What the actual f--- am I looking at?

Donald Trump has the taste of a cracked-out Liberace eating the remains of a rabid skunk.

Look at the above photograph.

Seriously, look at it.

What.

The.

Actual.

Fuck.

It reminds me of when I was, oh, 14. And a big zit sprouted on my nose. Every night, I would apply Oxy. Every day, the zit grew bigger. And bigger. And bigger. It reached the point where even my parents couldn’t pretend the thing didn’t exist. My brother ultimately exclaimed for all on the school bus to hear, “WHAT IS THAT THING ON YOUR FACE?”

To the White House, I ask: “WHAT IS THAT THING ON YOUR FACE?”

Seriously, what are we doing here? What have we become? Some cheap-ass Atlantic City casino hotel, where rooms are $85 on a dreary Tuesday in November, and the fifth Osmond is playing the lobby bar? Some specialized Motel 6 in Branson? We obviously should have seen this coming, what with the fake Rolex conman returning to the building.

But, sheesh.

It’s mortifying.

Just mortifying.