Donald Trump made you fat when he was elected, what was your excuse before?


From The Guardian, in piece by Brigid Delaney, “I Stopped Going to the Gym Because of Trump:”

It was November 2016 and the only person I knew who believed Trump would win the US election was the owner of my gym. This was clearly a ridiculous prediction so, seeing the chance for some easy money, I offered to bet him $100 that Hillary would win.

But the gym owner, clearly not wanting to do his dough, pointed at this horrible thing in the corner with the name “sled” and said: “If Trump wins you have to pull 70kg on it.”

It was double what I could usually pull. And, if I won the bet, the gym owner would pull double his personal best.

I didn’t want Trump to win – he’d grabbed women by the pussy and mocked a reporter’s disability. He’d promised to build a wall and called Mexicans “rapists”. The thought of his presidency was frightening but so was pulling the sled. What if I herniated a disc?

After Trump claimed victory, I went up to the gym in a foul mood. “Just fucking load up the fucking sled, all right, and let’s get it over with,” I said without much grace as I strapped a belt around my waist.

I pulled the sled like a human oxen while being filmed and the gym staff cheered. I did it. But the Trump victory soured my successful show of strength.

Yeah, I could pull a pretend sled. But how was that going to help me when the world had been destroyed by nuclear weapons or climate change?

I guess she’s got a point, although before everything is completely destroyed by radiation after the nuclear holocaust, which if it occurs will no doubt be the result of our first affirmative action President, Barack Obama’s desire to build up Iran as payback to racist Amerika, she might be able to make a living pulling a rickshaw.

Seriously, this poor, potty-mouthed woman’s column is a cry for help. Now that she’s back at the gym, we can only hope that she begins the steady climb to mental health. (Noice that I didn’t say return to mental health.)

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