Donald Trump Has Foot Fungus

There’s an old saying, “The truth of a man is told through the pits of his toes,” and to this day, the fabled saying stands. I mean look at the facts, every great figure in human history had jam free toes. If there toes were a PB and J they would be a P and B without the J. From Abraham Lincoln to the late great Kernel Sanders, clean toes could be seen across the board. It’s the truth plain and simple, just compare Winston Churchill’s impeccable toe crevices to the fungus growing in-between Mussolini’s toes; which provided enough mushrooms spark the hippie movement (I’ll leave that for another story). Anyway, I believe I made my point about the importance of cleanly feet, which brings me to the purpose of this piece of fine literature. I have been unfortunate enough to see Donald Trump’s shoeless, sockless, bare-ass naked feet, and you will not believe what I have discovered folks!

It all starred on a humid day in the beginning of June. I was in the city along with my associate General Burnside, advocating for the Big Business; a business in which I am the founder, CEO, chief executive officer, and custodial manger. Outside it was a disgusting day, it was as if all the trash in the world was being cooked into a stir fry about to be severed with a sewage smoothie to a six foot tall maggot. Honestly I couldn’t handle the stench. Trump Tower was a gilded beacon in the sky that me and old Burnside ran to in a time that would qualify for the upcoming Olympics. Upon entering the building we were blasted with air that felt as if it was taken from the Canadian tundra, this was a bit bewildering but once I found myself I was in awe. Trump Tower was a zoo, and I mean that in the second most literal sense (the first most would be if it was an actual zoo). For some reason the Donald strictly employed animals. Chimpanzees in suites served as bell boys, the butlers were penguins, the bar was tended by a slightly agitated ostrich, and the concierge was several raccoons stuffed in a human sized suite. Surprisingly the building was well maintained by a janitorial staff of baboons, and looked quite professional. I made my way to the front desk, and inquired about my appointment with Mr. Trump to the raccoons. I wasn’t quite sure if they knew what I was saying for they kinda just hissed at me, and one even tried to bite Burnside. It wasn’t a big deal though I had my appointment at 1:30 and it was already 1:25 so I decided to head towards the elevator and pay the Donald a visit.

Finding Trump’s floor was quite easy, there was a button with Donald Trump’s face on it, and the button was about the size of every other button in the elevator combined. I decided to press the button, and Burnside and I were propelled towards the Donald’s layer. When we reached the floor the elevator dinged in the tune of America the Beautiful, and the doors opened to a long narrow hallway. I remember General Burnside giving me a confused look as we began to walk down the hallway which seemed to stretch for miles. While the hallway contained no decorations or windows, the entire thing was covered in a thin sheet of 24 carrot gold, it was almost unsettling. As the walk came to an end and claustrophobia began to set in, the hallway suddenly opened revealing a large hexagonal room littered with windows, bookshelves, numerous Jan Van Eyck paintings, a few bald eagle specimens, and yours truly Donald Trump. The Donald was seated in the center of the room behind a fine yet aged mahogany desk, there were two light purple velvet chairs framed in some sort of bronze material facing the Donald As we made our way towards Trump a slight musky odor filled the air, but at the time that didn't matter we had business to do.

We pulled out the comfortable velvet chairs and sat down. Upon closer inspection the Donald was a bit pudgier than expected and for an unknown reason had a slight odor similar to the knock off brand feta cheese. He opened his ghastly mouth revealing several cavities, shock my hand and hastily said, “How do ya do, Donald Trump. Make America great again”. I replied, “Well I'm John Rego, and heres my associate General Burnside, lets talk business”. Following the introduction we talked about sales marketing, exploiting the poor, and other typical things involving business endeavors. I was trying to get some business space to do business in Chicago’s Trump Tower, but the Donald wasn't cooperating. He said that he hired only animals so he would not have to pay for their labor, which in my mind was genius. However our disagreement spurred from this issue. Trump wanted to supply me with a staff of chimpanzees, yet I have always preferred the orangoutang. Orangoutangs are harder workers, more corporative, and better salesman. We were simply not seeing eye to eye. General Burnside suggested we purchase gibbons a fair compromise, yet me and the Donald were to stubborn to budge and the argument waged on. Being a man of business and not wanting to loose a potential opportunity, Trump suggested we relax in Trump Tower’s decadent sauna. In my opinion it was a bit to hot out for a visit to the sauna but I agreed, I mean how many times are you going to get to sit in a room getting steamed like a lobster with a half naked Donald Trump. It was too good to turn down. He even offered General Burnside a complimentary gorilla massage, but Burnside turned the offer down; he was close to finishing One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, and wanted to have the book completed by the end of the trip.

While walking to the sauna we began to discuss Donald Trump’s other passion, politics. We discussed greatness, eagles. pies, hotdogs, Walmart, and other things concerning American voters. Trump showed me his new bill, which would institute a mandatory hot dog stand on every street corner in America. He said it was polling well with GOP voters, however the hoodlums that call themselves Democrats want sausage dogs at every street corner, all in all it quite the debate. After the brief discussion, we reached the sauna. An emperor penguin opened the door, and we entered the room. It was made entirely of oak, and was kept at the steamy temperature of 100 degrees. While I kept my towel around my fellas, the Donald attacked the sauna naked. Oh and it was a sight to behold. His body was as wrinkly as an elephants ass, and about as flabby as one two. His feta cheese odor was in full force, and he was surprisingly poorly groomed for a man of his status. Yet worst of all was his feet. They were an abomination, his soles were as black as an arctic winter’s sky, his foot flesh was wrinkled and scared, his toe nails looked as if they weren't clipped since the watergate scandal, but worst of all was what was growing in-between his toes. It was a forest. I’m not even exaggerating there was a whole ecosystem in-between Donald Trump’s toes. If I collected all the fungus on Donald Trump’s foot I would be able to feed the entire continent of Africa for a month. Fuck, “Make America Great Again” Trump could end world hunger. It was a sight to behold, I tried not to stare however my eyes could not resist the Donald’s flora covered toes. After what seemed to be a lifetime of staring in awe at Trump’s nasty feet, the business man finally broke the silence.

He caught me be surprise when he exclaimed, “Why the hella ah ya looking at my feet. If ya keep staring I’m gonna rip those eyes out of ya sockets and attach them to my ass…. make America great again”. I quickly moved my pupils from his revolting feet to his face now the hue of a tomato. The Donald was furious, yet so was I. I began to probe him about his foot fungus, I asked him, “How the hell do you think you’re going to be a good president with that shit between your toes. Don’t you know anything, history tells all, clean your toes or drop out of the race!”. After I said this the Donald was furious. He called the gorilla guards who escorted me and General Burnside out of the building. Burnside was a bit disgruntled for he had two words left in his book, but once I explained the situation he understood. While I may not have made the deal for the Big Business I discovered something more important. If history stands correct Donald Trump is not a man to be elected president. His revolting unkept toes are nothing that should be anywhere near the oval office. In fact, I believe they should be taken out into the wilderness far away from any human contact where they can live their fungi filled life in piece. His toes say it all, Donald Trump is not qualified to run the great nation of America. I can only imagine what vile beast resides between Hillary Clinton’s toes.

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.
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